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She spotted a few of her colleagues sprinkled around the area. The Conclave was down to seven, but seven was all they needed for a quorum. Josiah Archibald was studying the art catalog closely. Alice Whitney was clutching her pearls. Abe Tompkins tottered in and took a seat in the back. The auction would begin promptly at ten, and so would the meeting of the Conclave. For they had come to this ancient spot to name their new leader. Forsyth Llewellyn had called for a White Vote.
The installation of a new Regis was no trivial matter, and no one in the Coven could remember having so many new ones in such quick succession. They had been led by Michael in his various incarnations since the dawn of time, and just last year had put Lawrence Van Alen in his place. But now Lawrence was dead, Charles Force was missing, and Forsyth was pressing his case for the position.
Mimi looked surprised when two of the members, Minerva Morgan and Ambrose Barlow, entered the room and made a beeline in her direction. Minerva and Ambrose were among the oldest living vampires of their cycle, and while vampires, minds did not lose their sharpness, the flesh deteriorated on a human schedule without the requisite maintenance. What did the two mottled old geezers want?
"Madeleine," Minerva said, taking a seat next to her, "Ambrose would like to show you something."
Ambrose Barlow carefully removed an envelope from his coat pocket. It was folded in quarters, and when Mimi opened it, the note inside was creased, and the paper so thin, as if from endless re-reading. Beware of Forsyth Llewellyn. He is not who you think he is.
It was signed "A friend." Mimi handed it back to Ambrose with distaste. Her father had told her never to put any stock in anonymous notes.
"Do you think it's real?" Minerva asked.
"I don't know. I don't really pay a lot of attention to those kind of things," Mimi sniffed. "It's probably just a prank."
"But why would someone send it? Obviously it's someone from in the Coven. But who? And why? And why send it to Ambrose? He'd been retired from the Conclave for at least fifty years. Plus, Forsyth has no enemies, and he's the only one keeping us together," Minerva said, looking agitated. "Don't you think so, Ambrose?"
Ambrose Barlow nodded. "I agree, anonymous notes are the work of cowards. But somehow I feel that we must pay attention to this one. It is a strange time for us... and with so much change going on..."
Mimi noticed that Forsyth Llewellyn had slipped into the room, and the three of them stopped talking. The senator was looking particularly robust and even more pompous than usual, considering what had happened to his family not too long ago. He saw the three of them huddled together and took a seat next to Ambrose.
"Hello, hello," he greeted her as Ambrose folded the note quickly back into his pocket.
"Hello, Forsyth. I was just telling Madeleine that I still don't understand why we have to do this so soon," Minerva said. "Charles is sure to return and to name a Regis while he is still alive. I don't like it. After what happened in Paris, I feel it is hasty of us."
"Dear Minerva, I do hear your concern, but my concern is that after what happened in Paris, time is now of the essence. We cannot dawdle as we have" Forsyth said.
Minerva grunted, while Mimi kept her face neutral. The Red Blood papers were filled with gory stories of the Paris disaster, none of the vampires had been killed or harmed, but there had been a few human familiars who had been trampled during the riot. The tragedy was blamed on the unlicensed Thai circus unable to control its animals, and fire code violations due to overcrowding.
Jack had told Mimi the real story when he had returned the other night, and how Charles had stopped the worst of it. But even with Charles's efforts, the H'tel Lambert had scarcely escaped being burned to the ground. The new owners were incensed and threatened to pull their bid, but had been placated by the countess, who had offered them some of the historical furnishings free of charge.
The twins decided they would not share the news of Charles's apparent demise with the Coven. Jack continued to believe that regardless of the evidence to the contrary, their father lived, and Mimi agreed it would be best if the community continued to think that Charles was deliberately keeping away. Best not to start a panic; the Blue Bloods were edgy enough as it was.
Seymour Corrigan entered the room, sending a look of apology for his almost-tardiness. They were all accounted for. Seven wardens symbolizing the original seven families, as tradition dictated.
The auctioneer, a sober-looking man in a blue blazer and a red tie, walked up to the podium. "Welcome, my good ladies and gentlemen, to the Impressionist and Modern Art Sale," he said. The audience clapped politely, and a screen behind him displayed a portrait of Kurt Cobain, immortalized in vibrant, jewel colors. Mimi thought it looked like one of those images from a prayer book. Grunge rocker as saint. "First up, an Elizabeth Peyton. The opening bid is five hundred thousand dollars."
ER 35
Schuyler
"Sky, wake up! Wake up! You're having a nightmare! Wake up?" Schuyler opened her eyes. She was sitting up, the bed a messy hurricane of blankets and sheets. Oliver sat next to her, a hand on her shoulder. "You were dreaming," he said. "that dream again?"
She nodded, pulling her knees up to her chin. "the same one. Always." Ever since she had escaped from Leviathan that night in Paris, Schuyler had had the same dream, the very same one every night, as if her subconscious were stuck on one channel, repeating the same eerie television show.
She could never remember what it was about, only that in the dream she was filled with the deepest, most agonizing despair. For days she had woken up crying.
"You okay?" Oliver asked. His eyes were puffy from sleep, his hair tousled and messy, a little part of it in the back sticking straight up, as soft as a baby duck's down. He was wearing a Duchesne sweatshirt and flannel pajama bottoms, his usual bedtime attire. Schuyler had teased him once about his surprising school spirit. Oliver had never worn anything branded with the school name in the daytime in his life, as far as she had known.
"I'm okay," she said. "Go back to bed."
They were in a capsule hotel in Tokyo. It had been a week since they'd left Paris. They had spent three days in Berlin first. Tokyo seemed like a safe place to go, as far away from France as possible.
When they'd arrived in Japan, Schuyler had been drained, with no energy even to perform the ritual that would invigorate her. She was beyond exhausted, but after seeing Jack again, and having all the old feelings stirred up, it felt disloyal to rely on Oliver so much. So she had restrained herself from performing the Sacred Kiss.
For once she wished that she had taken a docile stranger as her human familiar instead of her friend, but it felt like a betrayal to even think it. That night in Tokyo, Oliver lay back down, his head on the pillow, facing away from her as he curled up on his side, the way he always did. This was how they slept, how they had always slept ever since their journey had begun, in one bed, yet back to back, facing outward to their enemies, having each other's back, literally. This was the way Oliver had been taught. This was the way the Conduits had protected their vampires for centuries during times of war. In the middle of the night when Schuyler woke up, she was always comforted by the feeling of warmth from Oliver's back pressing against her own.
A year of sleeping back to back, never once turning to each other, not even for the Caerimonia. In bed, it would have been too intimate... too much like the other thing that they had resisted so far, an unspoken agreement to wait for the right time. Because what else did they have but time? They would be together always. That much they knew.
