THE VAN ALEN LEGACY
Blue Bloods Series, Book 4
Melissa de la Cruz
For my mom, Ching de la Cruz, who always said Blue Bloods would be “the one”
And for Mike and Mattie, always
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Blue Bloods books are the most fun and rewarding books to write, and I wouldn’t be able to write them without the help, love, support, patience, and devotion of many people.
First off , thank you to my husband, Mike Johnston, for reading all the same books I did as a teen. My name is on the front cover, but these books are ours together, in every possible way. Thank you to Mattie for being the light of our lives. None of this would mean anything without the two of you, but you guys already know that.
Thank you to my lovely editor, Jennifer Besser, for being such a champion of the books and for gasping on the phone about the Bliss chapters. Yay! And thank you to everyone at Hyperion: Go, team! Thank you to Jennifer Corcoran for the fabulous publicity, Nellie Kurtzman and Ann Dye for the awesome marketing plans, Elizabeth Clark for the gorgeous covers, and Jonathan Yaged for the faith, Simon Tasker and Dave Epstein from the sales force (a true force to behold!). Thank you to my agent, Richard Abate, for keeping me focused and for the above-and-beyond handholding. Thank you to Elizabeth Yates, Melissa Myers, and Richie Kern at Endeavor, and Kate Lee and Larissa Silva at ICM.
Thank you to my mom, to whom this book is dedicated, especially for saying, ‘the books are so exciting. I forget that you had written them?” Now THAT’s a compliment from your mom! Thank you also to the rest of my wonderful, fabulous, and infinitely supportive family: Pop, Aina, Steve, Nicholas, Joseph, Chit, Christina (most of whom run the promotion/Web/fan mail side of the business with a lot of good humor and ideas).
Also thanks to Mom J, Dad J, and all the Johnstons. A big thank-you to Tita Odette, Isabelle and Christina Gaisano. (There, you can show it to all your friends now, Tina!)
Thank you to my BFF, Jennie Kim, who always likes to be mentioned in these things. ( Jennie, you can show this off too. Heh-heh.) And thanks to my NY and LA main girls and main gays Katie Davis, Tina Hay, Tom Dolby and Drew Frist, Gabe Sandoval, Tristan Ashby and Jeff Chu, Tyler Rollins and Jason Lundy, Andy Goffe and Jeff Levin, Peter Edmonston and Mark Hidgen, Kate and Harold Hope, and the ever-cool Kim DeMarco.
I would also like to thank the late Miss Jean Murphy, who taught history and art history at the Convent of the Sacred Heart, and who brought the world of ancient Rome to life in a dusty classroom. Miss Murphy always said it was like history’s greatest soap opera. I know she’s up there with the greats.
Most of all I would like to thank the Blue Blood faithful, just the most amazing, enthusiastic, intelligent, and gorgeous bunch of kids I have ever met. (I mean it: I am always so blown away by how smart AND goodlooking you all are!) Thank you for bringing my story of the reincarnated vampires into your lives. Thanks for following the journey, and hope to see you at the next stop!
A CONVERSATION
“It is said that Allegra´s daughter will defeat the Silver Bloods. I believe Schuyler will bring us the salvation we seek. She is almost as powerful as her mother. And one day she will be even more powerful.”
“Schuyler Van Alen . . . the half-blood? Are you certain she is the one?” Charles asked.
Lawrence nodded.
“Because Allegra had two daughters,” Charles said, in a light, almost playful tone. “Surely you have not forgotten that.”
The Elder Van Alen’s voice turned cold. “Of course not. But it is beneath you to make sport of such a serious matter as Allegra´s first born” Charles dismissed Lawrence’s rebuke with a wave. “My apologies. I meant no offense to the dead.”
“Her blood is on our hands,’ Lawrence sighed. The events of the day were tiring him, as were the memories of the past. “Only, I wonder . . .”
“Yes?”
“As I’ve wondered all these years, Charles, if such a one could ever be truly destroyed.”
The New York Times Obituary
LawrenceVan Alen, 105, Philanthropist and Philosopher, Dies
Lawrence Winslow Van Alen, a professor of history and linguistics at the University of Venice, died last night in his home on River side Drive in Manhattan. He was 105. His death was confirmed by Dr. Patricia Hazard, his attending physician. The cause of death was listed as advanced age.
Professor Van Alen was a descendant of William Henry Van Alen, known as the Commodore, an American icon and one of the richest men of the Gilded Age, whose wealth came from steamships, railroads and private investment and brokerage businesses.
The Van Alens founded the New York Central Railroad Line and what is now Grand Central Terminal. The family’s charitable trust, the Van Alen Foundation, was a cornerstone in the development of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Metropolitan Opera, the New York City Ballet and the New York Blood Bank. Lawrence Van Alen is survived by his daughter, Allegra Van Alen Chase, who has been in a coma since 1992; and his granddaughter, Schuyler Van Alen.
CHAPTER 1
Schuyler
There had been little time to mourn. Upon returning to New York after Lawrence’s murder in Rio (covered up by the Committee with a proper obituary in the Times), Schuyler Van Alen had been on the run. No rest. No respite. A year of constant motion, barely one step ahead of the Venators hunting her. A flight to Buenos Aires followed by one to Dubai. A sleepless night in a youth hostel in Amsterdam followed by another in a bunk bed in an auditorium in Bruges.
She had marked her sixteenth birthday aboard the Trans-Siberian Railway, celebrating with a cup of watery Nescafé coffee and several crumbly Russian tea cookies. Somehow, her best friend, Oliver Hazard-Perry, had found a candle to light in one of the suharkies. He took his job as human Conduit pretty seriously. It was thanks to Oliver’s careful accounting that they had been able to stretch their money so far. The Conclave had frozen his access to the well-funded Hazard-Perry accounts as soon as they had left New York.
Now it was August in Paris, and hot. They had arrived to find most of the city a ghost town: bakeries, boutiques, and bistros shuttered while their proprietors absconded to three-week vacations in the beaches up north. The only people around were American and Japanese tourists, who mobbed every museum gallery, every garden in every public square, inescapable and ubiquitous in their white sneakers and baseball caps. But Schuyler welcomed their presence. She hoped the slow-moving crowds would make it easier for her and Oliver to spot their Venator pursuers. Schuyler had been able to disguise herself by changing her physical features, but performing the mutatio was taking a toll on her. She didn’t say anything to Oliver, but lately she couldn’t even do so much as change the color of her eyes.
And now, after almost a year of hiding, they were coming out into the open. It was a gamble, but they were desperate. Living without the protection and wisdom of the secret society of vampires and their select group of trusted humans had taken its toll. And while neither of them would ever admit it, they were both tired of running.
So for now Schuyler was seated in the back of a bus, wearing a pressed white shirt buttoned to the neck over slim black pants and flat black shoes with rubber soles. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and except for a hint of lip gloss, she wore no makeup. She meant to blend in with the rest of the catering staff who had been hired for the evening. But surely someone would notice. Surely someone would hear how hard her heart was beating, would remark on how her breathing was shallow and quick. She had to calm down. She had to clear her mind and become the blasé contract caterer she was pretending to be. For so many years Schuyler had excelled at being invisible. This time, her life depended on it. The bus was taking them over a bridge to the H’tel Lambert on the isle Saint-Louis, a small island on the Seine River. The Lambert was the most beautiful house in the most beautiful city in the world. At least, she had always thought so. Although “house” was putting it mildly. “Castle” was more like it, something out of a fairy tale, its massive river walls and gray mansard roofs rising from the surrounding mist. As a child she had played hide-and-seek in the formal gardens, where the conical sculpted trees reminded her of figures on a chessboard. She remembered staging imaginary productions inside the grand courtyard and throwing bread crumbs to the geese from the terrace overlooking the Seine. How she had taken that life for granted! Tonight she would not enter the hotel’s exclusive, exalted domain as an invited guest, but rather as a humble servant. Like a mouse creeping into a hole. Schuyler was anxious by nature, and she needed almost all her self-control to keep it together. At any moment she feared she might scream, she was already so nervous she couldn’t stop her hands from trembling. They vibrated, fluttering in her lap like trapped birds.