"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.
"But he was never at any meetings," Schuyler said weakly.
Charles smiled. "They are not mandatory. You can learn about your history or choose to ignore it. Dylan chose to ignore it. To his detriment. The Silver Bloods only attack the weak-minded. They are drawn to those that are broken, damaged somehow. They sensed Dylan's weakness and preyed on it. Dylan, in turn, preyed on others."
"So then it was him. He killed Aggie?"
"It is unfortunate what happened with Aggie, yes. We have discovered that Dylan had been drained of almost all his blood in the original attack, but the Silver Blood decided not to consume him totally and turned him into one of them instead. To survive, he had to take a victim of his own," Charles explained. "I am sorry."
Schuyler was speechless for a moment. All along, all along they had thought he was their friend. Dylan, a vampire… worse, a Silver Blood's pawn. It was horrifying. "So, Silver Bloods do exist. You admit that they have returned."
"I admit nothing," Charles declared haughtily. "There could be other explanations for his actions. Dylan could still be acting on his own. It does happen once in a while. Dementia. The Sunset Years are volatile ones for our kind. He could have faked the marks on his neck. We must investigate through the proper channels. If he has been corrupted, there is still a chance to save his soul. For now we have placed him and his parents in a safe location."
"But you can't do this. Cover it up. You must warn everybody. You must."
"Just like your grandmother, you are," Charles said. "A pity. Your mother was not a hysterical woman." He looked tenderly down at Allegra and lowered his voice. "The Conclave will take care of it. We will act in time."
"Yet in Plymouth, you did nothing," Schuyler accused. "Roanoke—they were all taken, yet you did nothing."
"And the deaths stopped," Charles said coldly. "If we had frightened everyone, if we had continued to run, as your grandparents advised, we would never be where we are now. We would be hiding forever, afraid of a shadow that may not exist."
"But Aggie—and the girl from Connecticut and the Choate boy," Schuyler argued. "What about them?"
Charles sighed. "Unfortunate losses, all of them, yes."
Schuyler couldn't believe what she was hearing. Talking about people as if their lives were expendable.
"We will clear this all up in time, I assure you," Charles said. "We won the battle in Rome. The Silver Bloods are all but destroyed."
"My grandmother said that one of them lived, that one of them was able to hide among us… that the most powerful Silver Blood may still be alive," Schuyler said, walking around her mother's bed to face Charles head-on.
"Cordelia has always said that. She persists in saying that. She is mistaken. I was there. I was there at the battle at the temple. Listen to me closely, both of you, because I do not want to repeat this again—I sent Lucifer himself to the fires of hell," Charles declared.
Schuyler was subdued and silent.
"Now, let us leave your mother in peace," Charles ordered. He knelt down again and kissed Allegra's cold hand.
"But there is one thing," Schuyler suddenly remembered. "Dylan."
"Yes?" Charles asked.
"Where is he?"
"At the Carlyle Hotel. I told you, he is safe."
"No, he's not. He's not at the Carlyle anymore. I was just there. He's gone." Schuyler told them what they had found—the television blaring, the half-eaten dinner. "I think he was the one who attacked me."
For a long moment, nothing was said. Charles looked at Schuyler wrathfully. "If what you are saying is true, we must find him. Immediately."
CHAPTER 41
She was screaming, screaming so loudly, as if no one would ever hear her. It was the nightmare again—someone taking hold of her squeezing the breath out of her— and nothing she could do to stop it—she was gagging she was drowning and then—fighting against the force that was holding her down, she struggled, trying to wake up, forcing herself to push herself out of bed—she had to open her eyes—she had to see—she saw.
She saw the two of them looking at her. Her parents. Her father was wearing his flannel robe over his pajamas, and her stepmother had a peignoir over a nightgown.
"Bliss, darling, are you all right?" her father asked. He was home from D.C. for the week.
"I had a nightmare," Bliss said, sitting upright and tossing the covers to the side. She put a hand up to her forehead, feeling the heat emanate from her skin. She was burning and feverish.
"Another one?" her stepmother asked.
"A bad one."
"It's all part of it, Bliss. Nothing to worry about," her father said cheerfully. "I remember when I was your age, I used to have awful ones. Comes with the territory. Blackouts too—when I was fifteen, a lot of times I'd wake up somewhere and have no idea how I got there, and no idea what happened." He shrugged. "Part of the transformation."
Bliss nodded, accepting the cold glass of water her stepmother proffered. She gulped greedily. Her father had mentioned that before, when she'd first told him about the time slips, her blackouts.
"I'm okay," she told them, although she felt so tired, like every muscle in her body was sore, as if she'd been pummeled and beaten up all over. She groaned.
They hovered over her anxiously.
"I'm all right. Really." Bliss managed a smile and took another huge gulp of water. "You guys go back to bed. I'm fine."
Her father kissed her on her forehead, and her mother patted her arm, and the two of them left the room.
She put the glass down on her bedside table. Then she remembered—Dylan.
After saying good-bye to Oliver and Schuyler at the Carlyle, she had met her family for a quick dinner at DB Bistro. Upon returning home, she had opened the door to her room, and Dylan was sitting on her bed, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. He'd used the key she'd lent him to get inside.
"Dylan!"
He was feverish and pale. He'd taken off his jacket and she saw that his T-shirt and jeans were torn. His dark hair was matted against his forehead. He looked spooked. Terrified. His eyes were haunted. He told her what happened—being questioned, and held, but not formally charged, how Charles Force had taken him to the hotel suite, and the whole time he was just thinking about how he missed her.
"But the thing is, I think I did do something," he said. His hands were shaking. "I think they were right. I think I killed Aggie. I'm not sure, but I think there's something wrong with me."
"Dylan no. No way. You couldn't have," Bliss said.
"You don't understand," Dylan cried. "I'm a vampire. Like you, a Blue Blood."