Lost in Time (Blue Bloods 6)

“Do you think Mahrus is right? About the Silver Blood who’s behind this being from New York?” Schuyler asked. It was where the killings had begun, after all, where the first deaths from Full Consumption had occurred. In Italy, Oliver had told them about how Forsyth Llewellyn had disappeared, and how Mimi and the Venators had fingered him as the traitor. Bliss had confirmed as much—that her cycle father, Forsyth, the most trusted of Charles’s associates, was actually the hidden Croatan in their midst, who had been keeping the spirit of Lucifer alive in his daughter. “Do you think Forsyth is here?” she asked, shuddering. “That he’s the one who’s planned all this?”

“We’ll find out,” Jack said. “And when we do, we will destroy him,” he promised. “We have nothing to be frightened of, least of all that traitor.”

Schuyler huddled next to him, and Jack rested his head against her neck. She put a hand on his cheek, feeling the stubble. She turned toward him, and they slowly fell onto the bed. Soon she felt his fangs puncture her skin and begin to draw blood.

Schuyler felt the same drowsy happiness she always did after they performed the Sacred Kiss. She felt Jack release her, rolling over so he could turn off the light. She was about to surrender to sleep when she felt a sharp pain in her stomach, and she sat up, doubling over, clutching her middle.

“What’s wrong?” Jack asked, alarmed. “Did I hurt you?

Schuyler… talk to me.”

She shook her head. She couldn’t speak: it was too painful. She felt as if she were being split in two. She felt dizzy and disoriented, nauseated, and she took a few gulps of air.

“I’m all right… I’m all right…” she said, right before she vomited her dinner all over the floor.

“Schuyler!” Jack yelled, feeling helpless.

She clutched the nightstand, her shoulders heaving, ignoring Jack for a moment. The wave of nausea passed, and she took the moment to breathe. Then another wave crashed—harder this time—and this time it was more frightening…. Blood and bile, a dark viscous puddle.

Jack quickly cleaned up the mess with a towel from the bathroom. He looked up at her. “Lie down.”

“I can’t. It feels better to stand.”

He tossed the towel into a corner and walked to her side.

“Lean on me, then.”

She clutched him, shaking. She’d felt off since they’d arrived in Cairo, but now she felt sicker than she ever had in her life. This was worse than the Transformation; worse than the time she had been away from the Coven and her blood had thinned. She felt as if she were dying. But the feeling passed, and her stomach settled. She felt much better. “I’m all right,”

she said, still holding him. “Probably just some sort of virus.

maybe Cairo Belly finally caught up with me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’m okay. Just a bit of nausea. I’ve had it before.”

She gave him a reassuring smile.

Jack did not hide his concern. He had not noticed that she had been feeling sick, and they shared everything. He was appalled at the depth of his ignorance, but there had to be a reason. Then he knew. “How long has this been going on?” he asked quietly. “Tell me, my love.”

Schuyler shrugged. A few weeks, maybe a month at the most. He was right. She had hidden it from him, which was why he had not known. “I didn’t want you to worry, what with everything that’s going on. I’m all right, I promise.”

Jack did not answer, but continued to hold her, the two of them silent. They each had secrets they were keeping from the other; secrets they were keeping out of love. But slowly, and surely, both would soon come to light.

TWENTY-THREE

In the Limelight

Only when they were inside did Oliver notice that the nightclub was housed in a space that looked like an old cathedral; a deconsecrated church that had been turned into a haven of sin. The music was deafening and the club smelled like smoke and body odor. They could barely move, the crowds were pressed so tightly. It was pure misery. Oliver was afraid to look down to see what he was wearing, but he needn’t have worried: he was dressed as he had been that morning, in a safari vest and jeans. His regular clothes. maybe in Tartarus they didn’t care about illusions, or perhaps the underworld’s stylist was off today? He wanted to ask Mimi, but she was intent on pressing forward. She swiveled her head every which way, looking for Kingsley. She seemed to know her way around the club, and led them up a staircase, where the VIP

rooms were.

The private back rooms were built like Russian matry-oshka dolls, in that each new space led to another. Oliver had the feeling that one could spend eternity wandering through a succession of ever-smaller, ever-darker, ever-hotter rooms, while the droning sound of a monotone techno beat— bumf, bumf, bumf—resounded in the brain until one went as insane as the demons that surrounded the place. Each back room was guarded by a door bitch and a bouncer, but Mimi glided through like she owned the place.

She finally stopped, and Oliver almost bumped into her back. She had come to the end of the VIP rooms. There were no more doors at the other end. This was it.

She took a seat at a table and motioned for Oliver to do the same. They settled into the thick red velvet banquette. No sooner had they sat down than the manager, a bulldog in an ugly shiny suit, came up to the two of them. “Fallen,” he said, pointing at Mimi. “You’re not one of us. Get out!” he growled.