Lost In Time (Blue Bloods Novel)

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “This way, please,” a maid said, curtsying. They followed her down the hallway to another elevator, which brought them to a suite of rooms facing the river’s eastern shore.

  “This is where Helda stays when she visits,” the maid whispered as she opened the double doors to a luxurious room with a grand view of the river. Mimi nodded. Kingsley meant it as an honor, surely, and while she was grateful to be so well taken care of, she was also just a little disappointed that he had left her side so quickly. She would have appreciated a shack alone with him rather than all these froufrou accoutrements. She said good night to Oliver and prepared for bed.

  Oliver turned in as well. His bedroom suite was lavish and well appointed, but as he expected, the pillows were too soft, the bed too big, the air-conditioning turned up too high. Still, he didn’t complain. He was just glad to have a place to rest at last, even if it was in an ersatz Trump Tower with a creepy troglodyte domestic staff. When his head hit the pillow, he didn’t care that it was too soft; he slept immediately, like the dead, never moving from one spot.

  For her part, Mimi sat up in bed for hours. She had found a selection of silk, sheer nightgowns in the walk-in closet, and after a long soak in the marble tub, she had changed into the sexiest one, slipped under the covers, and waited. Finally, after what seemed like hours, she could hear the elevator doors open—and recognized Kingsley’s rolling step. She waited for him to sneak into her room and have his way with her.

  She would tell him to stop, of course, and demand that he explain his feelings for her before they went any further. But afterward, after he pledged his devotion and begged for forgiveness for that casual, ambivalent greeting at the club, she would let him do whatever he wanted—and she had to admit she could not wait to be ravished. She squirmed with anticipation, remembering the way they had danced together—the feel of his strong arms circling her waist, and the way his body had moved with hers—and she arranged herself on the pillows to look as sleepy and innocent as possible.

  But the steps grew farther away instead of getting closer, and then there was silence. Mimi cocked an eye open in annoyance. She fluffed her hair and the pillows again, made sure her nightgown fell on her body in an attractive, sultry angle, and resumed her position. maybe this was part of the game? Teasing her again? But the minutes ticked by and still there was nothing. Mimi practically slept with one eye open the entire evening, but Kingsley did not visit her bedroom. Not that first night, and not for the nights after. In fact, she did not see him at all for the next couple of days.

  Well played, martin, Mimi thought. Well played. She determined not to inquire about his whereabouts or give any indication that she was waiting for him to make the first move. He had invited her to his house, so obviously he wanted her there. She thought she knew why he was making her wait. He wanted her to crumble and surrender so his victory over her heart would be complete. Mimi had a little more pride than that. A week after they had been installed at the Duke’s Arms—so named, Mimi learned, because it was traditionally the seat of the Duke of Hell—a week after their awkward reunion, Mimi bumped into Kingsley in the breakfast room, and was able to match his polite tone.

  “My trolls taking good care of you?” Kingsley asked, sitting down at the grand dining table with his bowl of fruit and cereal.

  “Yes, very well, thanks.” Mimi nodded.

  He inquired about the comfort of the rooms and urged her to make herself at home, and to order the staff to do whatever her heart desired. Kingsley was the consummate host. It was totally depressing.

  “How do you find the view?” he asked.

  Mimi looked up from her granola (which Oliver would describe as too dry and not enough raisins) and shrugged. “It’s all right.”

  “I know it’s not Central Park.”

  “I didn’t expect it to be.” She looked down at her plate, unsure of how to broach the topic of their relationship. It was as if there were an impenetrable wall around him. They had not seen each other since that first night, and still he had not asked the reason for her presence, had not spoken to her in any real way. He was the Duke of Hell and she was merely an honored guest. She didn’t know how long he planned to carry out this charade.

  He picked out a piece of fruit from his bowl and began to eat. “I know it’s all a mirage, and that I’m not really eating this apple. But it helps, doesn’t it? To have the daily rituals, to have some sort of order to the day. It never gets dark here, or light. No sun, of course. Only the light of the Black Fire, which never goes out. Ever burning but never sets,” he murmured.

  “Mmm,” Mimi said. “Enjoy your time here,” he said. Then he was gone, and Mimi was left to eat her slightly sour yogurt alone.

  * * *

  For his part, Oliver spent most of his days swimming in the saltwater plunge pool on the top floor. After the initial excitement of living in a palace—not that it was all that different from the way he lived on the Upper East Side, really—he had started to feel lethargic and sluggish. As if his muscles had atrophied from not needing to go anywhere or do anything or use his mind for any reason other than to ask the trolls for his slippers. There were no art galleries, no music halls, no opera, no theater, no libraries, no literary or artistic amusements of any kind in Tartarus. Worse, there was nothing to read. There were only nightclubs and flesh bars, gladiator matches and sporting events. The television showed reruns of the most pandering type of programming: unfunny sitcoms, gross reality shows; and on the Internet there was only pornography. It was fun at first, but then vice is so boring when there’s no virtue to balance it out. When there is nothing but sinful indulgence, sinful indulgence becomes a chore.

  Oliver thought he would die from boredom. So he did laps in the Olympic-size pool—anything to make his muscles ache. He wished that Kingsley would just get back together with Mimi already. Well, what was he waiting for? Was he just stringing her along? Sure, Mimi was sort of… well, annoying was the word he was looking for, but she wasn’t all that bad, and obviously Kingsley was attracted to her. A guy could do much worse than Mimi Force.

  Not that it had never crossed Oliver’s mind—he was a guy, after all, and Mimi was a beautiful girl—but the thought of the two of them as a couple was so alien and laughable, he couldn’t see their friendship developing into anything more. And that’s all they were, friends. Oliver liked Mimi, but he did not find her attractive in that way (she would tell him the feeling was mutual, of course). That’s just the way it was.

  Still, Kingsley was such a lucky devil. After all, Mimi had dropped everything in her life to be with him. She was here now. Their story was sure to have a happy ending if only Kingsley would stop being, well, Kingsley. Whereas he, Oliver, would never get what he wanted; not in this lifetime or any other. Not for the first time did Oliver wonder if nice guys really did finish last.

  Mimi decided the reason Kingsley was acting so uninterested was that perhaps he no longer found her irresistible. When one night after another came and went, and she waited up for him to slip through her door and get under her covers, she began to think that maybe it never was going to happen. maybe she had taken her duties to the Coven too much to heart and had neglected the full-time job it took to keep her looking like the most Beautiful Girl in New York.

  Well, then. That was easily remedied. She wore down the staff with her requests for egg-and-honey conditioner for her hair, orange rinds for her face, milk-and-almond baths to make her skin soft and supple. She burned kohl pencils at the tip with candle flame and drew in eyeliner, and wore lipstick made of crushed rose petals. She noted that Kingsley usually stopped at home for a drink before going out to his supper club or wherever he went that he didn’t invite her, and she planned to swan down the grand staircase one evening in a smashing dress. The troll seamstresses promised that the silk was woven from the clouds of Elysium, that the Dark Prince himself had never worn a suit of such fine fabric. The dress was cut almost to the navel, and Mimi wore her hair in waves—ringlet
s—the way she had in Rome, when Kingsley had first laid eyes on her.

  As if on cue, Kingsley was having a snifter of brandy at the bottom of the stairs when Mimi made her stunning entrance. His eyes flashed with appreciation. At last, a reaction, Mimi thought, and a smug smile played at her lips. Now this is more like it.

  “Oh, hi,” she said, as if she had not planned this all week, and she’d merely wandered in looking exquisite, like a goddess who had deigned to grace him with her presence.

  “Going somewhere tonight?” he asked mildly.

  “Yes. I thought I’d check out that new place mamon’s been raving about,” she hinted. “You?”

  “Well, enjoy,” he said, yawning. “I’ve had a big day. I’m going to turn in. You have fun, though. Don’t get into too much trouble, Force,” he said, wagging his finger.

  Mimi watched him disappear down the hallway to his personal apartments. Now she was all dressed up with nowhere to go. Jackass, she thought. The dagger he’d thrust into her heart twisted a little deeper. What on earth had made her think he was worth the trip?

  THIRTY

  Bitter Queen

  All fairy tales end at some point, and Allegra’s world came crashing down one ordinary late fall day when she was tallying up receipts. The annual crush the past Saturday had been a rousing success, with hundreds of people at the vineyard dancing and stomping grapes. Allegra had laughed and danced with them, and had spent the evening in the close, warm company of friends. The following Tuesday, the vineyard was closed for business. Ben was in town fetching supplies for the week, and Allegra had just opened the ledger when the darkness fell.

  They were a blur—too fast for the human eye to see—and yet to Allegra they appeared as if in slow motion. She could see each of their stoic faces clearly, as well as the weapons they carried, torches of Black Fire. This was an ambush, a sneak attack that she herself had once designed in order to subdue a demon. She was their queen and they had come for her as if she were no more than a Hell-born beast.

  Allegra bolted for the door, sending a row of bottles crashing into tables. There was nothing in the world she could use to defend herself against the Black Fire. Her only chance for freedom was to make a quick escape.

  “Tut tut,” Kingsley martin said, meeting her at the back door. He was holding a sword lackadaisically at his side. To his credit, he did not point it at her. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, do you?” he asked.

  “What is the meaning of this?” she hissed, as she was caught by the Venator team, her wrists placed in silver handcuffs.

  “You know why we’re here, Allegra,” Kingsley replied. “Just following orders.”

  Allegra scanned the impassive faces. Kingsley martin, the reformed Silver Blood; Forsyth Llewellyn. Of course he would be roped into this mess. He looked like he was enjoying it a little too much; Nan Cutler, who had never liked her since Florence. Well, the feeling was mutual. They surrounded her with their swords and did not speak to her, did not listen to her pleas, or show her an ounce of sympathy.

  “After you,” Kingsley said, pointing the team down the stairs to the wine cellar.

  They put her in a small room where the Syrah and pinot noir were stored, and handcuffed her to a chair. They worked quickly and systematically, creating wards around the area, making sure that no one would be able to get inside the room. Allegra noticed the Venators knew exactly where everything was, which meant they had been watching her for some time. They knew when Ben was going into town for supplies. They knew the vineyard wasn’t open on Tuesdays. They knew she would be alone.

  “What’s going to happen to Ben?” she asked.

  Kingsley shook her head. “You know I can’t talk about the operation.”

  “Please.” Allegra felt a panic grip her throat. She had once commanded missions just like this one—and while she knew the Venator’s training would not allow for sympathy or failure—that she was now in the same position as all the criminals she had hunted in the past—she tried to appeal to Kingsley’s better nature for the sake of her love. She knew this was punishment and retribution. She had left her own bonding to be with her human familiar, and now she would pay the price. No one was above the Code of the Vampires.

  Kingsley checked her restraints and nodded, satisfied that they would hold. Then the Venators left, locking the door behind them, and Allegra waited for her brother alone in the dark.

  Night came, but Charles did not appear, nor did the Venators bother her again. She did not worry for herself—but she could not rest thinking of Ben. Where was he? Was he safe? They wouldn’t harm him… would they? He had gone into town—was he looking for her now? Why were they keeping her in the cellar? Had they already taken him somewhere else?

  What have I done, Allegra thought. What have I failed to do.

  The next morning—Allegra guessed it was after sunrise—Kingsley returned with a cup of water and bread. Wordlessly, he put them next to her chair. There was olive oil with the bread, and Allegra thought bitterly of the last time she had eaten such a meal: in the veranda, with Ben at her side, the two of them as innocent as children. She should never have brought him into this. This world of secrets and blood and darkness and immortality. He was like the sun while she was a meteor, debris, a falling star.

  She had just finished her meal when the door opened with a bang and Charles strode into the room. His black hair was already streaked with gray and he was not even a quarter-century old. He walked in like he owned the place. Allegra was surprised at how commanding he had become. He had grown into his power and relished it. He enjoyed showing her how easily he had tracked her down. How had they found her? Even with all of her careful preparations? What mistake had she made? Or was the mistake in thinking that she would ever be free of him? That he would ever leave her alone? They were tied to each other. Their bond might fray but it would never break; she was learning that now. There was no hiding from her twin.

  “Unshackle her,” he ordered Kingsley, who quickly removed her cuffs.

  Allegra massaged her wrists angrily.

  “I’ll make this easy for you,” Charles said.

  “How?”

  “I have your familiar.”

  Allegra felt a stab in her heart. So they did have Ben. Of course. There was no doubt that it was part of the plan. Ben was human…. He had no defenses against the vampires. He was no match for them. Allegra could not believe Charles would stoop so low as to threaten a Red Blood. This was against every law they had made. This was unworthy of his power.

  “No you don’t,” Allegra said hotly. “You would never.”

  “It’s up to you, really, what happens to him,” Charles said, his face emotionless. “I don’t care one way or the other.”

  “You would never harm a human being. It is against the Code. The Code that you wrote with your own blood, Michael.”

  Charles bowed his head. When he looked up at her, there were tears in his eyes. He addressed her as she had him, with the names they had been given when the earth and the heavens were made, and they themselves were born into the beauty of the Light. “Gabrielle, this farce has gone on long enough. I know you want to hurt me, and you have. But please. This infatuation is a childish nuisance. End it.”

  She saw what he was seeing: the bitter ruins of their bonding day: Cordelia waiting at the steps of the museum, then Charles, his face white and his hair turning gray in an instant. The hurt was so deep, a devastating blow. The guests horrified and confused—the Coven at arms. Allegra had disappeared—had she been taken? The fear… and then… the shocked understanding of what she had done. She had left him. She had left them. She had turned her back on the Coven.

  “I love him, Michael,” she said. “I would never have left—I could never have done what I did—if I did not. I love him with all of my heart and soul and blood.”

  “You cannot,” Charles said flatly. “You do not know of what you speak. He is beneath you. You have a duty to your bond and your Coven.”
You have a duty to me, he thought but did not say.

  “I love him,” Allegra said. “I love him more than I ever loved you.” Forget the bond, forget the Coven. Allegra was tired of being a queen; she just wanted to be a girl again.

  Charles was impassive. “Love him all you want, Gabrielle. I still love you. I will always love you, and that is all that matters. I will forgive you anything, and I will forgive you this.”

  Allegra felt her stomach twist. She knew he was telling the truth, and she could see how much this was hurting him. She put a hand on his arm. “If you love me, tell me what happened in Florence—what really happened. Why don’t I remember? I know what I did, but there are parts of my memory that are hidden from me, and I can feel you in them, Michael. I can feel your magic inside me. You are hiding my memories from me. You have no right.”

  Charles did not answer. Instead, as he walked out of the room and locked the door, Allegra heard him say softly, “I have every right.”

  It was then that she knew she would never find out the truth of her own history. And while she still believed that under no circumstances would Michael, Pure of Heart—the greatest angel who ever lived—harm a mere human, Allegra was suddenly very, very afraid.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Gatekeeper

  Schuyler flinched as the ladies-in-waiting did their worst. They rouged her cheeks and lips, slicked her hair with hippopotamus oil (a beauty secret that Nefertiti was said to have popularized), then curled it in ringlets and soaked her skin in greasy perfume. They told her to strip down to her underwear and forced her into a lacy white dress with a corset that nipped her waist and had a dangerously low neckline. As threatened, they padded her bustline with a pair of breast-shaped foam cutlets.

  “Work with what we can,” the older woman sneered, tightening the stays until Schuyler felt she couldn’t breathe.

  The younger one brought high-heeled slippers for her to wear. “Remember, it’s better not to fight,” she said kindly. “There’s no getting out of it, so you might as well try to enjoy it.”