The Gates of Paradise Read online

  “Yeah, I guess, but it wasn’t like…it wasn’t like it was everybody. It was one at a time.…” Tilly said, her voice fading a little.

  “What are a few souls here and there in the grand scheme of things, right?” Oliver said brusquely.

  “I know you think it’s terribly awful of us. That we let your mother down somehow, with Lucas going underground and all. But it’s not as if evil isn’t everywhere. It’s all around. We’re not the only victims anymore. The Red Bloods…are much more violent and vicious than we ever were.”

  “Lucas mentioned that you had mortalized.…”

  “Did he? Such an old goat. ‘Mortalized.’ I guess I did. I got bored, I suppose.…”

  “Bored?” Schuyler said coldly.

  “Yeah. I don’t know, sucking blood and all that…seemed so…” She shuddered. “Well, it’s not really good for you, is it? All that protein? I mean, I’m a vegan now.…” she said weakly.

  A vegan-freaking-vampire. Schuyler decided she had certainly heard it all.

  “So you don’t…perform the Sacred Kiss?” asked Oliver.

  “No. Haven’t needed one in centuries. Thought I’d fade away at first, and I did get brutally sick. I remember it was during the eighteenth century sometime, when I thought I would just fade away. But then I recovered, and I haven’t touched a drop since.”

  Tilly hadn’t performed the Sacred Kiss in centuries. And neither had Schuyler for at least a year, ever since she’d left Oliver to be with Jack. Come to think of it, when she and Jack had been together, neither of them had taken familiars. She had forgotten the taste of blood and she had survived.

  “By the way, we prefer the term ‘gone native,’” Tilly said.

  “We?” asked Oliver.

  “Are there so many of you?” Schuyler asked.

  Tilly tapped her finger against her teacup. “Yeah. Tons. It’s not something the Repository or the Covens or the Regis ever wanted to accept. But yeah, a lot of us aren’t living as vampires anymore. We don’t cycle, we don’t reincarnate.”

  “It’s just another word for Enmortal, isn’t it?” Oliver mused, meaning the vampires who chose not to rest but remain awake for their immortal life.

  “Yeah. Maybe. I guess. Except…”

  “We get it, no blood, no human familiars. Do you still have fangs even?” Schuyler asked, wondering what had become of her own. She hadn’t felt them in so long.

  “Yeah, they’re still there. Sometimes they pop up, but you learn to control them.” Tilly put her coat on. “Anyway, I’m sorry I can’t help. Lucas said things are looking bad for the Covens. Everyone’s gone underground again. But maybe that’s for the best.”

  “For the best?” Schuyler asked, an edge in her voice.

  “Seems unfair, doesn’t it? The whole vampire-elite thing? What gave us the right? Maybe the Silver Bloods have a point. Maybe we’re useless, in the end. Who needs us?” She nodded. “Thanks for the tea. And for the suggestion on the masks. I’ll use them tomorrow.”

  TWELVE

  Tomasia (Florence, 1452)

  is breath was sweet in her ear, his lashes soft on her cheek. “I give myself to you and accept you as my own,” Gio whispered, his voice low and trembling with emotion.

  Tomi clasped her hands around his back and pulled him closer, and said the same words to him. With that vow they were bonded, just as they had been since time eternal.

  She pulled him away from the window and into the bedroom. Gio had seen to everything—that morning Tomi had moved her small things to the new home they were to share. It was a palace in Florence, above the Arno. The room was aglow with a hundred tiny candles flickering in the dark. She smiled at him shyly, even as her breath quickened in excitement. He kissed her again, starting from her lips and toward the base of her neck, and she kissed him back, with an urgent passion that rose as they moved ever closer together.

  She felt his warm hands reach for the straps of the simple blue dress she wore, and then his hands were on her skin. Soon they were lying on the bed together, and he was moving against her and she was pressed against him, and when she looked into his eyes, she saw that they were filled with love. He was so beautiful. She moved her body with his, quickening to his rhythm. His hands on her hands, holding them behind her head, his hips sliding against hers, the two of them joined, bound, together now, just as at the beginning of time.

  “I’ve wanted this…I’ve wanted you so much, for so long,” he said, and kissed her fiercely now, biting her lip, and he pushed against her with a ferocity that excited and frightened her.

  “I’ve wanted you too, so much,” she said, sitting up so that she could see him clearly, and show him just how much she loved him.

  He pushed against her, harder and harder, faster and faster, and his strong hands on her waist gripped her so tightly she almost cried out in pain.

  “I want to drink in every part of you,” he seethed, burying his face in her neck as he shuddered against her, slamming her body with his.

  “Michael,” she murmured. “Michael, my love and my light.”

  “Shhhh,” he whispered. “Shhhh…”

  The next morning they were awoken by a barrage of fists on the door. “Gio? Tomi? Gio! Wake up!” The voice belonged to Bellarmine. He had been on watch the night before.

  “What is it?” Gio called. “What is so important that you must disturb us on the morning after our bonding?”

  “My deepest apologies for this intrusion, but we do need to consult with you in this matter,” the Venator captain explained.

  “I suppose we should see what he wants,” Gio sighed.

  Tomi removed her arms from around his chest, her legs from around his. “I suppose we should. Alas,” she said with a smile.

  They dressed quickly and walked out to the courtyard, to find Valentina and Bellarmine standing at the door with white faces, looking agitated and upset.

  “What happened?” Tomi asked, feeling a dread rise in her stomach. There was something terribly wrong, but she did not know what.

  Valentina turned to her, her face ashen. “The Mistress—Simonetta has been killed, and her baby gutted.”

  Tomi gasped and Gio turned to the Venators angrily. “No harm was to come to her! How did this happen?” he growled, his handsome face flushed an angry red.

  “We were bespelled. When we awoke, Simonetta was dead, and we found this by her bed,” Bellarmine said, offering up a bloody dagger.

  “Andreas’s blade,” Gio said with a scowl.

  “Then he survived the fire,” Tomi said, her heart sinking. She had been certain they had triumphed, that the devil had been destroyed. “But why would he kill his own child?”

  “So that we would not torture it?” Valentina offered.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Tomi said, confused.

  Gio grasped the dagger. “We will find her killer. We will find Andreas and we will destroy him.”

  Tomi shuddered at the anger in his voice, at the wildness in his eyes. She had never seen him this way before. Kind, gentle Gio. He was on fire with rage. Tomi shrunk back from him, frightened, and remembered their lovemaking the night before, the wildness of it, the ferocity.

  She looked at him and he was a stranger to her. She did not know who he was.

  THIRTEEN

  Schuyler

  he sound of breaking glass woke her from her sleep. Schuyler glanced at the clock on her bedside table. It was four in the morning. She put on her robe and walked out to the living room. “Who’s there?” she called. She padded through the dark hallway, looking for the light switch.

  She turned on the light and saw Kingsley in the middle of the room, with a broken wineglass in his hand. “Oh, sorry, sorry—we were trying to be quiet and I tripped over the damn rug.…” he said.

  “I’ll get the vacuum.” Schuyler frowned and pulled the vacuum cleaner out of the closet.

  “Bye, Dani,” Kingsley said, as a sleek blonde walked out of his room, dangling her stil
ettos on one finger. She was a dead ringer for Mimi Force. The same almond-shaped green eyes, the same mane of lustrous platinum hair. The same sexy-pouty expression.

  “Bye, darling,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.

  “Mind the mess,” he warned, motioning to the broken glass on the rug.

  “Always do,” she said, delicately picking her way around it.

  Schuyler gave Kingsley the look he had given her when he’d caught her holding hands with Oliver.

  “What?” said Kingsley, with an innocent smile on his face.

  “Bye, King-king,” another girl said, this one equally stunning and equally blond. She wore only a bra and a miniskirt. But at least she was wearing shoes.

  “Bye, Antoinette.” Kingsley smiled and kissed her on the forehead. “We were playing strip poker,” he explained, just as a third lovely girl stepped out of the room. This one had dark hair cut in a bob, and brown eyes. Not a Mimi clone, then.

  “See you, Parker.”

  The one named Parker winked at Schuyler and pressed her finger to Kingsley’s mouth. “Don’t be a stranger.” She giggled.

  Schuyler rolled her eyes. “Is that it? Or are you hiding more in your harem?”

  “Schuyler, darling, it’s none of your business what I do or who I do it with,” Kingsley declared as he went back to his room and shut the door behind him. “Good night,” he called from behind the door.

  The next evening was the same, but this time there were four blondes and no brunettes, while the next night brought the entire Farnsworth modeling class—the new girls who had arrived in London for the season—to their abode. “Fashion week,” Oliver said wisely, as he left to partake of the glamorous festivities himself, holding up a sheath of glossy invitations. “You sure you don’t want to go see Stella? I have an extra ticket.”

  “Since when do you care about fashion?” Schuyler demanded.

  “Sky, what’s with that face? It’s not flattering,” he teased. “Don’t wait up.”

  “You’ve been hanging out with Kingsley too much.”

  Oliver didn’t deny it.

  Later that night, Schuyler had been awoken once again by a loud bump, and when she walked out to the living room, Kingsley was playing Twister with two girls, the three of them wrapped around each other in a braided mess of legs and arms and laughter.

  She went back to bed, having rejected their invitation to join in, but the next day, as Kingsley was about to go out for another wild night, she stopped him at the doorway. She’d finally had enough of the constant partying, the loud music in the middle of the night, and the condescending looks of pity from the parade of paramours, who seemed to believe that Schuyler was “pining” for Kingsley.

  “Do you mind?” he said, reaching for the door.

  Schuyler crossed her arms. “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s something wrong?” Kingsley asked.

  “Why are you acting this way?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The late nights, the girls, the partying…I mean, you’ve always been…social, Kingsley, but lately you just seem…desperate. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but they all look a lot like—”

  “Don’t do it. Don’t say her name,” Kingsley warned.

  “Fine,” Schuyler said. “I just…I worry about you. What’s going on?”

  “There’s nothing to worry about. I’m just having a bit of fun. You spend time in the underworld, see if you don’t act the same.”

  “Kingsley…”

  “I told you, nothing’s wrong.”

  “Right.”

  “You know, Schuyler, she was right, you are a pain in the—”

  “Martin!” Oliver warned, having walked out of his room to see what the commotion was all about.

  Schuyler stepped aside, and Kingsley went out the door. When he shut it with a bang behind him, she turned to Oliver. “I’m right, you know. He’s not the same. What’s gotten into him? What do we do? We can’t let him just waste himself this way—he’s a Venator! The other teams are—”

  “I’ll try to talk to him,” Oliver said. “Tell him to tone it down. Find out what’s bothering him.”

  Oliver never got the chance to have his tête-à-tête. The next morning, when he and Schuyler walked into the dining room, Kingsley was already at the breakfast table, dressed and ready, reading the morning news on his screen.

  “What’s with the early-bird act?” Schuyler asked, picking up an apple while Oliver appraised the day’s offerings of toad in the hole, kippers, and rashers of bacon.

  “I’m, ah—leaving,” Kingsley replied, putting down the tablet.

  “Where to?” Oliver asked.

  “Can’t say.” He took a drink of orange juice and grimaced, inspecting the glass. “I think this is off. But it could just be that I can’t taste it. Oh well, thought I’d try.” He picked up a doughnut and began to chew with a moody look on his face.

  “Don’t change the subject. Why can’t you tell us where you’re going?” Schuyler demanded.

  “Better if you don’t know. Safer,” he mumbled.

  Schuyler exchanged a worried glance with Oliver. “Kingsley, stop playing MI6. Let us help. This isn’t a game.”

  “No!” he yelled, then looked abashed. “Sorry—but I have to do this alone. I’m not sure it’s even something. It could be nothing, and I don’t want you to get your hopes up.…I don’t have much to go on,” he murmured, fingering something under the table. It looked like a postcard.

  “It’s about Mimi, isn’t it? She’s alive, then? What about Jack…? Kingsley!” Schuyler said, getting up from her seat. “Come back!”

  But the Venator had left the room in a flash, and there was nothing left on his plate but a half-eaten doughnut.

  “Let him go. He’ll come back,” Oliver said, spreading butter on his toast. He regarded his breakfast skeptically. “Wonder why it’s called a toad in the hole. Are the eggs the toad? Or the sausages?”

  Schuyler turned to him. “What if he’s working for the Silver Bloods?”

  “He’s not, Sky. I know he’s not. I trust him. Do you?”

  “I guess I do. I just wish he would tell us what’s going on.” She did trust Kingsley—Oliver was right. He was no longer the slippery Venator who had danced with her at the after-party at the Four Hundred Ball and whispered in her ear. Back then, she’d even wondered if he had been the one who’d kissed her at the dance. It was Kingsley who had called forth the Silver Blood that had attacked the Repository, but he explained that he’d done it on the orders of the Regis—it was Charles Force who had commanded him to do it, to test the strength of the Gates of Hell. As a loyal Venator, Kingsley could only obey. She couldn’t hold that against him. The gates were supposed to hold, but instead they had proved as permeable as a membrane, and the demon had been allowed to escape from the underworld. Only then did Charles finally accept that the Silver Bloods had returned.

  “Kingsley does what he wants, but there’s no changing him,” Oliver said. “Let him go—he’ll work it out.”

  “Do you think he’s gone to see Mimi?” she asked. And if Mimi was alive, what did that mean for Jack? Did it mean then, that—? She felt her heart clench at the thought—but it was too painful and too terrible, so she forcefully pushed it down. Jack—to even think of him brought such a sudden sharp feeling of pain that it made it hard to breathe. She saw his face for a moment—the sheen of his blond hair, his green eyes framed by golden lashes—how peaceful he looked when he was asleep. Would they ever be together again? Or was their last good-bye forever?

  “Mimi? I don’t know…but—” Before Oliver could finish his sentence, the phone rang.

  The butler appeared. “A Margaret St. James for Miss Van Alen.”

  “Margaret? Oh, Tilly. Okay.” Schuyler took the call.

  Afterward, she went back to the dining room, where Oliver was tucking into a second plate of eggs and toast.

  “What did she want? Another fashion
show?”

  “You wish. No—she said she remembered something that might be useful. There’s one more person from the old triumvirate who’s still in London. She rang him, and he says he’ll meet with us. He knows what happened in Rome, might be able to help us unlock the gate.”

  “Huh.”

  “And we thought she was just an airhead who designed clothes,” Schuyler said with a wink.

  FOURTEEN

  Mimi

  he tour guide was speaking in hushed tones to a small gathering of tourists, her quiet words punctuated by the snaps and flashes of eager photographers. One man was filming with his handheld video camera, walking in circles around the apse. Behind him, a young couple clearly on their honeymoon posed against the wrought-iron fence, the groom holding his phone at arms’ length to take the shot.

  Mimi kept her distance from the group. The guide didn’t seem to mind that she’d lingered near the entrance, unlike the usual tourist herders, who were strict about keeping everyone together.

  She’d arrived in Midlothian earlier that week and had visited the Rosslyn Chapel every day, under a different guise each time, lest the nuns who guarded the place recognize her. So far, she had found nothing, and while she was glad of that, there had been no sign of Kingsley either. Perhaps he had not understood the message. If so, then she was a bit disappointed in him. She wondered how long she could pretend to be “looking” for the grail, and she knew she would not be allowed to return to the underworld empty-handed unless she had a reasonable explanation.

  Inside the chapel, every available surface was elaborately decorated in twisted stone carvings. One section depicted the underworld and its inhabitants—an upside-down hanging devil, the mythic “green man” marching a row of skeletons into Hell. The sculptures wound their way around columns and along the arches, across the ceiling and on the floor. There was a term for this, she knew: horror vacui—the fear of empty spaces. Every inch of the place was bursting with decoration, as if the chapel’s creators had feared blank walls like a literal plague.