Lost in Time (Blue Bloods 6)

Mimi clucked her tongue. “You need to hold the reins a little tighter. Show her who’s boss.”

They picked their way past the public entrances near the great pyramid of Khufu, the largest of the three, and another one by the Sphinx, which, unlike the pyramids, looked smaller in real life than it did in pictures.

There wasn’t much to see inside the pyramids, which were essentially empty tombs and not for the claustrophobic.

The path to the underworld was located in menkaure, the smallest pyramid. They left the horses tied to a tree, made sure the guides had food and water for them, and walked toward the entrance.

“Off-limits. Private tours inside are that way, miss,” a guard said, blocking their approach and pointing to the other pyramid.

“We’re just going to be a second,” Mimi said, using compulsion to make him look the other way. Truly it was so easy: the Red Blood mind was so malleable. When he turned, she unlocked the doors with a spell, and Oliver led them inside and down the underground stairs.

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The Gates of Hell had been built upon the Paths of the Dead by the Order of the Seven during Caligula’s reign, to secure the earthly domain from the demons of the underworld.

The gates kept the Silver Bloods trapped behind them, but anyone could walk in from the other side and into Hell if they knew the way; although Red Bloods usually had to wait until the end of their lives to reach the Kingdom of the Dead.

Mimi pulled Oliver through the living glom, the alternate world hidden from the physical one. “How are you feeling?”

she asked, as he doubled over, clutching his stomach.

“Nauseous. But I’ll live,” he said, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief.

For now, at least, Mimi thought.

In the distance stood a small metal gate, not unlike a garden gate, secured with a hook latch. “That’s it?” Oliver asked skeptically. “That’s the Gate of Promise? It looks like it keeps children out of a pool.”

“Yeah, well.” Mimi shrugged, unhooking the lock. “I think it looks different to everyone. From the other side it looks like a fortress. You ready? You might feel a little sick.”

“Even more than I do now? You should have told me to pack a barf bag.” Oliver wiped his brow and took a few deep breaths.

Mimi rolled her eyes. She held the gate open, and they crossed the threshold together. One step felt equal to a mile, or seven leagues, and after a few paces they were in Limbo, the first circle of Hell’s Kingdom. The space between the worlds manifested as a vast desert landscape, not dissimilar to the one they’d just left, with a lone road cutting through the sand, but without the pyramids.

“It’s easier on the transition if it looks like where we came from,” Mimi explained.

Oliver thought it looked a bit like the mojave Desert in Death Valley, rocky and abandoned. There were palm trees in the distance, and tumbleweeds blew along the highway; the heat was oppressive, and he was sweating through his safari vest.

“Let’s go,” Mimi said, jangling keys to a red mustang con-vertible that had materialized by the side of the road. “Get in, I’m driving. I know the way.”

“Of course you do.” Oliver coughed, but he followed her lead.

Azrael, Angel of Death, had come home.

SIX

Portrait of the Artist as a

Young Heir

Allegra arrived late to the party. She had spent too long standing in front of the mirror, wondering what to wear and feeling nervous. Nothing she’d brought from New York felt right: she hated all her clothes. Charles had gone to the exhibit opening as planned. Allegra had been able to convince him she did not feel like making social chitchat that evening and preferred to stay in and catch up on her reading. Luckily, he had been too excited about the chance to see the remarkable collection of ancient South American art to press for her company. Charles enjoyed the social whirl, enjoyed basking in the attention of a worshipful Coven, and she knew he would not miss her.

The minute the door closed behind Charles, Allegra stormed her closet. The last time Ben had seen her she was sixteen years old, fresh-faced, brimming with youth and life and energy; and while she knew that five years was not such a long time, she did feel older, much more aware of her beauty and the reaction it engendered from the opposite sex. She wore her hair shorter now, cut close to the scalp, almost boy-ish, and Charles hated it—he’d adored her long golden tresses, had loved winding his fingers through the gossamer thickness.

He had been disappointed when she’d returned from the salon with her new haircut.

But Allegra loved the liberating relief: no more of that heaviness behind her neck—she had always been too hot in the summer—and no longer did traffic screech to a stop when she ran across the street, nor did heads turn when she walked down the sidewalk, her golden hair flowing behind her like a sail. She enjoyed being a little less conspicuous, a little more forgettable, a little more ordinary, almost as if she were someone else for a change. But now, as she rubbed the blunt edges of her chopped crop, she fretted that maybe Charles was right, that without her hair she did not look like herself; that shorn of her best asset, she looked dull and plain.

She decided upon an old standby, a white silk shirt, a pair of men’s Levi’s, a thick leather belt, and battered cowboy boots.