AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Am I on the list?
Another text message. It was the seventh one today. Could everyone please calm down?
Somehow, in less than twenty-four hours, the news that the fabulous Mimi Force was planning an after-party to the Four Hundred Ball had gone out to the entire New York City teen vampire elite. Of course, Mimi herself had told Piper Crandall, the biggest gossip in the school, and Piper had made sure everyone knew exactly what was going down. There was a secret location. The Force twins were hosting. But no one would know if they were invited until the night of the event. Sheer social torture!
Just say Y or N!!!
She deleted the text without replying.
Mimi walked down the back staircase at Duchesne that led to the cafeteria in the basement. As she passed by, several Blue Blood teens tried to capture her attention.
"Mims...heard about the after-party...Great idea, do you need any help? My dad can get Kanye to DJ," offered Blair McMillan, whose father headed the largest record label in the world.
"Hey, Mimi, I'm invited, right? Can I bring my boyfriend? He's an RB...Is that cool?" Soos Kemble wheedled.
"Hey, sweetie, just making sure you got my RSVP..." Lucy Forbes called out, blowing Mimi an exaggerated air kiss.
Mimi smiled graciously at all of them and put a finger to her lips. "I can't say anything about anything. But you'll all find out soon enough."
Downstairs in the cafeteria, underneath the gold baroque mirror that hung across from the fireplace, Bliss Llewellyn picked listlessly at her sushi roll, as if it were a particularly distasteful specimen. Mimi was supposed to meet her for lunch, and she was late as usual. Bliss was glad of the reprieve, since it gave her a chance to lose herself in the events of the night before.
Dylan. It had to be him. The stranger in the park who had saved her from drowning. Bliss had to believe he had survived the Silver Blood attack. Perhaps he was now in hiding, and maybe he would be in danger if he revealed his identity. Like a superhero, she thought dreamily. Who else would have sensed her distress?
The Venice Biennale was located in several overlapping pavilions, so that visitors wandered through a long series of darkened rooms, searching as video installations crackled to life in unexpected corners. Faces projected on vinyl balls expanded and contracted, shrieking and giggling. Flowers blossomed and withered on the screens. A rush of Tokyo traffic sped by, claustrophobic and threatening.
When Schuyler and Oliver had first arrived in Venice, Schuyler had been fired up with a wild, almost feverish, energy. She was relentless in her search, dogged and deter- mined. But her enthusiasm had flagged when it became clear that finding her grandfather in Venice would not be as easy as she had assumed. She had come with nothing but a name-- she didn't even know what he would look like. Old? Young? Her grandmother had told her Lawrence was an exile, an outcast from the Blue Blood community. What if all those years of isolation had led to madness and insanity? Or worse, what if he was no longer alive? What if he had been taken by a Silver Blood? But now, after seeing the Professore's room, she was filled with the same fierce hope as when she had first arrived. He is here. He is alive. I can feel it.
Schuyler drifted from one room to the next, scanning the dark places for a sign, a clue that would lead her to her grandfather. She thought most of the art was intriguing, if somewhat overwrought, with just a hint of pretension. What did it mean that a woman kept watering the same plant over and over again? Did it even matter? As she looked at the video, she realized she was the same as the woman, trapped in a Sisyphean task.
Oliver had already skipped ahead several installations. He took the same amount of time to study each piece approximately ten seconds. Oliver claimed that that was all he needed to understand art. They were supposed to call each other if they found anything, although Oliver had pointed out that neither of them knew what Lawrence Van Alen actually looked like. Oliver was not as convinced as Schuyler that a visit to the Biennale would be fruitful, but he had held his tongue.
She stopped at the entrance to a room bathed in a crimson haze. A single light cut through the entire space, projecting a glowing orange equator through the expanse of MARCH 15, 1871
ENGAGEMENT BROKEN
Lord Burlington and Maggie Stanford Will Not Marry. Maggie Stanford Still Missing.
THE ENGAGEMENT OF MAGGIE Stanford, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Tiberius and Dorothea Stanford of Newport, and Alfred, Lord Burlington of London and Devonshire, has been broken. The wedding was to have taken place to-day.
Maggie Stanford mysteriously disappeared on the night of the Patrician Ball--six months prior. Superintendent Campbell has continued to investigate.
The Stanford family suspects foul play, although no ransom note or sign of kidnapping has yet been discovered. A substantial reward has been offered for any information concerning Maggie Stanford's whereabouts.
;
The Venice Biennale was located in several overlapping pavilions, so that visitors wandered through a long series of darkened rooms, searching as video installations crackled to life in unexpected corners. Faces projected on vinyl balls expanded and contracted, shrieking and giggling. Flowers blossomed and withered on the screens. A rush of Tokyo traffic sped by, claustrophobic and threatening.
When Schuyler and Oliver had first arrived in Venice, Schuyler had been fired up with a wild, almost feverish, energy. She was relentless in her search, dogged and deter- mined. But her enthusiasm had flagged when it became clear that finding her grandfather in Venice would not be as easy as she had assumed. She had come with nothing but a name-- she didn't even know what he would look like. Old? Young? Her grandmother had told her Lawrence was an exile, an outcast from the Blue Blood community. What if all those years of isolation had led to madness and insanity? Or worse, what if he was no longer alive? What if he had been taken by a Silver Blood? But now, after seeing the Professore's room, she was filled with the same fierce hope as when she had first arrived. He is here. He is alive. I can feel it.
Schuyler drifted from one room to the next, scanning the dark places for a sign, a clue that would lead her to her grandfather. She thought most of the art was intriguing, if somewhat overwrought, with just a hint of pretension. What did it mean that a woman kept watering the same plant over and over again? Did it even matter? As she looked at the video, she realized she was the same as the woman, trapped in a Sisyphean task.
Oliver had already skipped ahead several installations. He took the same amount of time to study each piece approximately ten seconds. Oliver claimed that that was all he needed to understand art. They were supposed to call each other if they found anything, although Oliver had pointed out that neither of them knew what Lawrence Van Alen actually looked like. Oliver was not as convinced as Schuyler that a visit to the Biennale would be fruitful, but he had held his tongue.
She stopped at the entrance to a room bathed in a crimson haze. A single light cut through the entire space, projecting a glowing orange equator through the expanse of MARCH 15, 1871
ENGAGEMENT BROKEN
