Schuyler felt a heaviness as the force of the alienari settled in … she was about to succumb; so much easier to surrender rather than to fight…she felt herself weakening under its hold…What would be left of her if he succeeded? She thought of her mother, alive but not alive, would that be her fate? She was woozy on her feet, swaying; it would be over soon. But then she found something in the dark effluvium—like a tail, the tail of the glom—and she was able to isolate the signal, able to figure out which part was trying to control her, and she twisted it around, like wrestling an alligator—flipped it on its head—and soon she was taking over, and she was bending it to her will, and—
Dylan is screaming—he is the one in pain—he is the one backed up against the wall, unable to move while her mind holds his in her grasp. She can feel it, can feel her dominance taking over, greedily exulting over its triumph. She is squeezing him—his entire being—with her mind. It is like a vise—
She is killing him…
Soon he will no longer be himself…but an extension of her will…
Until…
"SCHUYLER! STOP!"
"DON'T!"
"SCHUYLER!" A roar.
Her name. Someone was calling her name. Oliver. Telling her to stop.
Schuyler released her hold, but not completely. She was still holding out her hand, and twenty feet away, Dylan was pinned to a wall. Held there by her mind. He was gurgling. He couldn't breathe.
"PLEASE!" It was a girl's voice this time. Bliss.
There. She let go.
Dylan sagged to the ground.
Blissran as fast as she could. She had seen the whole thing. She was in the cab and she'd seen it alclass="underline" Schuyler's jump, Dylan coming after, the chase, the reversal. She'd witnessed Dylan's anguish and Schuyler's mastery.
Oh God, don't let her have killed him.
"Dylan!" Bliss kneeled by his side. He lay facedown on the sidewalk, so she turned him over gently and took him in her arms. He was so thin…just skin and bones underneath a T-shirt. She held him tenderly like a baby bird. He was damaged and pathetic, but he was hers. Tears streamed down her cheeks. "Dylan!"
When she'd arrived home after her go-see appointment and he wasn't there to meet her as they'd planned, she'd known immediately that something was wrong. She called Oliver and told him to meet her at the Perry Street apartment building as soon as he could. Dylan had been saying all along he was going to do something, and now he had. Luckily, Bliss knew where to find him because she knew Schuyler's secret and where she was going to be that night.
Dylan opened his eyes. He recoiled when he saw Bliss, and then turned to Schuyler and snarled in a deep, booming rumble, "Argento Croatus!"
"Are you insane?" Schuyler asked, Oliver standing by protectively. She couldn't believe her ears. Dylan had just called her a Silver Blood. What was going on? What had happened to him? Why did his voice sound like that?
"Dylan, stop it. Sky—he doesn't know what he's talking about," Bliss said nervously. "Dylan, please, you're not making sense."
Dylan spaced out, his pupils dilating rapidly as if a flashlight were shining in his eyes. Then he started laughing in a high-pitched squeal.
"You've known he was back and you didn't tell me," Schuyler said, and the accusation hung in the air between them.
"Yes." Bliss took a sharp breath. "I didn't want to tell you because…" Because you would tell the Conclave. You would have them take him away. And yes, he's changed. He's different. He's not the same. Something awful and unspeakable has happened to him. But I still love him. You understand, don't you? You, who wait in an apartment for a boy who does not arrive.
Schuyler nodded. The two of them understood each other without speaking. It was the vampire way.
"Still, he can't be like this; we've got to get him help." Schuyler moved closer to the two of them.
"Don't touch me," Dylan snarled. Suddenly, he leaped to his feet and grabbed Bliss by the throat, his bony fingers pressing violently on her pale neck.
"If you're not going to help me, then you're one of them," he said menacingly, tightening his grip.
Bliss began to cry. "Dylan…don't."
Schuyler lunged toward Dylan, but Oliver restrained her. "Wait," he said. "Wait—I can't let you get hurt again…"
Meanwhile, Dylan pushed Bliss further and further with his mind, his fury relentless, his power only more frightening in its recklessness. Bliss dropped to her knees. There would be no telepathic gymnastics on her part.
Now it was Schuyler's turn to scream. Schuyler's turn to beg him to stop.
Dylan took no notice of them, and stroked Bliss's cheek with his other hand. He leaned in, his mouth on her neck. Schuyler could see his fangs appear. They were about to draw blood.
"No…Dylan…please," Bliss whispered. "No…"
"Let me go." Schuyler shook Oliver off her. Bliss watched as her friend frantically prepared an incantation that would break Dylan's hold.
But just before Schuyler could send the coercion, Dylan's shoulders shook and he sank to the ground of his own volition, abruptly releasing his victim. Bliss crumpled to the floor, violet imprints from his fingers blooming on her neck.
Dylan put his head between his knees and sobbed.
"What the hell just happened?" he cried, and finally his was a voice Bliss recognized. For the first time that evening, Dylan sounded like himself.
"Try it," Mimi said, holding a spoon on which a gelatinous mound quivered. "It's delicious."
Her brother looked suspiciously at the appetizer. Gelйe of sea urchin with foamed asparagus did not sound good. But he took a bite manfully.
"See?" Mimi smiled.
"Not bad." Jack nodded. She was right as always.
They were seated in a private banquette in a restaurant located in the gleaming Time Warner Center. A restaurant that was, for the time being, the most expensive and most celebrated restaurant in Manhattan. Getting a reservation at Per Se was akin to getting an audience with the pope. Near impossible. But that's what Daddy's secretaries were for.
Mimi liked the new mall, as she called it. It was shiny and glossy and slick, just like the Force Tower. It smelled thrillingly expensive, like a new Mercedes. The building and everything in it was a paean to capitalism and money. You couldn't spend less than five hundred dollars for a meal for two at any of its four-star restaurants. This was post-boom, seven-figure-bonus New York, the New York of financiers and ready-made billionaires, the New York of brash hedge-fund jockeys with shellacked trophy wives flaunting their liposculpted physiques and couture hair extensions.
Jack, of course, hated it. Jack preferred a city that he had never even experienced. He waxed nostalgic about the legendary days of the Village, when anyone from Jackson Pollock to Dylan Thomas could be found wandering the cobblestoned streets. He liked grit and dirt and a Times Square that was known for its hustlers and three-card-monte dealers and underground juice bars (since strip clubs couldn't serve alcohol). He couldn't stomach a New York that had been taken over by the likes of Jamba Juice, Pinkberry, and Cold Stone.
He had been prepared to despise the precious, sixteen-table restaurant in the middle of what was essentially a shopping mall. But as each course appeared—caviar and oyster sabayon, white truffles generously grated over slippery tagliatelle noodles, marrow over the richest Kobe beef—Mimi could see he was beginning to change his mind. Each dish consisted of a mere handful of bites, just enough to excite the senses and leave them panting for the next gourmet fix.