Les vampires de Manhattan Read online

  “I don’t know.… I mean, she was at his house a lot. So maybe. All she told me was that he was nice and that she was helping him with something.”

  “Helping him with what?”

  “I don’t know. Georgie wouldn’t tell me. She was weirdly tight-lipped about the whole thing, but…”

  “But what?”

  “Well, it just seemed she was—scared of something.”

  “Scared?”

  Edon sat up straight and shot Ara a look.

  “She told me on Friday at school that she knew some secret, and it was bad, and she was in trouble. She said she couldn’t tell me what it was, because then I’d be in trouble too. But she said Damien would make it okay. That’s all.”

  “Thanks, Megan,” Ara said, writing it all down.

  “Do you think Damien did something to her?” Megan asked tentatively.

  Edon leaned back lower in his chair, his eyes appraising. “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t know, why are you questioning me unless Georgina’s dead?”

  “You think Georgina is dead?” Ara asked.

  “Isn’t she?” Megan asked, eyes darting between the two of them. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  8 PICTURES OF YOU

  FINN OFTEN TEASED HIM that he lived in what she called, not so jokingly, the “billionaire bubble,” a cozy, protected, comfortable space where every joke he made never fell flat, every project he touched was immediately praised, every inconvenience or minor annoyance he experienced was quickly fixed and sorted by people eager to please, eager for praise, eager for a moment with the Great Man. Take right now, for example. Oliver was standing with Finn in the lobby of the Museum of Modern Art, which had closed early on what would normally be a busy Tuesday afternoon at his request and at great expense. He had asked the curator to accommodate his schedule, and so the usually bustling space was empty and silent in the middle of the day, aside from a few archivists and docents who were helping with the installation. Of course, they could have waited until the museum was closed for the day, but Oliver had not wanted to wait.

  Was Finn right? Did he live in a bubble? Was he getting soft? Did he take his position for granted and become used to the bowing and scraping and jockeying his presence created? And if he did, was it so wrong to enjoy it? The city’s snootiest art maven was hanging on his every word; the man was almost trembling from excitement as Oliver dangled the possibility of the Overland Foundation dedicating a portion of its annual budget to financing the latest wing of the museum. Just as a way of thanking the man for taking the time and the trouble to mount this exhibit, of course.

  “Shall we go see the space on the sixth floor?” the curator asked. “We’re almost ready for Saturday.”

  “All the way up there? I was under the impression the paintings were going to be displayed in the contemporary galleries on the second floor. They’re much easier to access,” said Finn.

  “The galleries on the second to fifth floors are reserved for our permanent collections,” the curator explained. “Special exhibitions are installed in a wonderful space full of light on the sixth floor and that’s where we have started to install it.”

  “But the party will be in the sculpture garden,” Finn pointed out. “Do you really expect our guests to make their way up so many escalators to go see the exhibit? No, the sixth floor won’t do.”

  The curator was starting to sweat. Oliver could smell the fear on him. He felt pity for the man and placed a warm hand on his shoulder. “The contemporary collection can be moved for a while, can’t it? If it’s a matter of expense, I’m sure we can take care of it.”

  “Of course, of course,” the man said weakly. “We will move the collection for the exhibit. It will be a tight squeeze as the party is only a few days away, but we will—manage. However, if you would like to see the paintings, we will have to go to the sixth floor for the time being.”

  “I think we’d like to see them,” Oliver said, nodding.

  As they made their way to the top of the building, Finn peppered the curator with more questions concerning party logistics. Oliver zoned out of the conversation, his mind elsewhere. It was one thing for the Regent to throw his weight around for a special party, but it was another if it blinded one to the darker forces at the fringes of their society. There was a reason the Coven had nearly come to ruin once before, and Oliver made a point of remembering that the purposeful blindness and arrogance of the former Regis to the truth of their enemy’s existence and intent was a huge factor in the community’s near demise.

  Oliver didn’t believe that the Nephilim drug ring and the dead girl’s murder were random, unrelated events, no matter what the chief believed. Something was going on, and as Regent he had to get ahead of it. It was his job to keep them safe. Their immortal lives were his responsibility, and soon their fate would be tied to his own.

  It was a daunting prospect, and Oliver had had a few sleepless nights wondering if he was up to the task. He comforted himself with the knowledge that while he might have become used to the trappings of power, he had a pretty good ear for bullshit. It was one of the advantages of having been born mortal and something of an outsider in high school.

  He returned his attention to the conversation in front of him. The curator was used to being interrogated by rich ladies with opinions, and while he was being respectful of Finn, there was a hint of condescension in his tone as they took in the sixth-floor space. Oliver decided it was time to step in and have a little fun. “Why can’t we have the DJ set up in the other tent?” he asked, when Finn asked why the second tent, for the younger members’ after-party, had not yet been approved. The plan was to have the Lester Lanin Orchestra play in the main tent, with a downtown DJ in a smaller one across the courtyard.

  “The city has very specific noise ordinances,” they were told. “And this is a very strict neighborhood.”

  “The mayor is a friend,” Oliver said grandly. “Besides, when we begin construction on the new building, your neighbors won’t be very thrilled, either.”

  The curator’s smile froze on his face. “I will have the caterers set up the second tent immediately.”

  “Thank you, we appreciate it.” Oliver smiled. He winked at Finn, who looked bemused. “Thank you for having us here today,” he said in a tone that indicated the curator was dismissed.

  When they were alone, they burst into quiet laughter. “Nice work. I thought he was going to faint when you told him to move the permanent collection,” Finn said. “Oliver, do you think we’re asking for too much? I mean—they’re doing a lot to accommodate us. Maybe we should revisit our plans?”

  “No, we should get what we want, shouldn’t we? We’re paying for it,” he said. It was the way the world worked, after all. That much he understood from the beginning. As far as Oliver was concerned, they weren’t spending enough. He would have preferred they had built a brand-new building just for the ball, the way the Coven had in the past. But the city was crowded, construction permits dragged, and he didn’t want to wait another year. Besides, he liked the idea of having the party in the museum, surrounded by the things the Coven valued and prized—civilization, art, and high culture.

  Only a few of the works that would be part of the exhibit had been hung. They stood in front of a large-scale photograph of a vast ninety-nine-cent store, the detergents on display a bright shade of red. “You know I started collecting when I was a freshman in high school?” he asked.

  “You told me—a Warhol, was it?”

  He nodded. “A drawing. At auction. I paid for it out of my allowance.”

  “Of course you did,” she said with a faint smile. “Oh, look—there’s Dad’s stuff.”

  The first time he’d seen these paintings was in Finn’s dorm room ten years ago. He had been drawn to them then, and now, arranged and exhibited in one of the most prestigious museums in the world, they were even more striking. Each and every one was of a beautiful and haunted girl, with blood
dripping on different parts of her body, as wounds on her neck, tears on her face, or streaming down her torso.

  Finn moved on to the next painting, but Oliver remained in place, transfixed by the red portrait. He looked closer at the surface of the canvas and noticed a small, five-inch hairline scratch in the blood, as if someone had taken a nail and scraped it. He studied the other paintings and found the same deliberate scratch on each one. Was it some kind of signature? It bothered him, although he didn’t know why. But he didn’t have time to think about it as Finn was waiting for him to catch up to her.

  “Have you heard the latest?” she asked. “Since they can’t prove that Allegra is dead, they’ve moved on to complaining that the museum and Overland are championing a dead artist instead of investing in young, emerging artists who are alive.”

  “But your father isn’t the only artist in the exhibit. Ivy Druiz, Jonathan Jonathan, and Bai Wa-Woo are all alive,” he said, still distracted by those long, odd scratches.

  “They don’t let facts get in the way of their editorials, that’s for sure.”

  “Let them talk… it doesn’t matter,” he said. He turned back and looked at those empty white scrapes. “Finn—did you notice—” he said and pointed to the marks on one of the paintings. “What do you think that is?”

  She leaned in for a closer look. “I don’t know.… Wait—do you think it might be sabotage?” she asked, her voice rising. To his surprise, she was almost shaking and Oliver strove to soothe her. It took so little to rattle her these days. The stress of planning this party and mounting this exhibit was clearly getting to her, and Oliver wished once again he had never agreed to it.

  “No, no… I think it’s okay. I just thought it was strange. I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said, even though he had seen the paintings many times and had never noticed them before.

  “You know Chris Jackson cornered me last week at the ballet opening and chewed my ear off about what a bad idea the ball is. She went on and on about how there’s too much attention, bad press, and it’s bad for the Coven,” Finn said suddenly, her voice heated.

  “Chris Jackson is a headache,” said Oliver. From one of the finest New York families, and one of Manhattan’s most visible social doyennes, Christina Carter Jackson was the head of the Committee, the Coven’s organization that taught young vampires how to use their powers and live according to the Code. And one of the conclave’s more vocal members. When Oliver had taken over as Regent, he had largely been accepted as one of them, even though he did not have their same pedigree and background. Although no one had ever publically questioned why the Almighty had bestowed the gift of immortality upon him, for a while there was talk that some might splinter off from the Coven. But so far, no one had done anything but grumble, and Chris was one of the loudest grumblers.

  “You know that cliché, ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,’ ” she said. “But maybe she has a point?”

  He turned to Finn. “Darling, do you not want to have this party?”

  Finn paled. “No… I…”

  “I can handle Chris. The Venators are loyal to me,” he said. It was a thorn in his crown, the fact that there was anyone who doubted him, doubted his fidelity to the Coven, doubted his leadership. He had given his mortal life to the Coven and would dedicate his immortal life to its safety forever. Sometimes he wondered if he had asked for the right thing—if his transformation had truly been a gift. Another old cliché came to mind, the one that said you get what you wish for.

  Oliver stared at the painting in front of him. Allegra Van Alen was the age he was now. It was the one picture where Stephen had painted himself in the portrait as well. The two of them gazed out from the canvas, captured in their youth and beauty, radiant with love and happiness.

  Finn rested her head on his shoulder. “We’re just like them, don’t you think?” she asked, loving and sweet once more.

  He kissed her forehead. “Yes,” he answered, but he found it odd that Finn would say that. Stephen and Allegra’s love story was a tragic one. He died young, and she fell into a coma, and their child—Finn’s half sister, Schuyler—had grown up alone, misunderstood and neglected, with only one friend to her name: Oliver. Unlike Sky, Finn had grown up away from the Coven, with no knowledge of the secretive vampire world. When he met her, he had immediately wanted her lightness and gaiety for his own. She was so normal, and he remembered their courtship as a respite from the growing darkness and full of ordinary things that young people did, like college keg parties and picnics in the park. When the time came, he had taken her as his human familiar, just as Allegra had taken Stephen as hers. But Oliver wanted more for himself and Finn than Stephen and Allegra had had, and he would do whatever he could to escape repeating the mistakes they had made, to forge a new future for them instead of following in the footsteps of their tragic past.

  He stared at the portrait of the doomed Allegra Van Alen and wondered if she had truly found happiness and salvation at the end. In the corner was that strange white scar, almost unnoticeable unless one looked very closely. Why would someone take paint, or actually blood (though despite the rumors few people know it was exactly that), from the canvas? It was creepy to think that these canvases were covered in Stephen’s blood, but a thought occurred to Oliver now: What if the reporters were right? What if Allegra’s blood was in the paintings as well?

  Angel blood.

  The blood of the most powerful angel the world had ever known.

  He shook his head. He was being paranoid.

  Still, the trepidation he was feeling was starting to grow. Maybe as a survivor of the War, he knew the signs when they appeared. That pentagram he’d seen in the glass doors of his building yesterday morning was still there. It was a pentagram all right, and the building staff apologized, but they couldn’t seem to get it off. They were trying with several industrial cleaners, but nothing seemed to work.

  He saw it again that morning, and Oliver had a feeling it would remain there until the Venators figured out exactly what it meant.

  9 OLD FRIENDS, NEW ENEMIES

  KINGSLEY CAME BY ON Tuesday night after she got off work again, and they repaired to the same bar. He was wearing different clothes, and he had showered, which meant he had a place somewhere, a Venator safe house, maybe—he knew every one in the city. She managed to resist asking him where he’d been last night, and he didn’t offer. He avoided any more talk of Hell’s Bells and refrained from repeating his plea for help, even if it was clear from his presence that he needed her. Mimi hadn’t decided if she would help him. She thought she would, but she also thought it would be fun to torture him a little. Let him beg. She just wanted him to admit he missed her. That he wasn’t just asking for her help, that he wanted to spend time with her.

  “What’s your favorite thing about being back?” she asked.

  “In New York? I don’t know, everything’s so different.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I like the new starchitect-designed buildings. It’s great to see something new again, something eye-catching,” he said.

  She smiled. “Me, too.”

  She was still waiting for him to say something about the dead girl and Hell’s Bells, but instead, he kept his cool, and at the end of the evening, he got up from his seat and tossed several twenty-dollar bills on the table so they fell on the leather-bound check cover.

  “That’s it?”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “I mean… I thought you said you needed my help.”

  “Well, you don’t seem very interested,” he said.

  He had a point there, but Mimi couldn’t believe he was just going to walk away again. “So why’d you come by again? You’re not even going to try to convince me?” she asked.

  “What’s the point? I could never get you to do anything you didn’t want to do, not even when we were together,” he said with a smile. “And is it a crime to spend time with my wife?”

  It was what she wanted
to hear, but she had a feeling he was just placating her. “Where are you going?” she asked, curiosity getting the best of her.

  His cool gaze was maddeningly familiar. “Do you really think you can ask me that anymore?”

  That Kingsley. In one breath he was calling her his wife and she was feeling everything for him again, and with the next he was pushing her away.

  She flushed and would have let it slide, but that was their old pattern—before they were married: letting things slide, never being honest with each other about how they felt, doubting each other, distrusting each other. Marriage had changed that pattern. They had been loving, supportive, honest, and open—and bored, so terribly bored. Mimi felt the spark of a challenge, felt the passion she had felt the first time they had met, when he had been unknowable, his heart a mystery and closed to her. “I just thought…” She shrugged.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking me to come home with you?”

  She looked him square in the eye. “Yes.” Why not admit it? It was what she wanted, and she wasn’t afraid of telling him the truth. Maybe they could pick up where they left off, maybe they could start over again somehow—or maybe they could just have a little fun together. Why not? And maybe she would help him with the Coven, with that murder. Maybe.

  Kingsley put on his jacket and thought it over. “Well, I don’t see how I can refuse.”

  She tried to hide her smile of victory.

  They walked out together into the dark of the city, and Mimi felt confident enough to slip her arm through his. He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t squeeze her arm affectionately like he used to, either, or take her hand and keep it warm in his jacket pocket.

  “Nice digs,” he said, when they arrived at her place. “You do look good in white.” She lived in a white box in the sky—the loft was kitted out with white shag carpeting, white leather couches, white modern canvases on the white brick walls. Maybe it was a reaction to their former home, or maybe it was as Kingsley had said, she looked good in white, and so she had created the most flattering domicile for herself.