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“I’ll still be helping you. I just have to do it in my own way.” He stood up, and that’s when Bliss saw that he’d already packed up his bags. He’d only been waiting to say good-bye to her.
“There was never any chance of my changing your mind, was there?”
He shook his head, gave her one last, long look, and then he was gone.
Bliss was left to explain Lawson’s absence to the rest of the pack, and that he’d left her in charge.
“I have to answer to you now?” Ahri sneered.
“No one’s answering to anybody,” Bliss said. “We’re just going to keep doing what we’re doing until we learn something useful. I have no interest in bossing you around. We just need to stop fighting and make some progress here. Edon, Ahri, are you two going to be able to get along?”
Edon, who had returned unexpectedly that morning, looked at Ahri and shrugged. “I have nothing to say to you. I’m here for the wolves,” he said. “If my brother is enough of a coward that he won’t work with us, then let him be. I will stay.”
“Edon,” Ahramin said. “Edon—I want to explain.”
“There is nothing you can say that I would like to hear,” Edon said, and his handsome face sagged with sorrow and disappointment. “Let’s just get this done.”
“I’m going to turn in early. Boys, you coming with me?”
Rafe and Malcolm followed her eagerly, like cubs. They both wanted Edon and Ahri to make up, and they were confused about Lawson’s disappearance. But they trusted her; they’d do whatever she suggested. Lawson had been right about that.
She had a lot more trouble falling asleep that night, even though the dorm room was quiet with just the boys in it. She couldn’t stop thinking about Lawson. She alternated between being furious with him and missing him desperately. What if she had another nightmare and he wasn’t there to comfort her?
It turned out she was right to worry. No sooner had she fallen asleep than she was plunged back into her dream from the night before. This time, though, she was prepared—the feeling of confusion and dual-vision was familiar, as was her own knowledge that she was dreaming and therefore somehow safe. At least for the moment.
Something was different, though. Her two perspectives were moving through a series of dark tunnels. Candles lit the path, though they only allowed her to see a few feet in front of her.
Where am I? she wondered. It felt almost like she was in a basement—she had the definite sense of being underground—but basements don’t have corridors.
She had been here once before. She remembered performances, beautiful music. Then she recognized the columns, the courtyard, and realized this was once the Theatre of Pompey, expanded and re-constructed by Caligula himself.
The theater was the entrance to the underground city, a network of paths that connected all of the empire, from Rome to Lutetia. The hidden city of the vampires, the hidden life of the Coven.
Now all she had to find was the door.
THIRTY-SIX
Schuyler
inn’s dorm was actually a college house called Blackstone. It was much more lavish than Schuyler was expecting; she’d pictured bunk beds in an anonymous cinder block room, especially after seeing the art building. But Blackstone was a beautiful brick building that looked almost like a cathedral.
They entered into a student lounge, which had a fireplace and a grand piano. “This is college?” Schuyler asked. “Or Downton Abbey?”
Finn laughed. “It is here. This place is great! You should see my room.”
She led them to an apartment with two bedrooms, a kitchenette, and a bathroom. “I share the kitchen and the bathroom, but the bedroom is all mine,” she said. “We can decorate them however we want.”
Schuyler let out a gasp when Finn turned on the lights. It wasn’t because the room was a mess, even though it was. No, her surprise was because the walls were covered with paintings of someone who looked so much like her that it had to be Allegra. “Did your—our—dad do these?” she asked.
“Every last one,” Finn said. “They’re pretty much all I have left of him. Go ahead, take a look if you want. They’re pretty great, right? Did you ever see the reviews of his show in Artforum or Art in America? He could have been something if he’d lived.”
“I haven’t. I’d love to see them one day,” Schuyler said as she stood close enough to the paintings to see the fine brushstrokes, the swirl of the paint, to smell the…Wait a minute. That smell…it couldn’t be.…
“Oliver, come here,” she whispered, while Finn was puttering around the little kitchen to rustle up some drinks. “I smell blood.”
“Where?” he asked. “You’re not telling me your sister is some kind of serial killer, are you?” he said jokingly.
“No, in the paintings!” Schuyler said. “I think Ben might have mixed his own blood in with the paint.”
