Text and illustrations copyright © 2010 by Melissa de la Cruz
All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 114 Fifth avenue, New York, New York 10011-5690.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file.
ISBN 978-1-4231-4729-9
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Table of Contents
Just Another Night in Suck City
One-The Holiday Cocktail Lounge
Two-Poisoned Apple
Three-Cleaning Up
Four-Under New Ownership
Five-Love and Courage
Six-A Last Good-bye
Always Something There to Remind Me
One-Patient Zero
Two-The Van Alen Twins
Three-The Only Subject Vampires Aren't Good At
Four-The Society of Poets and Adventurers
Five-His Mother's Son
Six-The Familiar's Kiss
Seven-Love Sick
Ring of Fire
One-Something Blue
Two-Dark Circle
Three-Reunion
Four-Lord of the Underworld
Five-Rescue Party
Six-Abbadon's Curse
Seven-Dress Rehearsal
Eight-Wedding Morning
Nine-Angel Bride
Acknowledgments
For my readers.
You guys are the best.
Loving, for a long while ahead and far on into life, is solitude, a heightened and deepened kind of aloneness for the person who loves.
—Rainer Maria Rilke,
“Letters to a Young Poet”
Love is a battlefield.
—Pat Benatar
J U S T A N O T H E R N I G H T
I N S U C K C I T Y *
New York
November
*with apologies to Nick Flynn
ONE
The Holiday Cocktail Lounge
It was always Christmas down at the Holiday Cocktail Lounge on St. Mark’s Place in the East Village; the twinkling lights were left hanging up on the crossbeams year-round, just like the silver tinsel looped around the edge of the counter and the cheerful tree in the back, its ornaments glittering in the dim light. The Holiday, as the regulars called it, was a New York institution. The bar had been a speakeasy during Prohibition, and counted as its patrons the poet W. H. Auden, who lived next door, and Trotsky, who bunked across the street.
No one could put a finger on why the bar had lasted so long. Its resilient popularity was an anomaly in a town where velvet-rope emporiums serving thousand-dollar champagne bottles had become the norm. Maybe it was the custom-made cocktails—the bartender always seemed to know what you wanted to drink—or maybe it was the cozy, quiet feel of the place that murmured a welcome to every weary patron that walked through its doors. Or maybe it was the way the Rolling Stones sounded from the ancient jukebox, all heart and yearning. Time did not just stop at the Holiday, it came to a standstill, frozen in amber as thick and viscous as the home-brewed whiskey it served.
Interestingly enough, not once in its long life had it ever been raided, its swell of underage patrons never rounded up in paddy wagons and hauled off to the local precinct. While its neighbors routinely lost permits and licenses, the Holiday thrived and survived, serving its core clientele: the young and hip, the old and tired, hardened city journalists from the warring tabloids, and droves of tourists looking for an “authentic” New York experience.
It was late November, and in a few weeks the Holiday’s year-round frippery would soon be relevant again. During the Christmas season the owners of the establishment liked to add new trimmings—a lush green wreath nailed to the door, colorful hooked rugs featuring Santa and his elves, an elegant menorah by the window.
When Oliver Hazard-Perry walked in at half past five that afternoon, the place was packed. Oliver had been coming to the bar ever since he procured his first fake ID at fourteen. He turned up his collar and shuffled in, past the regular crew of men with long faces and low voices, who sipped their drinks as slowly as they nursed their failures.
Oliver took the very last seat at the counter, away from the exuberant college kids who’d had an early start and were already fumbling at darts. The Holiday held no attraction for the legions of fresh-faced hedge-funders eager to show off their black American Express cards. (In any event, the Holiday only took cash.) The Holiday was a port in the storm for those seeking shelter, for no matter what happened outside its doors—bankruptcy, apocalypse, collapse—one could find comfort and solace with a drink at its bar.
It was exactly what kept Oliver coming back. Just being at the Holiday made him feel better somehow.
“The usual?” the bartender asked.
Oliver nodded, grateful and a bit flattered to have been recognized. It had never happened before, but then, up until a week ago, he had never visited with much regularity. The bartender slid over a tumbler of the Holiday’s famous whiskey. Oliver slammed back the shot, then another and another. Drinking whiskey reminded him of how Schuyler once told him whiskey was the nearest to the taste of his blood. Like salt and fire. His sadness was something he picked at, like the scabs on his neck. He liked to scratch them until they bled, to see how much worse he could make them feel. He really should stop drinking whiskey. It reminded him too much of her. But then, everything in the goddamn city reminded him of her.
There was no escape. At night he dreamed of her, of their year together, of how they would sleep, back to back. He would remember how her hair smelled after a shower, or how her eyes crinkled when she smiled. In the mornings, when he woke up, he was a zombie, listless and anxious. She had left only a month ago, and would not return. Not to him at least; he had seen to that. He had practically given her away, not that she was his to give, but she would never have left otherwise. He understood the extent of her loyalty, as it ran as deep as his own.
He had done the right thing—he knew that—but it hurt nonetheless. It hurt because he knew she loved him; she had told him as much. It was just—just not enough, just not the same way as she loved the other. Oliver did not want to be second best, a consolation prize; he did not desire loyalty and friendship. He wanted her whole heart, and knowing that he would never have it was a difficult cross to bear.
If only he could forget about her. But his very blood yearned for her, for her soft lips to kiss his neck, for the feel of her fangs as they pierced his skin and filled him with an overwhelming wave of contentment. Now his entire body was attuned to its loss. It grieved and mourned along with his soul. He raised a finger for still another pour.
“Easy there, cowboy,” the bartender said with smile. “What is that, your fourth already? It’s not even six o’clock.”
“I need it,” Oliver mumbled.
“For what?”
He shook his head, and the bartender moved to take care of her customers on the other side of the counter.
Oliver fingered the card hidden in his pocket, tracing over the engraved words. It was a secret place that served humans like him—Red Bloods who had been abandoned by their vampires, human familiars who were now aching with need. He remembered his brave words to Mimi on the night they first visited the place, the false bravado he’d mustered. It was all a lie. He knew he would end up back there soon enough. He needed a fix, just one bite—it no longer mattered that Schuyler would not be administering it, he just wanted to feel whole again. He
wanted someone to make the pain go away. To help him forget. Of course he knew the dangers, the risks—schizophrenia, infection, addiction; the possibility that after one night he might never want to leave. But he had to go. Anything was better than living with the terrible loneliness. He slammed back the shot with a vengeance, pounded the empty glass on the table, and signaled to the bartender again.
“Whatever it is you think you need that for, maybe you shouldn’t do it,” she said, as she wiped down the counter and gave him a cool once-over. The bartender had been working at the Holiday ever since he had started sneaking in when he was in eighth grade, and Oliver noticed for the first time that she never seemed to age. She looked exactly the same, not a day over eighteen, with long curly hair and intense green eyes. Her tiny white ribbed tanktop showed just a hint of her tanned, flat belly. Oliver had always harbored a little crush on her but had been too shy to do anything about it aside from leaving generous tips. Not that it was hopeless, but it was like being attracted to a movie star—the possibility of having one’s affection returned was very low to zero.
To his surprise, she seemed to take an interest. “I’m Freya,” she said, holding out a hand.
“Oliver,” he said, giving it a firm shake. Her skin was as soft as cashmere. He tried not to blush.
“I know. The kid with the fake ID from Hawaii,” she said with a laugh. “Why is it always Hawaii? Is it because it’s an easy one to copy? It must be. Oh, don’t look too surprised, I’ve known for years.”
“You guys don’t get raided?”
“Just let them try.” Freya winked. “So. Haven’t seen you here in a year or so. Now you’re back every night. What’s up?”
He shook his head.
“Where’s your little friend?” she asked. “You guys always used to come in together.”
“She’s gone.”
“Ah.” Freya nodded. “It’s her loss.”
Oliver laughed hollowly. “Yeah, right.” Her loss. He didn’t doubt that Schuyler missed him; of course she would. But he knew she was happier now that she was with Jack. The loss was all his. He reached for his wallet and fished out several twenty-dollar bills.
The sexy bartender dismissed them with a wave. “Your money’s no good tonight. Just do me a favor. Whatever you’re about to do, please don’t. Because it’s not going to help.”
He shook his head and placed a few dollars on the counter as a tip. “Thanks for the drinks, but I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he mumbled, not meeting her eyes. What did she know about what he was planning? What did she care?
Oliver walked out into the cloudless New York night. It was the kind of evening that not too long ago would have found him and Schuyler traipsing around the city, with only their whims to lead them. There would be no more late-night cappuccinos at Café Reggio. No more sneaking into tiny little pubs to hear the latest folksingers. No more ending the night and greeting the day with dawn breakfasts at Yaffa. There would be no more of that. Not again. Not ever.
No matter. His car and driver were idling by the curb. He gave the address. After tonight, he would forget everything, including her name. With luck, he would probably forget his own.
TWO
Poisoned Apple
Oliver had not expected the blood house, which looked like a turn-of-the-century bordello, with velvet couches and dim lighting, to have such a modern medical facility in its quarters. The cigar-chomping madam who sent him to the top floor told him he had to pass a physical before she could register him as a house familiar.
“We need to make sure you don’t have any inconvenient diseases for our clients,” the doctor explained as he shone a flashlight down Oliver’s throat.
Oliver tried to nod, but his mouth was open, so he settled on silence. Afterward, he was poked and prodded with an array of needles that drew his blood. When the physical examination was over, he was brought to another room, where he was introduced to the house psychiatrist.
“De-familiarizing, that is, taking out the markers from your original vampire, is not a physical process,” the doctor said. “The poison in your blood is the manifestation of the love you feel for your vampire. What we do here is eradicate that love and disavow the hold it has on your psyche, thus eliminating the poison.
“It may be a painful journey, and one whose outcome is unpredictable. Some familiars experience a loss akin to a death. Others lose all their memories of their vampire. Every case is different, as is every relationship between vampire and familiar.” The doctor began scribbling on his pad. “Can you tell me a little about your relationship?”
“We were friends,” Oliver replied. “I’ve known her all my life. I was her Conduit.” He was relieved that the doctor did not seem to have an adverse reaction to the news. “I loved her. I still love her. Not just because she’s my vampire—it’s more than that.”
“How so?”
“I mean, I loved her before she bit me.” He thought of how he’d tried to fool himself, thinking that he’d only loved her once she had transformed. It wasn’t true. He had loved her his entire life. He’d only been lying to himself to feel better.
“I see. And the Sacred Kiss. Was it her idea or yours?”
“It was both of ours, I guess. I don’t remember really…. We were supposed to do it earlier but chickened out and then…it just happened. We didn’t really plan for it, not then.”
“So it was her idea.”
“I think so.”
The doctor ordered him to close his eyes, and Oliver did so dutifully.
“Let’s start at the beginning. Let’s remember all the happy memories, then one by one, reject them. Let them go.”
The doctor’s voice was in his head. It was a compulsion, he realized.
You are not bound to her.
You are no longer hers.
As the doctor’s calm voice droned on, images began to flash in Oliver’s mind. Schuyler at five: shy and mute. Schuyler at nine: teasing and petulant. Schuyler at fifteen: beautiful and quiet. The Mercer Hotel. The fumbling and the awkwardness. Then in her childhood bedroom, where it finally happened. The sweet smell of her—of her jasmine and honeysuckle perfume. The sharpness of her fangs as they pierced his skin.
Oliver could feel the wetness on his cheeks. He was crying. It was too much. Schuyler was in every part of his soul, in his blood; she was as necessary to him as his skin. He could not let go.
What was he doing? He didn’t belong here. This was against the Code. If the Repository found out, he would be kicked out of service. It would humiliate his family and destroy their reputation. He couldn’t remember why he had even come. He began to panic and started looking for a way out, but the litany continued, drumming the compulsion into his head.
You are no longer her familiar.
You are nobody.
No. No. It’s not true. Oliver felt wretched and confused. He did not want to let go of his love for Schuyler. Even if it pained him so much that he could no longer sleep, could no longer eat. He wanted to keep these memories. His sixteenth birthday, when Schuyler had drawn his portrait and bought him an ice-cream cake with two hearts on it. No. He had to hold on…. He had to…. He had to…. He could let go. He could listen to the nice calm voice and let go. Let it all go.
He was no one.
He was nobody.
The nightmare ended.
When he woke up, he found the faces of the doctors peering down at him. A voice—he wasn’t sure whose—said, “The lab reports came back. He’s clean. Put him in the line.”
A few minutes later he was standing in the lobby alongside a group of young familiars. Oliver swayed on his feet. His head hurt, and he couldn’t remember what he was doing there or why he had come. But he didn’t have time to think or puzzle over his muddled thoughts, because the curtains suddenly parted and a beautiful vampire entered the room.
“Bonsoir,” she greeted him. She was model-tall and carried herself with the confidence of a queen. She was from the Eu
ropean Coven, he could tell, with her immaculately tailored traveling clothes and sultry French accent. Her bondmate walked in after her. He was tall and thin with a mop of shaggy dark hair and a languid expression. They looked like two sleek cats, all angles and black turtlenecks, with their Gauloises cigarettes and sloe-eyed good looks.
“You,” she purred, looking directly at Oliver. “Come with me.”
Her partner chose a dazed-looking teenage girl, and the two humans followed the couple to one of the elaborate rooms on the top floor. Most of the blood house was furnished as perfunctorily as possible, with thin curtains dividing the rooms. But this was as plush as a five-star hotel suite, a grand space with a sumptuous fur-lined throw on the king-size bed, gilded mirrors, and baroque furnishings.
The male vampire pulled the girl down to the bed, slid her dress off, and immediately began to drink from her. Oliver watched but did not understand. He wasn’t sure what he was doing in the room, only that he had been chosen and wanted.
“Wine?” the female vampire asked, holding up a crystal decanter from the glass-topped bar.
“I’m all right, thanks.”
“Relax, I won’t bite.” She laughed. “At least, not yet.” She took a long slow sip from her glass and watched her bondmate drain the girl. “That looks delicious.” She put out her cigarette, stubbing it on the Persian rug and leaving a small brown hole.
“My turn,” she said, pushing Oliver down on one of the antique armchairs. The vampire straddled him and kissed his neck. She smelled like heavy oily perfume and her skin was papery. She was not as young as she first looked. “This way, please,” she said, turning his body toward the front of the room. “He likes to watch.”
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