"Dylan Ward has been taken care of. There's no need to worry about him anymore," he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "He is perfectly safe. Nothing will happen to him. The police made a regrettable mistake. He's free. Your father could have told you that," he sniffed. "He helped with the paperwork for the release."
Bliss was momentarily shocked into silence. She hadn't realized it would be so easy. "What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I said, the matter has been resolved," he said shortly. "There's no need to worry, I assure you. Now, please, I am late for my lunch."
Bliss and Schuyler exchanged uneasy looks.
"But what about the Silver Bloods? What about what they're doing to us? We know about Croatan!" Schuyler accused.
"Please, don't bother me with Cordelia Van Alen's pitiful fairy tales. I refuse to even discuss it. I've said it before and I'll say it again. There is no such thing as Croatan," he said, a finality to his tone. "Now, I suggest you girls go back to school, where you belong."
CHAPTER 38
The Carlyle Hotel was an understated, elegant hotel on Madison Avenue in the style of a grand English manor. It was one of those hotels that whispered luxury with an intimidating Old Money sang-froid. Even the air-conditioning was always a frosty sixty-six degrees. When Schuyler was little, her grandmother would to take her to the Bemelmans Bar for Shirley Temples. Cordelia would sit at the bar and smoke, drinking one Sazerac after another, and Schuyler would sit quietly, looking at the frolicking animals on the mural and counting the many ladies who came in wearing hats and corsages. Then, afterward, they would repair to the main dining room to tuck into a five-course French meal. On the days when Cordelia declared she'd had "just enough" of the Riverside Drive house, they would repair to a two-bedroom apartment suite at the Carlyle for the weekend. Schuyler would order strawberries and cream from room service, fill up the whirlpool bath, and eat her nutritiously deficient dinner amid the bubbles.
When Schuyler walked into the white marble lobby that evening, she felt at home in the hushed surroundings. She put painful thoughts of Jack Force and the humiliating encounter with his father out of her mind. Bliss had asked her and Oliver to meet her there that evening without explaining why. Oliver was already waiting in a secluded corner of the bar.
"Manhattan?" he asked, motioning to his drink. "Sure." She nodded.
A discreet waiter arrived bearing a silver tray and her cocktail. He placed a silver bowl of warm Spanish almonds on their table.
Schuyler picked one and munched on it thoughtfully. "God, do they have the best nuts here or what?"
"There's nothing like an Upper East Side hotel." Oliver nodded sagely, taking a handful. "We should do a New York hotel bar-nut tour. Compare the Regency's nuts to the Carlyle's to the St. Regis."
"Mmmmm… the Regency has a great selection. They do this little appetizer thing, with three different kinds of treats—wasabi peas, warm nuts, and some kind of peppery cracker," Schuyler said. The Regency was another of Cordelia's favorite haunts.
They emptied their glasses and ordered another. After a few minutes, Bliss ran into the bar, her hair still wet from a shower. She took a seat next to Schuyler and across from Oliver. "Hey, guys. Thanks for meeting me."
"Manhattan?"
"Sure."
The three of them clinked drinks.
"Mmm… these nuts are good," Bliss said, popping a few into her mouth.
Oliver and Schuyler laughed.
"What's so funny?"
"Nothing. I'll tell you later, it's not important," Schuyler said.
Bliss raised an eyebrow. The two of them were like that all the time. Inside jokes, memories of their friendship she didn't share. It was amazing that Dylan had put up with it.
"C'mon, what's happened? Why did you want to meet here?" Schuyler asked.
"He's here."
"Who?" Oliver asked.
"Who else? Dylan." Bliss replied. She told them what she found out from her father—that Dylan had been released— but he wasn't exactly as free as Charles Force had told them. Instead, he had been put into protective custody in a suite at the Carlyle Hotel. The judge had allowed Charles Force to bail him out, on the condition that Dylan be released only to his care. Her father said it was all a misunderstanding, and the charges would be dropped soon enough. But they still couldn't figure out why Dylan was being held anyway, especially by Charles Force.
"And I overheard my dad and Charles talking, about how 'they take care of their own' and 'not to let the situation get out of hand. “
"Wonder what he meant by that?" Schuyler asked, taking another almond from the bowl.
Bliss took a long swig from her cocktail. "Anyway, the way I see it, we just do what Oliver said. Bust him out. We can't fail. Use mind control to overwhelm the guards— Schuyler told me she had done it before—then speed him out of there, and Ollie's the lookout. They're holding him in Room 1001."
“Just like that?" Oliver asked.
"Yeah, why not? You're the one who told us to think like Blue Bloods."
"But how do we get upstairs in the first place? Don't you need to be a guest?" Oliver asked.
"Actually," Schuyler piped up, "that's the easiest part. Cordelia and I used to stay here all the time. I know the elevator guys."
"Well then, let's get the show on the road," Oliver said, raising his hand for the check.
They walked out to the main lobby toward the guarded elevator. "Hey, Marty," Schuyler said, smiling at the elevator man in his shiny red coat with brass buttons.
"Hi, Miss Schuyler, you haven't been here in a while," he said, tipping his hat.
"I know, it's been too long," Schuyler said smoothly, ushering in her friends into the mirrored elevator.
"Twelfth floor?" Marty asked genially.
"No, they uh, put us on ten this time. You guys must be booked."
"It's October," he explained. "Lots of tourists. Some show at the Met or something." He pressed the TEN and took a step back, smiling at Schuyler and her friends.
"Thanks, Marty, see you around!" Schuyler said, when the doors opened.
They walked toward the end of the hallway to the room, but when they arrived at Room 1001, there were no guards stationed at the front of the room.
"That's weird," Bliss said. "I heard my dad saying they've got like, all these cops around him all the time."
Schuyler was about to pulverize the lock, when she noticed something. The door was ajar. She pushed it open. She glanced over her shoulder to find Bliss and Oliver giving her puzzled looks. They had come prepared for battle, and yet there was no obstacle to their progress.
Schuyler entered the room, Bliss immediately behind her.
"Dylan?" Bliss called.
They entered the plush, carpeted room, where the television was still blaring. There was a room service tray with remnants of a steak dinner on its plate, the silver covers haphazardly stacked to the side. An unmade bed and towels on the floor.
"Are you sure they said 1001?" Schuyler asked. "Completely." Bliss nodded.
"What do you think happened?" Oliver asked, looking around and taking the remote control. He switched off the television.
"Dylan's gone," Bliss said flatly. She remembered what Charles Force had told her. He was being taken care of— whatever that meant. She felt a chill. Had they arrived too late to save him?
"He's escaped." Oliver nodded.
"Or someone, or something, let him go." Schuyler said. Bliss was silent, her face inscrutable as she looked at the half-eaten meal.
Schuyler placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. "I'm sure wherever he is, he's all right. Dylan's tough," she told her friend. "Now, come on, let's get out of here before someone thinks we let him out."
CHAPTER 39
It came upon her without warning. Schuyler cursed her pride. It was all her fault. Oliver had offered to put her in a cab, but since she already owed him so much money, she had declined. Conduit or not, she didn't want to keep taking
advantage of his generosity. He and Bliss lived a few blocks away from the Carlyle and she told them she was fine with taking the crosstown bus. The M72 dropped her off at 72nd and Broadway, and she decided to walk the rest of the way home. It was more than twenty blocks, but she looked forward to the exercise.
At the corner of Ninety-fifth Street, she turned from the well-lit avenue to a dark street, hoping to walk up Riverside, and that's when she felt it.
Within seconds, it had her in her grasp. She felt the sharp fangs puncture her skin and begin to slowly draw her life's blood from her. She swooned, gasping. She was going to die.
She was fifteen years old and had hardly even lived, and already she was going to die. She struggled against its iron grip. Worse, knowing what her grandmother had told her, she would live. She would live in this foul beast's memory, a trapped prisoner to its insane consciousness forever.
Beauty. Where was Beauty? The bloodhound would be too late to save her now.
The pain was deep; she was feeling dizzy from the blood loss. But just before she succumbed, there was a shout.
A struggle.
Someone was fighting the beast. The Silver Blood was releasing her. She turned, holding her neck to stop the blood flow, to see who had saved her.
Jack Force was trapped in a power struggle with the fell creature, locked in a tremendous fight. It was hulking and large, with shining silver hair and a man's form. But Jack was fighting it.
He matched the Silver Blood blow for blow, but at last, the Silver Blood threw him off, slamming Jack's body against the concrete.
"Jack!" Schuyler screamed. She looked up, and as the monster lunged for her throat, Schuyler remembered her grandmother's words. The laws of heaven meant that any creature was a slave to the Sacred Language.
She held it back with a powerful command: "Aperio Oris!" Reveal yourself!
The Silver Blood cackled in laughter, and hissed in a terrible voice that rasped with the agony of a thousand screaming souls, "You cannot command me, earthspawn!"
The creature continued its menacing march toward her.
"Aperio Oris!" Schuyler shouted again, more forcefully this time.
Jack staggered backward, for in the moment that Schuyler had summoned the incantation, the sacred words that she had learned, the monster had shown them his real face.
It was a face that Jack would never forget.
The beast howled in dismay, screeching a wretched, terrible scream, then disappeared into the night.
“Are you all right?" Schuyler asked, rushing to his side. "You're bleeding."
"It's just a cut," he said, wiping the blood, which had run red, but was blue in the light. "I'm okay. Are you?"
She felt the side of her neck. The bleeding had stopped. "How did you know?" she asked.
"That it would attack you? Because it had once before, so I knew it would do it again. Killers tend to go back and finish what they started."
"But why—"
"I didn't want to see you get hurt because of me," Jack explained brusquely.
Is that all? Schuyler wondered.
"Thank you," she said softly.
"Did you see it?" Jack asked. "Did you?"
"Yes." She nodded. "I did."
"It can't be right," Jack said. "It's a trick." He shook his head. "I don't believe it."
"It's not. It has to follow the laws." Schuyler said gently.
"I know about the Sacred Language," Jack snapped. "But it has to be a mistake."
"No mistake. Those are the rules of creation."
Jack glowered. "No."
The monster had shown itself for one brief moment, when it had no choice but to obey Schuyler's words. The monster had shown its true form. And it was the face of the authority behind New York, the face of the man who single-handedly changed the city to bend to his will.
The face of Charles Force.
His own father.
CHAPTER 40
Schuyler told Jack everything she'd put together, hoping that it wasn't true. "It's him. He was there on the night Aggie died. I saw him at the basement of The Bank. He was coming out of the Repository. I remember now. It puts him in the scene of the crime. It was him, Jack."
Jack shook his head.
"You can't deny what you saw. It was your father's face."
"You're wrong. It's a trick of the light, something else." He kept shaking his head and staring down at the blood on the sidewalk.
"Listen to me. Jack, we have to find him. My grandmother said Silver Bloods don't even know what they are. Your father might not even realize he's been possessed."
Jack didn't argue this time.
She put a hand on his arm. "Where is he?"
"Where he always is. The hospital."
"What do you mean? What hospital?"
"Columbia Pres, but I don't know what room. I don't know what he does up there. Only that he visits someone there a lot." Jack said. "Why?"
"I think I might know where we can find him," Schuyler said.
Schuyler felt dire trepidation as they shared a taxicab up to hospital, but she tried to suppress it. When they arrived at the complex, the guards joked about her «boyfriend» as they gave Jack a visitor's tag.
"Who's here? Where are we going?" he asked, as he followed her swiftly down the hallway.
"My mother," Schuyler said. "You'll see."
"Your mother? I thought your mother was dead."
“She might as well be," Schuyler said grimly.
She led him down the empty hallways to the corner room. She looked through the glass window and motioned for Jack to do the same.
There was a man there, kneeling at the foot of the bed. The same mysterious visitor who came every Sunday, whom Schuyler had seen more than once in her mother's room. So that was why Charles Force had looked so familiar to her at Aggie's funeral. Now she recognized the set of the shoulders. He was the man in the basement of The Bank, and the beast who had just attacked her. The dark stranger wasn't her father after all, but a Silver Blood. A monster. She felt a furious rage—what if Charles Force had had something to do with her mother's condition? What had he done to her?
"Father," Jack said as he entered the room. He stopped and stared when he saw the face of the woman in the bed. The woman in his dreams. Allegra Van Alen.
Charles looked up and saw Schuyler and Jack standing in front of him. "I thought we had put an end to this," he said, frowning at the two of them together.
"Where were you half an hour ago?" Schuyler demanded. "Here."
"Liar," Schuyler accused. "CROATAN!"
Charles raised his eyebrows. "Should I be insulted? Please lower your voice. Show some respect for your surroundings. We're in a hospital, not at a wrestling match."
"It's you, Father. We saw you." Jack said. He still couldn't believe Allegra was still alive. But what was she doing in a hospital?
"What exactly are you both accusing me of?"
"Where did you get those scratches?" Jack demanded, noticing the cuts on his father's face.
"Your mother's confounded Persian," Charles growled.
"I don't think so," Schuyler scoffed.
"What is this all about?" Charles demanded. "Why are the two of you here?"
"You attacked Schuyler. I held you off. It was you, I saw you… Schuyler said the words, and my foe revealed its face. And it was yours."
"Is this what you believe?"
"Yes."
"Your grandmother is right, Schuyler," Charles said in a bemused tone. "Times have certainly changed if my own son thinks I am Abomination. That is what you're calling me, isn't it, Jack?" he asked, as he pulled down his shirt cuff and showed them a mark on the underhand of his right wrist. It was of a sword, a golden sword piercing a cloud.
"What is it? Why are you showing us this?" Schuyler asked.
"The mark of the Archangel," Jack explained, his voice reverent. He forgot about his confusion concerning Allegra Van Alen for a moment, and dropped to his knees, prostrati
ng himself in front of his father's feet.
"Precisely," Charles said with a thin smile.
"What does it mean?" Schuyler asked.
"It means, my father is no more a Silver Blood than you or I," Jack explained, his voice rising. "The mark of the Archangel. It can't be duplicated and it can't be falsified. My father is Michael, Pure of Heart, who voluntarily accompanied the banished onto the earth to guide us in our immortal journey." He bowed to his father. "Forgive me. I have been lost, but now I am found."
"Rise, my son. There is nothing to forgive."
Schuyler looked from father to son with questioning eyes. "But I used the Sacred Language. The incantation to reveal its true nature."
"Silver Bloods are agile shape-shifters," Charles explained. "It would follow your command—but only after showing you something it knew would throw you off, to shock you. Only afterward would it show its true identity. But only for the briefest moment."
"So if your father isn't the Silver Blood, then who is?" Schuyler asked suspiciously. "And where's Dylan?"
"He's safe. For now. Hidden. He won't harm anyone else anymore," Charles said. "Tomorrow he will be far away."
"What do you mean, harm anyone?" Schuyler asked.
"He had the bites on his neck. He was being used. Turned."
"Into what? What are you talking about?"
"Dylan's a Blue Blood," Charles said shortly. "At least, he was. I thought you knew that."
Schuyler shook her head. Dylan was a vampire? But then that meant—that meant he could have killed Aggie—that meant that everything they thought, everything they assumed could no longer be true. Dylan wasn't human. Which meant there was a chance he wasn't innocent.
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