Lost in Time (Blue Bloods 6)

Yet there was something about the scene that felt familiar, that felt too close to something that Oliver did not want to acknowledge, and he never took a sip from his glass. “Whose wedding is this?” he said, gritting his teeth, as the string quartet began to play “All Things Bright and Beautiful,” his favorite hymn.

“Ours, of course.” A girl appeared by his side. She looked exactly like Schuyler. She had Schuyler’s long dark hair and bright blue eyes, and she was wearing her bonding dress, the one made of the palest blue silk that hung off her shoulders.

She had a spray of freckles on her cheeks that she always got during the summers, which they used to spend together right on this beach.

Oliver did not know what to do or where to look. His cheeks burned, and he felt as if his heart had been put on display only to be humiliated and broken.

“Ollie, what’s wrong?” She looked and sounded exactly like Schuyler. What was this— who was this? A true mirage.

What devilry had created this doppelganger, Oliver thought, trying to move away from her. Where was Mimi? He looked around wildly but could not find her. Not-Sky took his arm and linked it through hers, the way she used to, and rested her head against his shoulder.

“I missed you,” she said.

“I did too,” Oliver replied, without thinking.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispered.

He took back his words. This was Hell. He knew exactly where he was now, and exactly what this was. This was his deepest desire, his deepest secret, which he had buried

deep inside his heart so that he had been able to fully celebrate with his dearest friend on her special day. Now, to see his desire so cruelly made real, forced him to acknowledge that even if he was healed, even if he did not ache for her anymore, even if he was no longer her familiar nor her Conduit, and merely her friend, he still loved her, and would always love her.

How was it possible to feel love and desire but no pain?

Freya, the witch he had met in the East Village, had healed his blood of the familiar’s mark, but his heart would always remember and would always yearn. As long as he lived, he knew he would love Schuyler Van Alen.

“Don’t hate me, but I don’t think I can go through with it.

I love Jack. I do. But seeing you today… Ollie… I’m so sorry.”

The girl who wasn’t Schuyler looked deep into his eyes, and it took his breath away.

“About what?” he asked, and it was then that he realized they were replaying the same conversation they’d had the night before her bonding—but it was going a different way, and he knew exactly what she would say before she said it, because they were the words he had wanted her to say.

“Making the biggest mistake of my life,” she said huskily, tightening her grip on his arm. He could smell her perfume.

She had started wearing it only recently, she’d explained back then. A scent made for Catherine de médicis that she’d bought from the convent of Santa maria Novella.

“Don’t,” he said in a strangled voice, and he pulled at his collar, as he had found it suddenly hard to breathe. “Don’t do this. You’re not Sky. Leave me alone.”

“No, you have to hear it,” she said, and put her mouth right on his ear. He could feel her soft breath as she whispered the words he wished she’d said to him on that fair day in December, in Italy. “I should never have left. I love you. I love you more.”

Then she was kissing him, and it was Schuyler’s lips, and she smelled just like Schuyler, and her hair was silky and soft like Schuyler’s, and he knew that when her back was turned, he would see a mole right between her shoulder blades that was just like Schuyler’s. She was Schuyler, and she returned his love, and Oliver did not see why he had to pretend he did not want this, did not want her, did not want exactly what was happening right now.

TWELVE

Blood Service

“Charles! You’re back so soon,” Allegra said, when she returned to the apartment. She hadn’t expected to see him, and as she pulled off her coat and scarf, she hoped that he would not notice her hands were shaking.

“Everything finished up earlier than expected.” His eyes lit up upon seeing her walk into the room. “Where’ve you been?”

“Looking at paintings,” she said. Since they could read each other’s thoughts—up to a certain point—it was easier to conceal lies with half-truths.

“Did you buy anything else?” He knew about the purchase she’d made the day before, but not who the artist was, or what the subject of the painting was.

“Not today.”

“It’s nice that you’ve taken an interest in art again,” he said, smiling affectionately at her. Charles had come into his own the last few years, shooting up to his full height. He had finally lost the awkward formality and stiffness he’d had as a teenager. These days he moved with confidence and grace. At twenty-one he had gotten hold of the substantial Van Alen trusts that made up the bulk of their inheritance, and he talked about building a media company, making a difference in the world. Recently tapped as one of New York’s most eligible bachelors in a popular society magazine, Charles Van Alen was handsome and striking, with his dark blue-black hair and strong Roman features. He did not have Bendix Chase’s affable geniality, but instead displayed a kingly benevolence that had earned him respect and fear beyond the vampire community.