Keys to the Repository (Blue Bloods 4.50)

Warden: Title given to senior members of the Committee and the Conclave

The Watcher: The Elder of Elders is an eternal spirit, born with her eyes wide open, in full consciousness of her memories. She holds vigilance against Blue Blood enemies to sound the alarm should Lucifer return to Earth. She can be called up in a cycle to take human form, but if threatened, can switch human shells. She was the one who first discovered the Croatan betrayal in Rome. Able to see the future, she also foresaw the breaking of the bond between Gabrielle and Michael and predicted that Gabrielle’s daughter would be the salvation of the Blue Bloods.

White Darkness/White Death: The result of the subvertio spell. Leviathan released it into the intersection in Lutetia, creating a time vacuum that possibly swallowed or destroyed Charles Force. Kings-ley called it forth to destroy the Gate of Time and one of the Paths of the Dead.

Wisdom Teeth: A vampire’s fangs (the Red Bloods took the term from the Blue Bloods). They are not, as the Conspiracy has spread, in the front canines, but actually on the side. With practice, they can be extended and retracted.

Author’s Note: I am currently in the process of writing the fifth Blue Bloods book, Misguided Angel, coming Fall 2010, and thought it would be fun to share the first two chapters.

MISGUIDED ANGEL

ONE

The Cinque Terre

Schuyler Van Alen walked up the polished brass spiral stairs leading to the upper deck as quickly as she could. Jack Force was standing at the edge of the bow when she caught his eye. She nodded to him, shielding her eyes from the hot Mediterranean sun. It’s done.

Good, he sent, and went back to setting the anchor. He was sunburned and shaggy, his skin a deep nut brown, his hair the color of flax. Her own dark hair was wild and unkempt from a month of salty sea air. She wore an old shirt of Jack’s that had once been white and pristine and was now gray and ragged at the hem. They both displayed that laconic, relaxed air affected by those on perpetual vacation: a lazy, weathered aimlessness that belied their true desperation. A month was long enough. They had to act now. They had to act today.

The muscles on Jack’s arms tensed as he tugged on the rope to see if the anchor had found purchase on the ocean floor. No luck. The anchor heaved, so he released the line a few more feet. He raised a finger over his right shoulder, signaling to Schuyler to reverse the port engine. He let the rope go a little farther and tugged at it again, the stout white braids of the anchor line chafing his palm as he pulled it toward him.

From her summers sailing on Nantucket, Schuyler knew that an ordinary man would have used a motor winch to set the seven-hundred-pound anchor; but of course Jack was far from ordinary. He pulled harder, using almost all of his strength, and all eight tons of the Countess’s yacht seemed to flex for a moment. This time, the anchor held, wedged into the rocky bottom. Jack relaxed and dropped the rope, and Schuyler moved from the helm to help him twine it around the base of the winch. In the past month they had each found quiet solace these small tasks. It gave them something to do while they plotted their escape.

For while Isabelle of Orleans had welcomed them to the safety of her home, once upon a time, in another lifetime, she had been Lucifer’s beloved, Drusilla, sister-wife to the emperor Caligula. True, the Countess had been more than generous toward them; she had blessed them with every comfort—the boat in particular was fully staffed and bountifully stocked. Yet it was becoming clearer each day that the Countess’s offer of protection was morphing quickly from asylum to confinement. They were as far from finding the Gate of Promise as they had been when they left New York.

The Countess had given them everything except what they needed most: freedom. Schuyler did not believe that Isabelle, who had been a great friend to Lawrence and Cordelia, and one of the most re

spected vampire dowagers of European society, was a Silver Blood traitor; but after Forsyth Llewellyn’s treachery in New York, anything seemed possible. In any event they couldn’t afford to wait and find out if the Countess was planning to keep them prisoners in perpetuity.

Schuyler glanced shyly at Jack. They had been together a month now, but everything was still so new—his touch, his voice, his companionship, the easy feel of his arm around her shoulders. She stood beside him against the rail, and he looped his arm around her neck, pulling her closer so he could plant a quick kiss on the top of her head. She liked those kisses the most, found a deep contentment in the confident way he held her. They belonged to each other now.

Maybe this was what Allegra had meant, Schuyler thought, when she told her daughter to come home and stop fighting, stop fleeing from finding her own happiness. Maybe this was what her mother wanted her to understand.

Jack lowered his arm from her shoulder and she followed his gaze to the small rowboat “the boys” were lowering from the stern onto the choppy water below. They were a jolly duo, two Italians, Drago and Iggy (short for Ignazio), Venators in service to the Countess and for all intents and purposes, their jailors. But Schuyler had come to like them almost as friends. The thought of what she and Jack were about to do set her nerves on edge. They would not get another chance. She marveled at Jack’s calm demeanor; she herself could barely keep still, and was bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet in anticipation.

She followed Jack to the edge of the platform. Iggy had tethered the little boat to the yacht, and Drago reached forward to help Schuyler step down. But Jack slipped ahead and brushed Drago aside so he could offer Schuyler his palm instead, ever the gentleman. She held his hand as she climbed over the rail and into the boat. Drago shrugged and steadied the boat as Iggy brought the last of the provisions onto the bow.

Schuyler turned to look closely at the rugged Italian coast for the first time. Ever since they had learned of the Venator’s affinity for the Cinque Terre, they had been advocating for this little day trip. The Cinque Terre was a strip of the Italian Riviera populated by a series of five medieval towns. Iggy, with his broad face and fat belly, spoke longingly of his memories of running along the paths at the cliff’s edge before coming home to outdoor dinners overlooking sunsets above the bay.

She had never been to this part of Italy and did not know too much about it—but she understood how they could use Iggy’s affection for his hometown to their advantage. He had not been able to resist their suggestion to visit, and allowed them a day ashore, off their floating prison. It was the perfect spot for what they had planned, as trails ended in ancient stairs that stretched upward for hundreds of feet. The paths would be abandoned this time of year—tourist season was over as fall brought cold weather to the popular resort towns. The mountain trails would lead them far from the ship.

“You are going to love this place, Jack,” Iggy said, rowing vigorously. “You too, Signorina,” he said. The Italians had a difficult time pronouncing “Schuyler.”

Jack grunted, pulling on his oar, and Schuyler tried to affect a festive air. They were supposed to be getting ready to enjoy a picnic. Schuyler noticed Jack brooding, staring at the sea, preparing himself for the day ahead, and she swatted his arm playfully. This was supposed to be a long-awaited respite from their time on the ship, a chance to spend a day exploring.

They were supposed to look like a happy couple with not a care in the world, not like two captives about to execute a prison break.

TWO

The Getaway

Schuyler felt her mood lift as they pulled into the bay at Vernazza. The view could bring a smile to anyone’s face, and even Jack brightened. The rock ledges were spectacular, and the houses that clung to them looked as ancient as the stones themselves. They docked the boat, and the foursome hiked up the cliffside toward the trail.

The five towns that formed the Cinque Terre were connected by a series of stony paths—some almost impossible to climb, Iggy explained as they walked past a succession of tiny stucco homes. The Venator was in a jubilant mood, telling them the history of every house they walked past. “And this one, my auntie Clara sold in 1977 to a nice family from Parma; and this right here was where the most beautiful girl in Italy lived (kissing noise), but... Red Blood lady, you know how they are... picky ... oh, and this is where...” Iggy called out to farmers they came across as they walked through the backyards and fields, patting animals as they snuck through their pastures. The trail wound back and forth from grassland to homes to the very edge of the sea cliffs. Schuyler watched tiny rocks tumble over the side of the hill as they made their way forward.

Iggy kept the conversation flowing, while Drago nodded and laughed to himself, as if he had taken the tour one time too many and was merely humoring his friend as Iggy’s long-winded tales took most of the morning. The climb was hard work, but Schuyler was glad for the chance to stretch her muscles, and she was certain Jack was too. They had spent too much time on the boat, and while they had been allowed to swim in the ocean, it wasn’t the same as a good hike in the open air. In a few hours they had worked their way from Vernazza to Corniglia, and then Manarolla. Schuyler noticed that they passed the day without seeing a single car or truck, not a phone line or power cable.

This is it, Jack sent. Over there.