PART THE FIRST
SHOULD OLD
ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT
Blood and fire are too much for
these restless arms to hold.
—Indigo Girls, “Blood and Fire”
ONE
Schuyler
he fireworks burst into a dazzling array of color and sound, shooting a rainbow above the London skyline as the crowd on the Victoria Embankment cheered lustily for the beginning of the new year. Schuyler Van Alen watched the festivities from the balcony of a town house across the way in Primrose Hill, admiring the spectacular view of the London Eye glowing silver and lavender against the night sky, bordered by a glittering framework of blue lights from the row of trees surrounding the park.
“It’s almost midnight,” said Oliver Hazard-Perry as he appeared with two champagne glasses and handed Schuyler one with a smile. He was wearing a crisp black tuxedo with shiny silver cuff links, and she was struck by his grown-up manliness—the gravity in the way he carried himself, the newfound confidence in his step. His sandy brown hair was combed back from his forehead; his hazel eyes crinkled with a few fine lines. The London girls couldn’t get enough of him—his phone beeped constantly with texts to meet them for drinks at Loulou’s or to join them for yet another Pimps and Hos party at “Harry’s.” Oliver had told her all about his love affair in New York, with the witch who had healed his heart and cured his blood of the longing he used to carry as Schuyler’s familiar. He was back to being just her human Conduit, but he was still the dear boy who had been her best friend since the beginning.
“Cheers,” she said, accepting the glass and clinking it against his. She had agreed to the party despite her mood, and was wearing a black velvet dress that suited her. A mourning dress, she couldn’t help but think as she had slipped it over her shoulders earlier that evening. It was cut with a deep V-neck, sleeveless. Against the dark fabric, her clavicles were sharp lines, and she knew her arms looked painfully thin. She was wearing her bonding ring on her left hand, and a silver circlet on her forearm that Oliver had given her as a birthday present years ago.
Her friend appraised her thoughtfully. “You look beautiful and tragic, just the way a heroine should on the eve of battle. Like Joan of Arc in her silver armor.”
“Nice of you to say, although I don’t feel particularly brave,” Schuyler said, fiddling with her new short haircut, a pixie with a bit of a “fringe”—what the Brits called bangs. “But maybe the champagne will help.” She smiled even as she felt a strange chill, not from the cold breeze, but from an inexplicable, unshakable feeling that she was being watched. Standing on the terrace, she suddenly felt vulnerable and exposed, but she refrained from telling Oliver. She didn’t want him to worry any more than he already did. But still—it was there—the feeling that someone was watching her. Watching and waiting.
She shook off her nerves, and they watched in companionable silence as the fireworks popped and the Ferris wheel spun. In the months they had lived in London they’d had yet to visit any of the usual tourist spots. Not that they were there to have fun—although with Kingsley Martin around, fun was never far from the agenda.
“There you two are!” Kingsley boomed, joining them on the terrace with a jolly crew of guests. The party was his idea—rounding up what was left o
f the London Coven, rallying the troops for one last hurrah before the end. His color was high, and he was handsome and dashingly disheveled in black tie—the bow unknotted and dangling roguishly from his shirt collar. They had Kingsley to thank for the formal costumes and the vintage champagne. “Let’s meet the new year with style!” he’d insisted.
Kingsley and his friends were wearing conical hats and tooting brightly colored horns that shot out crepe paper tongues. He handed Schuyler a sparkler, and she waved it off the balcony, sharing a smile with Oliver as the sparks flew in the night air. The countdown began and they joined the Venators in chanting, “Ten, nine, eight, seven…three two one…”
The noise was deafening as the orchestra blared Beethoven’s Fifth and the fireworks exploded with cannon-sized booms.
“Happy New Year,” Oliver mouthed.
“HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY!” Kingsley yelled, giving each of his friends a sloppy drunken kiss on the cheek before leading the merry group into a rousing rendition of “Auld Lang Syne” in his rich baritone.
Schuyler exchanged a droll smile with Oliver over Kingsley’s antics. For the last few months the two of them had effectively acted as the Venator’s jailors, parents, and confidants; and while Schuyler was glad to see him in high spirits, Kingsley could be reckless and she worried about him.
“Happy New Year, Ollie,” she said, kissing him lightly on the cheek, remembering past New Year’s Eves spent with him, watching the televised Times Square ball drop, perennially uninvited to any of the raucous celebrations that their fellow Duchesne students were famous for throwing. Once upon a time, Schuyler had yearned to experience a really great party—a date for the evening, someone to kiss at midnight, the opportunity to wear a beautiful dress, to look forward to the coming year in the arms of a boy she loved. She gave Oliver’s arm an affectionate squeeze even as her heart ached for her true love.
It had been several months since she’d said good-bye to Jack Force in the deserts of Egypt. Another climate, another life, it felt like. She had promised him she would move forward with her quest, with her mission; to forget about love in favor of duty. She remembered their last night together, the way he had held her close, the way they had burrowed into each other, skin against skin, breath against breath, not wanting to separate, not for a moment. What had happened to Jack? Was he even still alive? Had Mimi killed him? Schuyler didn’t know. There was no way to know. There had been no sign of either of the Force twins for months, and with the Covens broken and the vampires in virtual retreat—there was no news anywhere.
“I’m sure Jack’s alive,” Oliver said, reading her thoughts as always.
She didn’t answer, just took another sip from her glass.
“Mimi, too—somehow, I don’t think either would be able to destroy the other. I just can’t see it,” he said.
If Jack was dead, she would know it, Schuyler thought. Somehow she would know, wouldn’t she? She would feel it. But all she felt was numb. As if a limb had been cut off, as if her heart was so tired of fearing and grieving that it had given up hoping. It was too difficult to think of Jack and what they’d had together. A promise, a bond, a joy, a love for the ages, for the history books….But what was love but pain? It hurt to think of Jack; it distracted her from her work. She had to keep him out of her mind. Had to forget so she could concentrate on the task at hand. Lucifer was moving his pieces across the chessboard. Endgame was upon them. The survival of the vampires was in question. The fight for Heaven and Earth would begin and end with her.
“I know Jack would never lay a hand on her, and I hope you’re right about Mimi,” she said.
“I know I am,” Oliver said staunchly.
He had been defending Mimi for months. Schuyler wasn’t as certain as he was of Mimi’s change of heart. Mimi had ever been hell-bent on destroying Jack, on seeking revenge, but Oliver was convinced her affections ran elsewhere now. Schuyler wasn’t sure how much she believed that Kingsley had supplanted Jack in Mimi Force’s heart. Besides, Kingsley never talked about Mimi and whatever happened between them. According to Oliver, Mimi had given up her soul to get him out of the underworld—which was even more troubling, because if Mimi had lost what little soul she’d had—then what did it mean for Jack?