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"The cycles are the key to our existence; they guarantee our continued invisibility in the human world. According to the Code, the expression of each spirit is closely monitored and recorded. There are lists and rules that govern who is called up, and by whom and when. There was no record of Allegra being allowed to bear a daughter in this cycle. So the mere fact that you were born was already a violation."
From birth she had been a mistake, Schuyler thought. Her mother... that still, silent figure in the hospital bed... why did she choose to have me? Schuyler wondered.
"But so what? That still doesn't explain it. Why would they even care about that? What's it to them? It doesn't make sense."
"I know," Jack sighed.
"You're not telling me everything," Schuyler realized. He was protecting her. 'tell me the truth. There has to be a reason why they've been trying to kill me."
Jack hung his head. Finally he spoke. "A long time ago, during the crisis in Rome, the Pistis Sophia saw the future. She said that one day, the irrevocable bond among the Uncorrupted would break. That Gabrielle would spurn Michael and bear a daughter with a Red Blood. And that daughter would be the death of the Silver Bloods. Sophia has never been wrong."
"So I'm their death?" Schuyler found it absurdly funny. "Me? They're scared... of me?" A half-hysterical yelp escaped before she could stop herself. It was so absolutely ridiculous. What could she do to harm them? As the Inquisitor had pointed out, she had used her mother's sword and missed. She might be fast and strong and light, but she was not a fighter, not a warrior, not a soldier.
Jack crossed his arms. "It's nothing to laugh about. Leviathan would have killed you right there that night in Rio if he had known who you were. And now that he knows he was so close and failed to kill you, he's tracked you down here to finish the job."
"But how do you know Leviathan has tracked me?"
"Because I have been tracking Leviathan," Jack said grimly. "My father and I have been tracking him for months."
"Charles is here?" she asked. She wondered why the news did not make her feel safer. Charles Force was the greatest of them all. He was Michael, Pure of Heart, the Valiant, Prince of the Angels, Supreme Commander of the Lord's Army. She had been looking for Charles herself, and to know that he was here in Paris, and as her protector, or one of them, anyway, should have gladdened her heart. But it did not.
Charles Force was not a friend. He was not an enemy, but he was not a friend either. But maybe now she would be able to find out what Lawrence had asked her to do. Charles would have to tell her about the Van Alen Legacy. Schuyler had to know. She owed her grandfather that much. Jack nodded.
"Yes. He decided to come himself when the Conclave would not send the Venators after Leviathan following your testimony. We have been one step and two cities behind him for months. When Leviathan led us here, to this party, we thought he was after the countess, as she was instrumental in bringing about his imprisonment on Corcovado. But when we saw you in the ballroom, we suddenly knew what his real intentions were. Charles sent me to make sure you were safe while he took care of Leviathan himself."
So basically she was in danger from the baddest demon around. Wonderful. She was running from the Venators when she probably should have been running toward them, now that she knew what was truly after her.
"So you believe me? You believe that I didn't kill Lawrence like the Conclave thinks?" Schuyler asked.
He looked down. "I can't speak for the Conclave. But I have always believed you. I've always believed in you," he said softly.
"Right." She nodded, trying to appear businesslike, to hide the fact that she had been moved by his faith. Jack believed her. He was on her side. He didn't hate her, at least. He didn't hate her for breaking his heart. "So what now?"
"First things first," he said briskly. "Let's get out of this dungeon. I was worried you would choose this place to hide. And I think you've noticed it smells pretty awful down here."
CHAPTER 19
Bliss
Muffie Astor Carter (real name Muriel) was a Blue Blood in every sense of the word. She was educated at Miss Porter's and Vassar, and had worked in the publicity department of Harry Winston before marrying Dr. Sheldon Carter, who had found fame as the plastic surgeon to the Park Avenue set. Their bonding was one of the more controversial ones in recent memory, as it had taken each quite a few attempts to find the other. He was her second husband and she his third wife.
She was also one of New York's most popular socialites. Jealous rivals sniped that the public just took a liking to her name. It was so outrageously preppie it sounded like a joke. But it was not; it was the real thing, like Muffie herself, who embodied a horsey, Bedford, WASP authenticity in an age of brash nouveau-riche hordes adding "von? or 'de? to their names and who didn't know a Verdura from a Van Cleef.
Every year Muffie opened up her sprawling Hamptons estate, "Ocean's End", for a fashion show to benefit the New York Blood Bank. It was the highlight of the August social calendar. Located at the end of Gin Lane, the property sprawled over six acres and included a manor house with a separate and equally lavish guesthouse, a twelve-car garage, and staff quarters.
The sweeping grounds featured two pools (saline and freshwater), tennis courts, a lily pond, and professionally maintained gardens. The Bermuda grass was cut by hand, with scissors, every other day, to keep it at just the right length.
Balthazar shook Bliss's hand with a limp handshake and passed her on to Muffie with a wan smile.
"I'm so glad to see you looking so well, my dear," Muffie said, giving Bliss the most insubstantial of embraces. Muffie had a broad, recessed forehead with nary a wrinkle (her plastic-surgeon husband's most effective advertising) and the perfect blond coif pervasive on the Upper East Side. She was the epitome of the breed: tanned, slender, graceful, and appropriate. She was everything Bobi Anne had wanted to be but could never match.
"Thank you," Bliss said, trying not to feel too awkward. "It's good to be here."
"You'll find the rest of the models in the back. I think we're running late as usual," Muffie said cheerfully.
Bliss walked toward the backstage area of the tent, swiping a canape from a tray and a glass of champagne from one of the buffet tables. Henri was right: this was an easy gig. It wasn't a real fashion show, merely a presentation to wealthy clients in the name of charity. Whereas a real fashion show was a chaotic commotion of energy and anxiety, attended by hundreds of editors, retailers, celebrities, and covered by hundreds of media outlets around the world, the Balthazar Verdugo show on Muffie Carter's estate was more like a glorified trunk show, with models. It was so odd to be back in the real world, to be walking on damp grass (sinking in her heels, really), munching on appetizers, and looking out at the Carters' amazing ocean view, an unbroken line of blue stretching over the horizon, and to find out that in some parts of the world, even their world, the world of the Committee and the Coven, there were some who remained indifferent and downright disinterested in what had happened in Rio.
Muffie and the other women on the Committee whom Bliss bumped into at the party did not bring up Bobi Anne's death or the massacre of the Conclave. Bliss understood that they simply went on about their lives: planning parties, hosting benefits, doing the rounds of couture shows, horse shows, and charity causes, which filled their days. They did not seem too worried or distressed. Cordelia Van Alen had been right: they were in the deepest denial. They didn't want to accept the return of the Silver Bloods. They didn't want to accept the reality of what the Silver Bloods had done and were planning to do. They were satisfied with their lives and they didn't want anything to change.
