CHAPTER 7

Schuyler

It was ten o'clock in the evening, and the first guests were arriving at the landing. As befitting the Oriental theme, a platoon of authentic Chinese junks rented for the party made a stately procession up the river, banners flying the crests of the Great Houses of Europe. Hapsburg. Bourbon. Savoy. Liechtenstein. Saxe-Coburg.

Blue Bloods that had remained in the Old Country in favor of seeking a new home across the ocean. Schuyler stood sentry with the army of servers lined up against the stone wall, just another faceless drone, or so she hoped. Each of them carried a different libation: there were pink cosmopolitans in martini glasses, goblets of the finest Burgundy and Bordeaux from the hostess's vineyards in Montrachet, sparkling water with lemon slices for teetotalers. She carried a heavy tray of champagne flutes, bubbles clustered at the lip, golden and bright.

She could hear the crack-thump of the wind whipping against the multiple sails. Some were decorated as dragon boats, complete with gold-plated scales and luminescent emerald eyes at the bow. Some were kitted out as warships with brightly colored "cannons" poking out of the stern. A grand imperial parade, at once indulgent and beautiful. She noticed something else as well, the crests on the banners were moving, changing with the light, transforming in a fluid dance of form and color.

"Do you see that?" She turned to the girl standing next to her.

"See what? A bunch of rich people in some stupid boats?" the waitress cracked, looking at her dubiously. Only then did Schuyler realize that the flashing symbols were visible only to those with the vampire sight. They were Blue Blood sigils, from the Sacred Language.

She had almost given herself away, but thankfully no one had noticed. Her lip quivered, and she could feel her body tense as the guests walked down the dock and approached the waiters. What if someone recognized her? What if someone from the New York Coven were at the party? What then? It was madness to think she and Oliver could get away with this. There were sure to be Venators here, weren't there?

If any of the Blue Bloods recognized her before she was able to make her case to the countess, she wouldn't have a chance in the world, and what would become of them then? She wasn't afraid so much for herself as for Oliver. She feared what the vampires would do to a human Conduit of whom they disapproved.

Hopefully the crowd would remain as oblivious as they looked, another bunch of pleasure-seeking socialites, as her coworker had dismissed them. Just because they were immortal didn't mean they didn't enjoy the trivial.

Schuyler tried not to stare at the women, most of whom looked even more fantastic than the boats. The female guests were dressed variously as Japanese geishas, in full white powder makeup and gaily printed kimonos, or Chinese empresses with tasseled pointy red-and-gold headdresses, or Persian princesses with real jewels pasted on their foreheads.

One famous German socialite known for her outrageous wardrobe came dressed as a pagoda, a heavy metal costume that wouldn't allow her to walk or sit for the entire evening. Instead, she rolled out of the boat on a Segway. For a moment Schuyler forgot her nerves and tried not to laugh as the archduchess almost mowed down a group of waiters carrying caviar and blinis.

The men wore Russian officers' uniforms, Fu Manchu mustaches, and turbans. It was all so politically incorrect and yet stupendously fabulous and anachronistic. One guest, the head of Europe's largest bank, was decked out in a large sable hat and a plush wolf-fur-trimmed cape. It was August! He had to be suffocating in the heat, and yet, like the lady in the pagoda who could not sit down, he was suffering to make a statement. Schuyler hoped it was worth it.

Human familiars were in attendance as well, only the small, discreet scars at the base of the neck giving them away. Otherwise they were just as festively attired and barely distinguishable from their vampire masters. The night was balmy and clear. Sitar music wafted down from the rotunda, a distinctive high-pitched wailing, and the line of junks waiting to disembark their fancifully dressed passengers was growing.

Several speedboats carrying young European Blue Bloods cut the line. They were much more daring in costume than their Elders. One of the girls, the daughter of the Russian finance minister, was wearing nothing but draped metal ropes and a wisp of black chiffon. Another svelte nymph was dressed in see-through chain mail. Of course, the boys were dressed as ninja assassins in black silk jumpsuits or as samurai warriors, and carried decorative swords.

When her tray was empty, Schuyler headed back, walking past Oliver's sight line from the second level. She glanced up and saw him making a turquoise-colored cocktail adorned with sizzling firecrackers. She saw him nod, and she knew he had seen her. She ditched her tray in a dark corner and walked swiftly into the main hall, past cordoned-off areas of the residential wing.

This is where she and Cordelia had stayed on their visits. There was a bathroom to the right, behind the Sabine murals. It was empty. She locked the door and took a deep breath. Phase one of the plan was complete. They had succeeded in worming their way into the party. Now it was time for phase two.

She shook out her ponytail and slipped out of her catering uniform, peeling off the layers. She found the small rucksack she had hidden underneath the sink earlier. She removed its contents and began to dress, putting on a bejeweled sari, luscious pink silk encrusted with diamonds. Oliver had helped her pick it out at the shop in Little Jaffna in the 10th arrondissement. He'd insisted on getting it even though it had been prohibitively expensive.

The silk draped elegantly over her bare shoulders, and the dazzling pink made a nice contrast to her long blue-black hair. She looked at herself in the mirror. She was thinner than she had ever been: lack of sleep and security would do that to anyone. Her cheekbones, already sharp, were thrown into sharper relief, cut like the edge of a blade. The bright sari brought color to her cheeks, and the dazzling gemstones glittered in the light. She sucked in her stomach even though her hip bones were prominent above the dress's low-waisted harem pants.

She removed a tiny cosmetic bag from the same backpack and began to apply some makeup. She dropped her powdered compact to the floor, and only then realized her hands were shaking again.

She wasn't ready for this. Whenever she contemplated what she was about to do, what she was about to ask, she couldn't breathe. What if the countess turned her away? She couldn't run forever, could she? If the countess refused them an audience, they had nowhere else to go. More than anything, Schuyler wanted to go home. She wanted to be in the same place her grandparents had lived. Back in her small bedroom with the peeling paint and the clanging heater.

She had already missed an entire year of school. In a month, Duchesne would be back in session. She wanted to go back to that life, even though she knew it was lost to her. Even if the European Conclave gave her shelter, it did not mean she would be able to return to New York.

Outside the band was playing 'thriller,' Michael Jackson to a bhangra beat, cymbals crashing. She bundled her waiter's uniform into the bag and stuffed it in a trash can, then left the powder room, slipping past the velvet rope.

"Champagne?" a server offered. Thankfully, the waitress didn't recognize Schuyler as a fellow serf on the bus.

"No, thank you," Schuyler demurred.

She walked to bottom of the staircase, elaborately costumed as an Indian princess. She held her head high even as her throat constricted with fear. She was ready for whatever the night would bring, and she hoped she wouldn't have to wait too long.

CHAPTER 8

Mimi

"The Silver Bloods are much more clever than we give them credit for," Kingsley said, when they arrived at yet another airport. They had left the U.S. the night before. Now they were back where it had all started, before that wild-goose chase had sent them halfway around the world. Back in Rio.

"You think?" Mimi replied, not even trying to hide the sarcasm in her voice. "You should know. You are one."

She put on her oversize sunglasses and rescued her battered Valextra roller from the luggage carousel. She was irritated that Kingsley made them fly economy everywhere. She was used to having her bags wrapped and secured in plastic whenever she traveled internationally. Her poor little valise was not surviving the rough treatment from the baggage handlers. She spotted yet another muddy footprint on its smooth leather surface.

"It's not funny," Kingsley said as he took her bag and tossed it into the baggage cart, almost as if he were dunking a basketball and not lifting a seventy-pound weight. (Mimi never traveled light. A girl needed choices.)

"I'm not laughing," Mimi snapped. "I just don't know how we could've missed it the first time."

"Just because we're Venators doesn't mean we don't make mistakes. And it's one thing to be incompetent, but it's another thing to be deceived. We weren't looking for it, that's why we missed it."

They walked out of the terminal and into the mild, tropical afternoon. Thank goodness for the upside-down weather here. Mimi had braced herself for blistering heat, and discovering it was winter in South America was a pleasant surprise.

The Lennox boys had hailed their own cab to the hotel, which meant she and Kingsley were stuck with each other again. The two brothers had been under Kingsley's command for centuries, but kept to themselves. They preferred their own company and often only spoke when they were spoken to, in monosyllabic grunts. She and Kingsley had had no choice but to talk to each other or die of boredom.

Kingsley whistled for a cab, and they piled in the back and drove slowly into town. The city looked the same, as gorgeous and exotic as ever, but somehow seeing the Redeemer statue above Corcovado mountain did not give Mimi the same thrill it once had. She didn't know what to think, she sure knew what the Conclave thought, even Kingsley had wanted to go after Leviathan as soon as he'd read the report, but he had been sent on this little adventure instead. Forsyth Llewellyn had pressed upon the surviving Elders to make finding the Watcher a top priority. Mimi wasn't wholly convinced, as the senator was, that the Silver Blood traitors had been fully unmasked by the Almeida fire, sure Nan Cutler, their leader, had perished, but there had to be others among the Coven.

Warden Cutler had to have had help. But that wasn't really Mimi's problem right now. All Mimi knew was that when Kingsley began assembling his team, she had volunteered. She'd wanted to get out of New York, away from the shocked, mournful faces of the surviving members of the Conclave. They were all so weak and frightened! It annoyed her to see them cowed and terrified. They were vampires; where was their pride?

They were acting like cornered sheep, bleating to Forsyth about how they should hide. Well, she wasn't going to hide. She wanted to find whoever was responsible for that terrible night, hunt them down and kill them one by one. Sacrilege is what it was, disrespect. The Silver Bloods' attack was vicious in its scope and intensity. They had attempted to wipe out the clan's Elders and Wardens, leaving the community with the irrelevant and the feeble. They had shown them no mercy. Mimi planned to show them the same.

But first they had to find Jordan. Jordan would tell them what had happened; Jordan would know who the Silver Bloods were and where they were hiding.

Because Jordan Llewellyn was only pretending to be a child. Jordan was the Watcher, Pistis Sophia, Elder of Elders, a soul born with its eyes open, that is, with the full command and understanding of all its memories.

Sophia had slumbered for thousands of years until Cordelia Van Alen had asked the Llewellyns, one of the oldest and most trusted families in the Conclave, to take her spirit as their newborn. The Watcher was supposed to keep vigilance against their enemies and to sound the alarm should the Dark Prince ever return to Earth. During the time of the Roman crisis it had been Sophia who had first discovered the Croatan betrayal. Or something like that, anyway.

It was all so long ago, and Mimi couldn't be bothered to remember. When you had lived for thousands of years, going through your memories was like trying to find a contact lens in a pile of broken glass. The past wasn't filed away in a neat tree of folders on a computer screen, marked accordingly with dates and labels for easy access. Instead, the past was a jumble of images and emotions, of knowledge that you did not understand and information you did not remember possessing.

Sometimes, when she had a moment to herself, Mimi wondered why she had volunteered so gladly. She had missed her junior year of high school, and wouldn't be able to graduate with her class. And it wasn't as if she cared about Jordan Llewellyn. She'd only met her a couple of times, and each time, Jordan had made either a face or a rude remark. But something told her she had to go, and Jack hadn't stopped her either.

It was strange how things never turned out the way one expected. Mimi had thought she and Jack would become closer after everything that had happened, especially with that stupid Van Alen brat finally out of the way. Maybe they just took each other for granted now that there was no one between them. But why was it she was here, and he was somewhere else?

"Penny for your thoughts?" Kingsley asked, as if he'd just noticed the silence in the taxicab.

"It's going to cost much more than that," Mimi said. "Let's just say however much it is, you'll never be able to afford it."

"Oh really?" Kingsley cocked an eyebrow. His signature move. Guaranteed to pull in the ladies. She could read it all over his arrogant face. "Never say never."

The hotel they'd booked was a modest one: three stars, and that was stretching it. It was miles from the beach, and the elevator was broken when they arrived. Mimi spent a listless night on itchy sheets and was surprised to find the team in extraordinarily good spirits the next morning. Well. Someone had to like percale.

Kingsley sat at the breakfast table looking newly energized, and not just from the four shots of espresso in his caf¨¦ con leche. He drank coffee like some vampires drank blood. "We've been thinking like humans," he sighed. "Looking for suspects, interrogating witnesses. These are Croatan we are up against. And they took the time to manipulate a memory that led us everywhere but here."

"It means she's here. In Rio. I get it." Mimi nodded. 'They sent us as far away as possible."

"She's probably right under our nose," Kingsley said. "In one of the most populous cities in the world."

"Ten million people," Mimi said. 'that's a lot." Her heart began to sink just thinking about how many more dreams they would have to read, how many endless nights they would have to spend chasing shadows in the dark.

She watched Kingsley walk away from the table and over to the buffet, where the hotel had laid out a full breakfast: platters of cheese buns and salted biscuits; freshly cut papayas, mangoes, and watermelons. Bowls of avocado cream. Chafing dishes filled with slices of honey ham and crispy bacon.

He picked up a watermelon wedge and took a bite, standing in front of the full-length windows that had a panoramic view of the city. Mimi followed his gaze out to the clustered hillsides. The favelas were as crowded and structurally ingenious as ant farms, precariously towering over the cliffs, a Byzantine maze of ghettos housing Rio's urban poor.

"Amazing, aren't they? A city within a city, really," Mimi said. "It's a wonder they all don't come crashing down during flood season."

Kingsley put down the melon rind. 'The shanty towns... of course. The Silver Bloods have always been drawn to chaos and disorder. That's where we'll start."

"Are you serious?" Mimi groaned. "No one goes there unless they have to."

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