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“Promise me,” she said, gripping his arm.
“I will not fail you, my friend.”
But that night was too late. It was not long after the warlock left that the labor pains started. At first they were subtle, almost possible for Tomi to ignore. When they grew sharper, stronger, more frequent, she called for the midwife. “Help me,” she said. “Call my friend back.”
But instead, the midwife brought Duc Patrizio de Medici, along with Tiberius Gemellus, the Silver Blood Enmortal, who was now in Andreas’s loyal circle.
“Iacopo would not come, nor Margherita, so it is just us,” Tiberius was saying. “They refuse to be a part of this. They suspect what is happening.”
Tomi stirred—the names were familiar—her friend Iacopo and his bondmate Margherita. What was Andreas planning that was so terrible even the Angels of the Apocalypse refused to participate? Where was her friend the timekeeper, who had promised to help her?
“We must move her quickly,” Patrizio said.
“Where are you taking me?” she cried. Where were her loyal Venators? Why was she alone?
“Somewhere safe.”
By then she was too tired, too weak, and in too much pain to protest. They brought her underground, into a dark basement smelling of mold and dust and decay. Tomi hoped that the birth would be quick, but it was not to be so. The pains stretched out for hours and into the next day. She grew weak and feverish. It became difficult to separate reality from dreams, for she had not slept; though occasionally she closed her eyes and disappeared for a few blissful seconds.
By the time the midwife insisted that she begin to push, she was delirious. Andreas entered, with Ludivivo. Why was she surrounded by so many men? What was happening?
“Dre—please, what is going on?” she begged.
They were waiting.
“Do not kill her,” she begged. “Do not kill my baby.”
“We will not harm her,” Andreas said. “Ludivivo has found a family. This is why Patrizio is here,” he said soothingly.
“We will take care of the baby.” Patrizio nodded. “Do not fear, our dear Gabrielle.”
Tomi was too weak to protest, but she took some comfort in the knowledge that her baby would not die. She was not strong enough to keep them from taking it, but if it was alive, surely she would have a chance to find the child again.
She began to scream. The pain was unbearable.
“Shhh…” the midwife said. “Andreas, she needs something to drink. A cool jug of water, perhaps.”
“I will fetch it,” Andreas said. “No harm will come to your child, my love, I promise.”
And with that, Tomasia finally was able to push.
FORTY-TWO
Schuyler
inn’s dorm was all but abandoned when Schuyler arrived; everyone must have gone to the party, or to some other party. Or the library, she supposed—there must be some people in college who actually spend time studying. Wherever they were, she was happy they were gone; the front door was miraculously open, and she was alone.
Which gave her time to study the paintings. There were four of them, one on each wall. They were beautiful. If Schuyler had ever wondered whether Ben and Allegra were really in love, she didn’t wonder now. Only someone who completely adored the woman he was painting could have infused such emotion onto the canvas. Surely her mother had had a chance to see them, before she fell into a coma.
The tricky part now was figuring out a way to extract the blood from the paint. Assuming, of course, that it was Ben’s. Schuyler had only had time to sense the faintest aroma of blood when she’d looked at the paintings. If the blood didn’t belong to her father, there was no point in destroying them.
How to be sure? Schuyler walked up to one of the paintings and stood as close to it as she could, breathing in deeply. Yes, she’d been correct the first time: there was definitely blood mixed in with the paint. But something about it smelled strange. Was it because her father’s blood was somehow special? She couldn’t be sure. She inhaled again. There was something familiar about its scent. Well, it would be totally awkward if someone walked in right now, but…she stretched out her tongue and licked.
And in that brief second, her hopes were dashed. She knew as soon as she tasted it. The blood wasn’t Ben’s.
It was Allegra’s.
Vampire blood was supposed to disappear when it hit the air, but Schuyler’s mother must have found a way to preserve hers. She must have given it to him, to help him with his work. It was a sweet, if strange, gesture, but either way, it was of no use to Schuyler.
