Lucas Mendrion had the same ageless visage as Kingsley, the mark of the Enmortal. He could have been anywhere from eighteen to forty, it was hard to tell. He was not handsome—his nose was hawkish and a bit too pointed, his eyes sharp and skeptical—but he projected a reassuring gravity. A man you could trust with your life, and with your secrets, Schuyler thought, understanding why Allegra had chosen him. He was wearing the standard Venator blacks.
“Schuyler Van Alen,” she said, extending a hand. “Thank you for meeting with us, Venator Mendrion.”
He shook it firmly. “Allegra’s daughter,” he said, staring at her intensely. “You have your mother’s face, but not her eyes.…”
“They tell me I inherited my father’s.” She smiled.
“I didn’t know your father. Red Blood, wasn’t he?” Mendrion said with a raised eyebrow. “Highly inappropriate, but all in the past now. I saw your mother in this incarnation. She came to visit me once, before she disappeared from us.”
“What was she like?” Schuyler asked. She knew so little of Allegra, and was eager for any little bits of insight or memory of her mother.
“Exactly the same as when I knew her in Rome,” he said. “Impulsive, tenacious, brilliant. She was…our queen.”
Schuyler nodded. “I’m sorry—where are my manners—this is Oliver Hazard-Perry, my Conduit, and you know Venator Martin.”
Oliver and Kingsley both stood and shook the man’s hand. Kingsley poured everyone drinks.
“So—shall we get started? It’s good of you to have put together this dinner, but I’m afraid we don’t have much time for idle chitchat,” Mendrion said. “Martin said you were here to carry out Allegra’s legacy.”
Schuyler nodded. “They tell me you know about my family’s work, and about the Order of the Seven.”
“Those of us who were not chosen to serve the order served it in other ways,” Mendrion said. “Gabrielle asked me to ensure the safety of this city from its founding.” He took a sip from his glass. “As you must be aware, all the Gates of Hell are under siege at the moment; although so far London has been lucky enough to escape the Dark Prince’s wrath.”
“Do you know where the remaining keepers are—Pentalum? Onbasius? Octilla?” asked Oliver.
The Venator nodded. “Yes. We sent all our remaining Venators to bolster the security of the gates, but the odds are against them. The keepers will stand their ground and give their lives to the battle. But they will fall. The gates will fall. It is only a matter of time. The Nephilim walk the earth now. They will grow in number and influence the Red Bloods. Sow war and disease and despair.”
Schuyler saw Oliver and Kingsley looking as uneasy as she felt. The Venator’s words were defeatist, as if the battle had already been fought and lost.
“You sent all the Venators away?” Schuyler asked, her face falling, realizing why there were so few vampires left in London when they arrived; why it had been so difficult for Kingsley to raise a battalion.
“Yes. That is why I am here.” He coughed. “To urge you to make your preparations to go underground, as I am.”
“Excus
e me?” Schuyler asked, startled.
“War has come to the vampires; the Croatan has risen. You are not safe here. Especially you, Schuyler Van Alen, as Gabrielle’s daughter.”
“I’m not going anywhere! Kingsley said you could help us!” she said, turning to the other Venator in the room, who looked impassive.
“I am helping you,” Mendrion said.
“By abandoning the city? Abandoning your post? You were tasked to guard this Coven! To protect the city that houses the Gate of Promise—do you know where that path leads? What is behind that gate and its true nature?” she asked, her blue eyes shining with anger and indignation.
“It is too dangerous to know,” Mendrion whispered.
“You took an oath! To my mother! To Gabrielle!”
“I kept this city safe for as long as I was able. I financed the Coven, trained the Venators, supported the Regis for as long as I could. But with Michael missing and Gabrielle gone…there is no hope for us. When I recognized Martin as one of our own and he told me you were here, I agreed to meet with you so I could warn you to hide. It’s the least I could do.”
Schuyler felt wrathful, angry at the cowardly Venator in front of her. His ageless countenance wavered, and for a moment he looked centuries old, crippled, weak, and frightened. A sad creature. Her grandmother Cordelia was right—the blood had thinned in their kind. There was little left of their former courage, their former glory, if even the Venators were cowards.
Kingsley said the words that she was thinking: “So there’s nothing you can do to help us—nothing except to tell us to cower and shirk our duty,” he said, a smirk on his lips.
“Venator Mendrion, you cannot leave London. The attack on the Gates of Hell is nothing but a distraction, and an effective one,” Schuyler said. “Lucifer wants the vampires facing the other way. He cares not for the Nephilim, but only for the Gate of Promise, which leads to—”
Lucas Mendrion put up his hand to silence her. “I told you, I don’t want to know.”