The Van Alen Legacy (8 page)

“Senhora Bonita, Senhora
Bonita,” they chanted, their bare feet slapping on the wet path.

“Shoo?” Mimi hissed, batting
them away like pesky flies. “I have nothing for you today.
Nada
para
voce.
Deixe
-me
sozinho
?”
Leave me alone. Their
begging gave her a headache. She wasn’t responsible for these people, for these children. . . .
She was a Venator on official business, not some celebrity on a public relations campaign.
Besides, this was Brazil, a developing country. There were places around the globe that were far
more desperate. Really, the little urchins didn’t know how lucky they were.

“Senhora,
senhora
.”
The little one, a cherub in a stained undershirt, dark curls
bobbing, had grabbed the back of her shirt. Like the other Venators, Mimi was wearing a black
polyver
coat and waterproof nylon pants, standard-issue wear. She’d refused to wear
the clunky boots (they made her feet look fat), and was wearing the high-heeled pony-hair boots
again. “Oh, all right,” Mimi said. It was her fault the kids were around them.

For as much as she tried to
harden her heart, to remain impassive and stoic and indifferent in the face of truly appalling
poverty,
mimi
considered her standard room back at the hotel (not even a suite!)
deprivation enough, ’she found that whenever the children crowded around her, she always had
something to give them.

A piece of candy.
A dollar.
(Yesterday ten dollars each.)
A chocolate bar.
Something.
The children called her The Beautiful Lady, Senhora Bonita.

“Nothing for you
today!
Really! I’m out!” she protested.

“They’ll never believe you.
Not since you caved the first day,” Kingsley said, looking amused.

“As if you’re any better,”
Mimi grumbled, reaching into her backpack. The four of them were a soft touch. The silent twins
gave out bubble gum while Kingsley could always be counted on to pay for deep-fried
kibe
snacks from the street carts.

The little girl with the curls
waited patiently as Mimi brought out a stuffed toy dog she’d bought from the gift shop that
morning especially for her. The stuffed animal had a face that reminded her of her own dog. She
wished the gentle chow were with her, but need for the canine familiar’s protection lessened in
the later years of the transformation. “Here. And this is for all of you to share,” she said,
handing over a huge box of bonbons. “Now go?”

“Obrigado!
Obrigado, Senhora!” they yelled as they ran away with their booty.

“You like them,” Kingsley said
with a twisted half smile that Mimi found infuriating because it made him even more handsome than
he needed to be.

“No way.”
She
shook her head, not meeting his eyes. Maybe she’d been drinking too much of the super-sweet
Mexican Coca-Cola they had down here. Or maybe she was just tired, alone, and far from home.
Because somewhere in the brittle, concrete center of
Azrael’s
dark heart,
something was melting.

“You must ask Charles. You
must ask him about the gates . . . about the Van Alen legacy and the paths of the
dead.”

Those were her grandfather’s
last words.

But Charles Force was gone
when Schuyler returned to New York. Oliver had found out through his contacts at the Repository
that Charles had embarked on his usual amble across the park one afternoon but had never come
home. That was a week ago. The former Regis had left no note, no explanation. Apparently, he had
left everything a mess.

The Force
corporation
had lost half its value in the stock market crash, and the board was up
in arms: their company was sinking and there was no captain steering the ship.

But somebody must know where
he was, Schuyler thought, and one morning she waylaid Trinity Force at the salon where she had
her hair highlighted. The leading social doyenne of New York was wrapped in a silk robe, sitting
under a heat lamp.

“I take it you’ve heard the
news,” Trinity said dryly, putting down her magazine as Schuyler took the seat next to her.
“Charles must have good reasons for his actions. I only wish he would have shared them with
me.”

Schuyler told her about
Lawrence’s last words on the mountaintop, hoping that maybe Trinity could shed a little light on
his message.

“The Van Alen legacy,” Trinity
said, staring at
herself
in the mirror and patting the plastic cap covering her
foils. “Whatever it is, Charles turned his back on everything that had to do with his ‘family’ a
long time ago. Lawrence was living in the past, as he always had.”

“But Lawrence insisted that
Charles was the key.”

“Lawrence is finished.” The
way Trinity said it, it sounded as if Lawrence were an actor who had merely finished his role in
a play. Not passed away. Not dead. Not gone forever.

Finished.

There was another thing,
something strange her grandfather had said that Schuyler wanted confirmed. She wasn’t sure if
Trinity would know anything about it, but she had to ask. “He also said that I have a sister, and
that she will be . . . that she will be our death.” Schuyler felt silly repeating such a dramatic
statement. “I have a sister?”

Trinity did not answer for a
long time. The sound of hair dryers and patrons gossiping with their stylists filled the silence.
When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet and guarded.
“In the sense that your mother had
another daughter, yes.
But that was long ago, long before you were born, in a different
cycle, in a different century. And the girl was taken care of. Lawrence and Charles saw to that.
Lawrence . . . One reason he went into exile was that he never gave up on his fantasies. He was
dying, Schuyler, and you will have to understand . . . he was grasping at straws, trying to tie
up loose ends. He probably wasn’t even in his right mind.”

So Lawrence had told the
truth. She had a sister. Who? When? She was already dead? Taken care
of ,
what did
that mean?

But Trinity refused to
elaborate further. “I have already told you too much,” she said with a frown.

“The Conclave has asked me to
testify tomorrow about what happened in Rio. Will you be there?” Schuyler asked a little
wistfully. It suddenly struck her how much she needed a mother in her life. Trinity had never
tried to fill that role, but she had a pragmatic no-nonsense way about her that reminded Schuyler
of Cordelia. It was better than nothing.

“I am sorry, Schuyler, but I
won’t be able to come. As usual, the Red Bloods have let greed take over their financial system.
With Charles gone, I am obligated to the board to do what little I can to staunch the bloodbath.
I leave for Washington tonight.”

“It’s all right.” Schuyler
hadn’t expected anything else.

“And, Schuyler?”
Trinity looked at her keenly, as a mother would when chastising a wayward daughter.
“
since
your return, your room has been empty.”

“I know,” Schuyler said
simply. “I’m not going to live with your family anymore.”

Trinity sighed. “I will not
stop you. But know that when you are out of our house, you are out of our protection. We cannot
help you.”

“I understand. I’ll take that
risk.” Out of habit, Schuyler and Trinity exchanged double-cheek air kisses and said good-bye.
Schuyler left the soothing warm cocoon of the beauty salon and went out into the streets of New
York, alone.

Charles Force was gone.
Charles Force was a dead end. He had disappeared, taking his secrets with him.

She would have to discover the
Van Alen Legacy on her own.

The Baron de Coubertin was
dressed as Attila the Hun in full battle armor, with a bow and arrow in a quiver slung over one
shoulder, along with a shield and a throwing spear. On his head he wore a pointed metal cap over
a wig of long black hair. His long beard was also
fake
.

He approached with a
terrifying frown on his face and tapped Schuyler on the shoulder.
“La
contesse
voudrait
que
vous
me
suiviez
,
s’il
vous
plait.”
The countess would like you to follow me,
please. Then he turned abruptly on his heel. Schuyler and Oliver began to walk together behind
him, but the baron stopped them.

“The countess grants a meeting
only to Miss Van Alen,” he said in perfect English, looking sternly at Oliver as if he were a
nuisance. “You will stay here.”

Schuyler nodded over Oliver’s
protests.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll meet you
after,” she said. ‘
don’t
worry.”

She felt stares from the other
guests turned their way. Who was the baron talking to? Who are those two? They were becoming
conspicuous. They needed to melt away before anyone noticed them.

“Don’t worry? But then I would
be out of a job,” Oliver said, raising his eyebrows.

“I can handle it,” Schuyler
insisted.

“That’s what I’m worried
about,” Oliver sighed.

He squeezed her bare shoulder.
His hands were rough and callused from travel and work. They were not the soft hands of the boy
who used to spend his afternoons in museums. The Oliver whom Schuyler had known had never stayed
in anything less than a five-star hotel in his life, let alone the fleabag hostels where they now
found themselves residing. She had seen him argue the price of instant noodles in Shanghai,
haggling over five cents.

“I’ll be fine,” she promised,
then murmured softly so the baron could not hear. “I have a feeling this is the only way I’m
going to get to see the countess.”

“Let me talk to him again;
maybe he’ll listen to me,” Oliver whispered, looking from the baron to Schuyler.
“If
anything happens?”

“I won’t be able to live with
myself,” Schuyler said, finishing his sentence. She removed his hand gently. “I’m scared too,
Ollie. But we agreed. We have to do this.”

Oliver gritted his teeth. “I
don’t like it,” he said, glaring at the baron. But he let her go.

Schuyler followed the baron
out of the courtyard and into the main hall of the palace. He led her through
an
enfilade
, a series of rooms all in a row, past the library and the many function rooms. At
the end of a long hallway, he opened a door to an anteroom and led her inside. It was a small
room, tiled with gold mosaics, empty save for a red velvet bench in the middle.

“
Arr’te
.”
Wait.

He left, and the door locked
behind him.

Schuyler looked around. There
was another door in the back of the room. That one must lead to the countess’s office. Schuyler
could feel the wards in place, guarding the room. There was no way out except for the two locked
doors. One of Lawrence’s lessons had been to sense the invisible protections in one’s
surroundings so that you could figure out how to get out of them. Escape was ninety percent
preparation and ten percent opportunity, he liked to say.

Schuyler waited for what
seemed like hours alone in the small chamber. The room was completely insulated from outside
noise. She couldn’t hear anything from the party. At last the door opened.

“Baron de Coubertin?” she
called.

“Try again.” The voice was
heartbreakingly familiar.

No. It couldn’t be. Schuyler
felt paralyzed. It was as if the past were taunting her. Someone was playing a sick joke. There
was no way he was here. The one person in New York whom she had tried so hard to forget . .
.

Jack Force stepped inside.
Unlike the other revelers, he was dressed simply, all in black. A
Venator’s
uniform.
His platinum hair was cut short, in military fashion, making his sharp aristocratic features look
even more striking. He moved with a natural grace, stalking the edge of the room like a dangerous
animal circling its prey.

How handsome he
was’she
had forgotten. Or maybe she had only imagined she had forgotten. They had
not seen each other since their last night at the 
Perry Street 
apartment. The night she had told him she loved another. How it hurt to see
his beautiful face, so grave and serious, as if he had aged a lifetime in a
year.

The hurt was like a physical
pain, a longing that she had repressed, suddenly flaring up again: bright and red and angry,
surprising in its intensity. An impossible wanting: a hole in her heart that yearned to be
filled.

No. Stop. Don’t go there. She
was furious at herself for feeling this way. It was wrong, and incredibly disloyal to the life
she had lived for a year. A betrayal to the life she and Oliver had built together. If only there
was something she could do about her heart.
Her wildly beating, treacherous heart.
Because all she wanted to do was run into Jack’s arms.