Masquerade bb-2

by Мелисса Де Ла Круз

  If what the boy was saying was true, going to the Biennale to look for the Professore was akin to searching for a needle in the middle of a haystack.

  Useless.

  Impossible.

  A million people every year! Which meant there must be thousands upon thousands of people at the exhibit right now. With those odds, she might as well give up immediately.

  Schuyler despaired. She would never find her grandfather now. Whoever he was, wherever he was, he did not want to be found. She wondered why she was even being so forthright with the boy, but she felt she had nothing to lose. There was something in his eyes that made her feel comfortable, safe.

  "I am looking for someone they call the Professore. Lawrence Winslow Van Alen.”

  The boy studied Schuyler coolly as she looked around at the glowing red room. He was tall and slim, with a hawkish nose, jutting cheekbones, and a dash of thick, caramel-blond hair.

  He wore a white silk scarf around his neck, a finely tailored wool jacket, and gold-rimmed aviator frames pushed back on his handsome forehead.

  "One should not seek those who do not wish to be found," he said abruptly.

  "Excuse me?" Schuyler asked, turning to face him, startled by his unexpected reply. But by then the boy had ducked behind a thick black felted curtain and disappeared.

  Schuyler exited the Italian pavilion onto the rough stones of the main promenade, punching Oliver's number into her cell phone as she ran after the boy.

  "You rang?" Oliver asked with comic obsequiousness.

  "There's a boy—tall, blond—looks like a race-car driver. Aviator shades, driving gloves, tweed coat, silk scarf," Schuyler described, panting as she ran.

  "Are you chasing a model? I thought we were looking for your grandfather." Oliver laughed.

  "I was talking to him. I told him the name of my grandfather, then he disappeared. I may be on to something—Hello? Ollie? You there? Hello?" Schuyler shook her cell phone, and noticed she had no bars. Damn. No signal.

  Moving through the garden exhibitions was like being in a time machine. There were Greco-Roman atriums interspersed with bold, clean modernist structures. Buildings were hidden behind long paths and camouflaged in forestry. Schuyler sighed, helpless for a moment.

  But she was not helpless. She could sense him. She saw his silhouette pass behind a reproduction of a Greek theater. He darted through the columns, disappearing in and out of her vision. Schuyler lunged forward, careful to keep her speed in check this time, in case any of the scattering of tourists noticed something odd.

  She spotted the boy dashing through a grove of trees, but was confounded when she arrived at the spot. Before her stood only a building. She moved quickly up the steps and into the structure. Once inside, she understood why she had been confused.

  The interior of the building had been constructed to resemble an exterior patio; trees sprang up through the open roof, making the room appear as if it were outside. Sculptures were dotted throughout the white stone covered courtyard. All around her, she heard voices speaking in Italian, the tour guides' proud declarations the loudest of all.

  Concentrate, she told herself. Listen for him. For his footsteps. She closed her eyes, trying to sense him, trying to zero in on his particular scent, remembering the combination of leather and cologne from his silk scarf, and looking as if he had just exited a fast, shiny new sports car. There! She spotted the boy standing at the far end of the space.

  This time, she was unafraid to use her speed, her strength. She ran so fast she felt as if she were flying, and as before, she was exhilarated by the chase. She was even stronger than when she had chased after the woman who looked like her mother earlier that afternoon, she could feel it. She was going to catch him.

  He was moving farther back into the garden. The buildings gradually became more modern, their shapes almost frightening. She passed through a building made only of glass, its walls etched with words and names. Another was composed of plastic tubes colored brightly and glowing like candy. She saw his shape moving within.

  Inside, the pavilion was dark. A glass floor separated the viewer from the art below. Or at least she assumed it was art. All she could see was a writhing mass of toy robots grinding and climbing over each other endlessly as colored lights flashed in red, blue, and green in the darkness. She sensed movement, and from the corner of her eye, saw the boy's head moving quickly out of the room on the other side.

  "STOP!" She called.

  He looked at her, smiled, and then disappeared again. Schuyler walked back out to the garden path, once again scanning for him among the crowd. Nothing.

  Oh, what was the use?

  She thought for a moment. She tried to imagine Lawrence and where he might be; why he might be drawn to this place. The Biennale.

  Then she remembered the map in her back pocket. She pulled it out and studied the serpentine pathways that connected the pavilions. She felt silly for a second, having not thought of it sooner. She folded up the map and walked swiftly to her new destination.

  Her cell phone rang. Oliver.

  "Sky, where are you? I was worried.”

  "I'm fine," she said, annoyed to be interrupted. "Listen, I'll call you back. I think I know where he is.”

  "Where who is? Schuyler, where are you going?”

  "I'll be fine," Schuyler said impatiently. "Ollie, please don't worry about me. I'm a vampire.”

  She hung up the phone. Minutes later she was standing in front of a small, red brick building. A modest construction compared to the mostly outlandish structures in the exhibit. Its facade was Georgian, Early American, with white painted trim and neatly detailed wrought iron handrails. It was a relic from another time, and the kind of place reminiscent of the early colonial settlements.

  No sooner had she stuffed the map back into her pocket then she saw the boy again. He looked as if he had aged during the chase: his breath was shallow, and his hair was askew.

  He looked startled to find her there. "You again," he said.

  Now was her chance. Cordelia had instructed her, before she had expired in this cycle, that if she ever found Lawrence, or anyone whom she thought would be able to lead her to him, that Schuyler must say the following words.

  She said them now, clearly, and in the most confident voice she could muster.

  Adiuvo Amicus Specialis. Nihilum cello. Meus victus est tui manus."I come to you for aid as a secret, special friend. I have nothing to hide. My life is in your hands.

  He looked into her eyes with an icy stare that could only belong to Schuyler's kind, and her words faded into silence.

  "Dormio," he ordered, and with a wave of his hand, she felt the darkness come upon her as she fainted.

  New York Herald Archives MARCH 15, 1871 ENGAGEMENT BROKEN Lord Burlington and Maggie Stanford Will Not Marry. Maggie Stanford Still Missing.

  THE ENGAGEMENT OF MAGGIE Stanford, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Tiberius and Dorothea Stanford of Newport, and Alfred, Lord Burlington of London and Devonshire, has been broken. The wedding was to have taken place to-day.

  Maggie Stanford mysteriously disappeared on the night of the Patrician Ball—six months prior. Superintendent Campbell has continued to investigate.

  The Stanford family suspects foul play, although no ransom note or sign of kidnapping has yet been discovered. A substantial reward has been offered for any information concerning Maggie Stanford's whereabouts.

  SEVEN

  It was a jewel box of a room, high up on the highest floor of one of the tallest skyscrapers in midtown Manhattan, a building made of glass and chrome, and as Mimi looked out over the magnificent New York skyline, she caught her reflection in the plate glass window and smiled.

  She was wearing a dress. But not just any dress. This was a couture confection of thousands of chiffon rosettes hand-stitched together to create an ethereal, cloudlike elegance. The strapless bodice hugged her tiny twenty-two-inch waist, and her lustrous gold locks spilled over her creamy shoulders an
d toned lower back. It was a six-figure dress, a one-of-a-kind showstopper that only John Galliano could create. And it was hers, at least for one night.

  She was in the celebrity dressing department at Christian Dior. An exclusive showroom that was by invitation only. All around the racks that surrounded Mimi were dresses flown straight from the Paris runways—samples that only models and model-thin socialites could ever dream of wearing.

  Here was the Dior that Nicole Kidman wore to the Oscars, there was the gown Charlize Theron wore to the Golden Globes.

  "Stunning," the Dior publicist pronounced with a quick nod of her head. “Absolutely, this is the one.”

  Mimi took a flute of champagne from the silver tray proffered by a white-gloved servant.

  "Perhaps," she acknowledged, knowing that with the dress's fifty foot-long train, she would cause a commotion when she entered the party.

  Then Bliss appeared in the doorway.

  Mimi had invited her friend to join her, thinking it would be fun to have an audience watch her try on dresses. Mimi liked nothing more than to have a fawning friend envy her good looks and social privileges. She hadn't expected the publicist at Christian Dior to fall over herself and encourage Bliss to borrow a dress as well. But ever since Bliss had been signed by the Farnsworth Modeling Agency, and her face and figure had been emblazoned all over town in the "Stitched for Civilization" jeans advertising campaign that she had starred in with Schuyler Van Alen, the little Texas rose had become a bona fide New York celebrity—a fact Mimi had yet to forgive. Bliss had even been chosen as Vogue's "Girl of the Moment," and there were Web sites devoted to her every move. Mimi had to face the awful truth: her friend was famous.

  "You guys—what do you think of this?" Bliss asked. Mimi and the publicist turned.

  Mimi's smile faded. The publicist ran over to Bliss Lwelleyn's side.

  "Gorgeous!" she declared. "I only wish John were here to see you in it.”

  Bliss was wearing a plush velvet dress of the darkest green almost black that dramatically offset her cascading reddish-gold curls. Her pale, ivory complexion looked almost translucent against the deep rich, dark jeweled color of the gown. It had a plunging, outrageously low neckline, cut from collarbone to belly button, revealing a generous amount of cleavage but stopping short of anything obscene. The bodice was embroidered with a thousand Swarovski crystals that twinkled against the fabric like stars in the night sky. It was a fantastic, entrance-making dress, the kind of dress that propelled unknown actresses into A-list movie stars, a contender against Elizabeth Hurley's famed Versace safety pins.

  "I like it." Bliss nodded. She towered over Mimi in her jeweled stilettos, and the two of them looked at themselves in the mirror.

  Against Bliss's severe yet sexy gown, Mimi in her pale-pink rosettes suddenly looked inconsequential, and Mimi's smile withered underneath the lights as Bliss twirled and danced around the room.

  "It only looks heavy," Bliss said, lifting the hem. "But it's so light.”

  "It's made from Venetian silk—some of the best in the world," the Dior rep explained.

  "Ten Belgian nuns went blind making it," she joked. "So girls, I suppose we're all set?”

  Mimi shook her head. There was no way in hell she would allow Bliss to steal the spotlight—her night—away from her. She had her heart set on being the single most beautiful girl in the room, and there was no way she would be able to do that if Bliss upstaged her in that insanely opulent gown.

  Visiting the celebrity dressing department had been her idea, but now Mimi had to opt for Plan B. She wouldn't be content with a gown from the runway—she had to have a gown custommade and designed for herself only, by the master. Balenciaga.

  They left the showroom and crossed the street to grab a quick lunch at Fred's, the restaurant on the top floor of Barneys. The hostess seated them immediately in a comfy, four-person booth near the window, where they could be seen by the tony crowd. Mimi noted Brannon Frost, the Blue Blood editor in chief of Chic, seated across from them with her fourteen-year-old daughter, Willow, a freshman at Duchesne.

  Bliss's color was high and her face glowed happily. She was still talking about the dress.

  "Yeah, totally, it looked great on you," Mimi said in a flat voice.

  Her friend's smile wavered, and Bliss swallowed a gulp of water to camouflage her disappointment. Mimi's disinterest was a cue that all discussion about Bliss's ball gown was now over. Bliss quickly regrouped. "But yours was ah-ma-zing. Pink is so your color.”

  Mimi shrugged. "I don't know. I think I'm going to look somewhere else. Dior is so outré, don't you think? De trop, as they say. A little over the top. But of course, if that's what you're looking for, it's fabulous." She said condescendingly as she paged through the leather-bound menu.

  "So where do you think you'll go?" Bliss asked, trying not to feel the sting of Mimi's little barbs. She knew she had looked great in that dress, and that Mimi was just jealous—Mimi was always that way. The last time they went shopping, they had both found a gorgeous baby-lamb fur coat at Intermix, a trendy downtown boutique. Mimi had allowed Bliss to buy it, but only after she'd disparaged wearing fur. "But you go ahead, dear. I know some people don't care about the suffering of tiny little animals." In the end, Bliss had purchased the coat, but she had yet to wear it. Score one for Mimi Force.

  The bitch was just green-eyed with envy. I rocked that dress, Bliss thought, then immediately felt ashamed to be thinking of her friend that way. Was Mimi really jealous? What did the beautiful Mimi Force have to be jealous about, ever? Her life was like, perfect. Maybe Bliss was reading too much into her reaction. Maybe Mimi was right—maybe the dress was too much.

  Maybe she shouldn't wear it after all. If only someone else had been with her at the showroom, someone like Schuyler, whom Bliss knew would be able to offer an honest opinion. Schuyler didn't even realize how pretty she was; she was always hiding in those bag-lady layers of hers.

  "I don't know where I'm going to find a ball dress," Mimi said airily. "But I'm sure I'll find something." She wasn't about to share the ace up her sleeve this time. God help her if Bliss got the same idea to ask the Balenciaga designer to make her a ball dress as well.

  The waiter arrived and took their orders, two steak au poivres. Rare.

  "Bloody." Mimi smiled, showing just a hint of her fangs so that the waiter did a double take.

  "Raw," Bliss joked, handing back the menu, although she wasn't really kidding.

  "Anyway," Mimi said, taking a sip of water and looking around the lively restaurant to see if anyone was looking at her. Yes. Several women—tourists, by the looks of their pastel cardigans and eighties-era scrunchies—seated in Siberia, were whispering and talking about her.

  "That's Mimi Force. You know, Force News? Her dad's that gazillionaire? There was a story about her in last week's Styles. She's like, the new Paris Hilton.”

  "As I was saying, it's not really about the dress. It's about a date," Mimi said.

  “A date?" Bliss gagged. "I didn't know we had to find dates for this thing.”

  Mimi laughed. "Of course you need a date, silly. It's a ball.”

  "So who are you taking?”

  "Jack, of course," Mimi replied promptly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  "Your brother?" Bliss asked, shocked. "Um, like, ew?"

  "It's a family thing," Mimi huffed. "Twins always go as each other's dates. And besides, it's not like…”

  "It's not like?" Bliss prodded.

  Mimi had been meaning to say, It's not like he's really my brother, but this was neither the time nor place to explain their complicated and immortal romantic history and the bond between them. Bliss wouldn't understand. She didn't have full control of her memories yet and would not be coming out at the ball until next year.

  "Nothing," Mimi said, as their entrees were set before them. "Ooh. I think this one is still breathing." She smiled as she cut into her steak, releasing a river of red bloo
d on the immaculate white plate.

  A date, Bliss thought. A date for the Four Hundred Ball. Bliss knew there was only one guy in the world she wanted as an escort.

  "So what about you? Maybe you can take Jaime Kip," Mimi suggested. "He's totally hot and so available." Actually, Jaime Kip had a girlfriend, but since she was a Red Blood, in Mimi's mind she didn't count.

  "Listen, Mimi, I need to tell you something," Bliss whispered. She hadn't meant to confide in Mimi, but she couldn't keep her thoughts and hopes to herself any longer. Especially since they were talking about boys.

  Mimi raised an eyebrow "Go on.”

  "I think Dylan is alive," Bliss said, explaining in an almost incoherent rush how she had found herself half drowned in the Central Park lake, only to be rescued by a boy a boy whose face she never saw, but whose voice had been only too familiar.

  Mimi looked pityingly on her friend. Through her father, Mimi had heard what had happened. Dylan had been attacked and killed by a Silver Blood. There had been no hope for his survival. They had never found his body, but Bliss's testimony to The Committee about the tragic evening had spelled out his fate loud and clear.

  "Bliss, darling, I think that's really sweet how you think this guy, your so-called `savior,' was Dylan. But there's no way. You know as well as I do that…”

  "That what?" Bliss asked defensively.

  "That Dylan's dead.”

  The words hung in the air between them.

  "And he's never coming back, Bliss. Ever." Mimi sighed and put down her knife and fork.

  "So let's get serious. Do you want me to set you up? I think Jaime Kip is such a hottie.”

  EIGHT

  When Schuyler woke up, she was lying in an enormous king-size bed in the middle of a vast room furnished in what can only be described as Early Medieval Royalty. An immense and foreboding tapestry depicting the death of a unicorn decorated the far wall, a gargantuan gold chandelier lit with a hundred dripping candles hung from the ceiling, and the bed itself was piled with all manner of thick and woolly animal pelts. The whole place conveyed a brutal, primitive elegance.