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The teacher was a newbie, of a different type than the usual Duchesne faculty. Most of the teachers had been at the school forever, and looked it. Madame Fraley taught French, and the students were convinced she'd been at the school since the 1880s. (She probably had, since Madame was a Blue Blood.) Or else they were recent college grads, kids who had somehow flubbed their Teach for America applications and were stuck with a bunch of preppie brats instead of needy hardship cases.
This one was different. Miss Jane Murray was an apple-cheeked sturdy woman of early middle age, with bright red hair and a ruddy Irish complexion. She wore a plaid skirt and a yellow shirt with an argyle vest. Her hair was cut in a blunt pageboy and her blue eyes twinkled when she spoke. Miss Murray (she wrote it on the blackboard, and it was decidedly "Miss" not "Ms." (She had gone to Miss Porter's, and in her mind a lady was not called by a buzzing sound) did not look like she had been around during the dinosaur era, nor did she have that lost fearful look of the post collegiate.
"This is a mixed-class elective, and it is seminar-style, which means I will expect my students to participate in discussions and not just doze off or text each other. I don't promise not to bore you, but you may bore each other if you don't bring your own thoughts and ideas to the table," she said brightly, looking around with a cheerful smile.
When the sign-up sheet came around, Bliss decided to put her name down on the list, noticing that almost everyone in the room had done so as well. Bliss could read the room's reaction: Miss Murray was going to be a charming new addition to Duchesne life.
The bell rang, and as Bliss gathered her things, she overheard two girls talking animatedly as they jostled their way to the door.
"Omigod, our senior year is going to rock!" said Ava Breton.
"Totally!" squealed Haley Walsh. 'the best!"
Senior year is going to rock. What a funny sentiment, Bliss thought as she followed them out of the room. These were the best years of their lives. Good lord, hopefully that wasn't true.
So far, Bliss's adolescence had, to put it frankly and literally, sucked. She'd moved to a new city, discovered she was a vampire, fallen in love and lost her love, all in one crazy year. And now she'd spent the last year possessed by a demon, who, by the way, was also her father, however that worked, she had no idea.
The Visitor had been gone for most of the week. And after Bliss had glimpsed the hellhole that was his mind, she was glad he was away. His visions had given her nightmares.
She could hardly sleep without thinking about what she had seen. Much worse, Dylan hadn't come back after that fateful day. She kept hoping he would suddenly show up somewhere, or else take her back to the Cloisters, but there was nothing but silence. It was as if she were all alone in her head again, and she knew that wasn't the case.
School finally let out at three, and Bliss went home. She entered the apartment and found Forsyth slumped at the kitchen table, surrounded by empty bottles of alcohol, and a dazed-looking woman draped on the couch. He was usually more discreet with his human familiars, and Bliss averted her eyes.
He jumped when she came in, and his face looked ashen. He looked at her fearfully.
"What's wrong?" she asked. "What happened?"
As soon as she spoke, he looked relieved. "Oh, it's only you," was all he said. Then he poured himself a pint of whiskey in a beer glass and downed it in one gulp. For a vampire, he was curiously affected by alcohol. Bliss gave him a look, then went up to her room and shut the door. She had homework to do.
CHAPTER 40
Schuyler
Jack was right. When Schuyler and Oliver returned to New York, there were no Venators waiting to arrest them at JFK. Still, neither of them was going to put their faith in the Conclave membership anytime soon. The plan was to keep Schuyler's return a secret, while Oliver would testify to the Conclave that Schuyler had deserted him so he would be able to go back to his family. Hopefully the Elders would believe him instead of handing him over to the Venators for a truth-telling session. It was a risk they had to take, but Oliver was confident he could sell his story.
Oliver had not been too keen on the idea of their pretend estrangement, but Schuyler had convinced him it was the only way to secure their freedom in New York.
Kennedy Airport was its usual chaotic mess as they maneuvered their way through the bustling terminal, looking for the bus that would take them to the subway.
"Welcome home." Oliver yawned and rubbed his stubble.
It had been a twenty-hour flight from Sydney. Not fun in a too-small economy seat. The two of them had been squished in the middle row of five seats, between a honeymooning couple on the left, who noisily kissed the entire flight, and an adventure-tour-group on the right, who kept the stewardesses hopping with their cocktail orders.
Once outside the terminal, Schuyler took a deep breath and smiled. They had arrived in the middle of September, and the weather was still mild, with just a faint tinge of cold in the air. Fall was her favorite season. The hustle of the city, the limo drivers seeking their fares, the long line for yellow cabs, the taxi dispatcher barking at everyone to hurry up. It was good to be back.
They checked into a nondescript hotel by the West Side Highway, one of those big corporate institutions that was filled with weary business travelers. The room looked out into a light shaft, and the air-conditioning was noisy. Nonetheless, Schuyler slept soundly for the first time in months.
The next morning, Oliver reported to Conclave headquarters with his story, pledging his life to the Blue Blood community at large. Just as he'd predicted, once the Conclave got wind of what he was really offering (money), no questions were asked.
He told Schuyler afterward, back at their hotel, that the wardens didn't even seem concerned about her disappearance, or about enforcing any disciplinary action. What happened in Paris had changed the game. It had forced the Conclave to reconsider its actions concerning Leviathan's return. They had much bigger problems to deal with, and they just didn't care about her anymore. Or so it had seemed.
"You ready to go, then?" he asked. He had made an appointment for her at Dr. Pat's clinic. Patricia Hazard was the Conclave's most trusted doctor and also happened to be Oliver's aunt. "What did you do while I was out?"
"Nothing. I got an egg-and-cheese and a coffee from the deli across the street. Then I read the Post," Schuyler told him. "It was heaven."
Dr. Pat had redecorated. The last time Schuyler had been there, the office had looked like the lobby of a very white, very minimal, very modern hotel. This time the office resembled a bizarre but fabulous fun house. There were crystal vitrines filled with glass eyes. There was a lounge chair made out of stuffed animals that had all been stitched together; it was cute to the point of craziness. Venetian mirrors lined the walls, and fur throws were folded over white sofas. It still looked like a hotel lobby, but this time, instead of an ice queen, one expected Willy Wonka to appear.
"Hey, Dr. Pat, what happened here?" Schuyler asked as she followed the good doctor into the examination room (which she was glad to find still looked like a standard exam room).
