The Gates of Paradise Page 18

  But now it was clear. Even if Jack never came back, Schuyler and Oliver weren’t meant to be. Maybe it was too soon to say that he’d found someone he was meant to be with, but Schuyler couldn’t imagine anyone better. Her best friend and her newfound sister—what could be more perfect?

  “Don’t screw this up,” she said, and reached up to give him a brief kiss on the lips.

  One last kiss.

  FORTY

  Mimi

  ingsley stood in the entrance to the living room and waited for the buzzing to stop. He was as handsome as ever, Mimi couldn’t help but notice, with his thick, dark, almost black hair and clear blue eyes. He scanned the crowd, and she saw him stop and stare right at her.

  He knows, she realized. He can see through the disguise, through the illusion. He knows it’s me behind this mask.

  She was elated and terrified at the same time.

  What would he do?

  They locked eyes for a long time. Then his gaze continued to sweep the room.

  Would he buy it? she wondered. Would he believe her? He had to, for this to work. He had to believe she was false, that she was a traitor, that she was doing everything in her power to work against him and against the vampires. His life depended on it. If he believed she was still true to him, then all was lost.

  She had to make him believe the lie—it was the only way to keep him safe. Mimi realized there was no other way out of this equation, this predicament Lucifer had designed for them. Maybe Jack had found a different way, but she did not know anymore. Something inside him had changed, she knew that now. Somehow, Jack had given up the fight.

  She called out to him. Jack? Jack, are you there?

  But there was nothing. Perhaps she was too late; perhaps he had already found Schuyler and was doing whatever it was he had decided to do.

  Kingsley began to speak. “As you all know, we have long been engaged in a battle for control of the seven gates that guard the Paths of the Dead and keep the demons and their brethren in Hell. The Silver Bloods have been on a mission to destroy them all so that Lucifer may return from the underworld. So far, due to the courage, loyalty, and ferocity of our remaining Venator teams, the Gates of Hell remain standing, even as we have weathered heavy losses in the struggle against the Nephilim.”

  He took a deep breath. “But that is not why I have called you all here today. We have since learned that the attacks on Hell’s gates are merely a distraction. For our enemy has focused his arsenal on something much more important. The Gate of Promise, Gabrielle’s gate, guards a bisected path. One path leads to the underworld, and the other path is a way back into Paradise.”

  There was a collective gasp from the room.

  Kingsley waited until they had settled down. “We have also learned that Lucifer has discovered a means of harnessing the godsfire, and he means to use this weapon to wage war upon Heaven itself.”

  The room buzzed with fear and anticipation.

  “We have to stop him,” Kingsley said. “We cannot allow the Dark Prince to reclaim what is not rightfully his.”

  “How are we supposed to do that?” someone finally yelled out.

  Kingsley smiled. “I’m glad you asked,” he said. Always the charmer, even as he was rallying the troops for battle. “We have two advantages in this fight. One: Lucifer will not be able to take Paradise without the key to the gate. I have dispatched a team of Venators to protect the gatekeeper and take her to a secure location. There is little chance of the Silver Bloods finding her; and without her, they will not be able to take the gate. The other is…”

  “Stop!” Deming cried. “We can’t discuss our plans now. Not in front of her.” She pointed to Mimi, almost daring her to take out her sword. “This is not my sister! This is a traitor! Aperio Oris!” the Venator cried. Reveal yourself!

  The mask slipped away and Mimi stood in the middle of the room. Her long lustrous platinum hair falling on her shoulders. A smirk on her face.

  “She’s working for the Silver Bloods! She is no longer our Regent!” Deming yelled.

  Mimi was trapped. The Venators had surrounded her before she could unsheathe her sword. She looked around—at the faces that stared at her with abject hatred and fear. They would kill her. Slowly. And they would enjoy it.

  Now was the moment of truth. She looked at Kingsley and waited—waited to see whether he understood, whether he’d seen their “battle” for what it was. A charade, a ruse, a desperate deception to save her love and her Coven.

  But the blue of his eyes turned icy, and she knew she had lost him, finally. That he had given up hoping. Her plan had worked.

  He believed she was false.

  He believed in the lie.

  She didn’t know whether to rejoice or despair.

  “Seize her,” he said.

  FORTY-ONE

  Tomasia (Florence, 1452)

  he was a princess, trapped in a castle. Andreas had ordered her to bed for the remainder of her pregnancy. She was alone, with only the Venators assigned to her protection—loyal Bellarmine, stoic Valentina. When Andreas visited, which was rare, Tomasia tried to talk to him, to determine whether he presented a threat to her unborn offspring, but he would not discuss it. Instead he insisted that she rest, undisturbed, in her chambers. She had asked for clay so that she might work on her art; perhaps then she would not be so lonely. He had relented, and she spent the days consumed with her work while Andreas went hunting with his new partner, Ludivivo Arosto.

  Ludivivo, one of the conclave, had always been like a father to Tomasia in the past. In this cycle she had only met him once or twice before Andreas had essentially forced her into solitude. She recalled only a slim, fair-haired boy, who seemed better suited to life as a scholar than to that of a slayer of Silver Bloods. But when Andreas came to visit, he related tales of his and Ludivivo’s many successes. It almost made Tomasia envy them, until she imagined trying to chase after Silver Bloods with her present girth.

  “You are making tremendous progress on your sculptures,” Andreas said, examining the tableau she’d laid out. It was the most elaborate piece she had ever attempted. Three figures surrounded a gate: one, a woman, was lying on the ground. The other two, both male, stood above her, facing one another. She had not yet begun work on any of the faces; she was sculpting from memory, and the memories were becoming harder and harder to bear.

  Does Andreas not remember? she wondered. Does he not see what I have created, where my mind has gone? Or is he so fixated on keeping me from knowing his plans for my child that he chooses to ignore it? She was certain he was making plans. He had no reason to believe that her child would be any different from the one Simonetta had carried.

  “What do you do with the others? The other demon-born children?” she asked one afternoon. “You must not kill the Nephilim. They deserve only our pity.”

  Andreas told her not to worry, that he had trained the Petruvian priests to care for them.

  “My child is innocent,” she told him. “She must not be harmed.”

  “What is yours is mine,” Andreas had promised. “But perhaps you should get more rest; put away your work for now and return to it when you have recovered from the pain of childbirth,” he said, inspecting the sculpture more closely.

  Tomi looked at her unfinished sculpture and thought of the many sacrifices that Andreas had made to ensure that they were reborn to this life, here in Florence. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she needed to clear her mind.

  Andreas left the room, and she heard him speaking in low tones with Ludivivo, who had been waiting outside her door.

  “It is coming soon. She must never know,” Andreas was saying. “She cannot ever remember that Gio was Lucifer, in human form.”

  Did they think she was not aware of what she had done? Did they think she could not hear?

  “We will erase her memory,” Ludivivo said. “She will not know that there ever was a child, let alone that one has been taken from her.”

  “The c
hild must die,” Andreas said. “Quickly, before Lucifer becomes aware it ever existed.”

  “You need not worry,” Ludivivo said. “I will take care of everything. Patrizio will see to it.”

  Tomi had been right—they planned to kill her child. She felt a furious hysteria rise in her soul—she would not permit it! She struggled to sit up in the bed, but she was too weak. She could not even move. What was this? She was bespelled, she realized: trapped, confined to the bed.

  Andreas returned to the room and planted a kiss on her forehead.

  “Sleep well, my love. Soon this will all be over.”

  The only other visitor to her prison was her friend the warlock, the guardian of the timekeepers. “You must help me,” she said. “I fear for my baby. Andreas will not allow it to live.”

  The warlock did not argue. The Norsemen were supposed to be neutral in the skirmishes of the lost children of the Almighty, but this one was fond of Tomi. He was a great admirer of her art. “I will see to it. I will help you. I will steal you away tonight. I must prepare, but I will see to it.”

  “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.

  Schuyler consoled herself that at least she wouldn’t have to damage the paintings, and with them her future relationship with Finn. She would have to come up with another plan. Nothing left to do but go back to the hotel and sleep.

  Oliver arrived at the airport just in time, wearing the same clothes he’d had on the night before and looking pleasingly rumpled. “Oliver Hazard-Perry, I never thought I would see you doing the walk of shame,” Schuyler teased. “Good night, then?”

  “The best. Who knew I could enjoy a kegger?”

  “I don’t think it was the party that was so much fun.”

  “Perhaps not,” he allowed.

  “How did you leave things?”

  He sighed. “Well, that’s complicated. We’ll be in touch, of course, but I can’t imagine anything will come of it until after…everything.”

  The sojourn back to the States had been a monumental one for Schuyler personally, but the problem at hand still remained. The Venators were meeting tonight, and while she had faith in Kingsley’s leadership, Schuyler knew she was the one destined to bring the vampires salvation. But all she felt was useless.

  Remember who your father was, her mother had told her. Remember him when time stands still, when you stand at the crossroads, when the path opens before you.

  What did it mean?

  The flight to London was smooth and uneventful, made easier by the comforts of first class. They disembarked to find a driver holding a sign with Schuyler’s name on it. Kingsley had arranged for a limo to pick them up at Heathrow, Oliver explained. “How thoughtful,” Schuyler said. “And how unlike him.”

  “People can change,” Oliver said pointedly.

  “Noted,” she said.

  They sank into the plush leather seats while the driver put their luggage in the trunk. With a low purr, the car exited the airport. Schuyler looked out the window as they moved onto the highway. It was always so hard getting used to the whole driving-on-the-other-side-of-the-road thing—she was glad she never had to do the driving herself.

  “I don’t know my way around London all that well,” Oliver said, “but I feel like we’re going in the wrong direction. Kingsley said the safe house was in Islington, which is that way.”

  Schuyler tapped on the glass window that separated them from the driver. “Excuse me? Are we going the
right way? I don’t know if Kingsley gave you the proper address.…”

  The driver didn’t appear to hear her, and he didn’t lower the glass.

  “What’s going on here?” Oliver asked.

  Schuyler started banging on the window. “Hello? Can you hear me? Hello?”

  Still nothing.

  “I’m starting to get a very bad feeling about this,” Oliver said.

  “Is there any chance Kingsley didn’t send this car?”

  “Come to think of it, he did mention he was sending a Venator team. Not just a driver. Damn it! What should we do? Should we try to jump out?” Oliver tested the door. “Locked.”

  “We can force it,” Schuyler said. “I could take the door right off the hinges if I wanted to.”

  “While the car is moving? I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  Just then, the car stopped. They’d pulled off the highway and were in a clearing. Schuyler heard a click and tested the door. Unlocked.

  “As soon as I open it, we run,” she said.

  But no sooner had she said the words than someone else opened the door for her.

  Schuyler froze. The feeling she’d had all along—she’d been right after all—someone had been watching and waiting…and now the watching and the waiting had ended, and whoever it was had come for her. She knew, she felt it, and she hadn’t done anything, hadn’t told anybody—and now they were both in danger. She wanted to kick herself for being so stupid. She would never see Jack again, never get to know her newfound family. She’d failed in her task, and this was her punishment.

  “This isn’t good,” Oliver said.

  “Get out of the car,” a cold voice said. “Now.”

  “Where are you taking us?” Schuyler screamed as her assailant pulled her out of the car.

  “Not us,” he said. “You.”

  Then Schuyler blacked out.

  In a flash, she and her captor seemed to be somewhere else, somewhere familiar: falling, falling deep into the glom, and away from the light, though Schuyler felt like they were still moving.