Gates of Paradise (Blue Bloods 7)

“The Black Fire caught his eye. I tried to subdue it, but it was no use,” Bellarmine said.

“He burned, I saw him,” Valentina said. “He rests with the angels now.”

Tomi felt her heart wrench in anger. Like Bellarmine and Valentina, Dantos had been part of her loyal Venator team since the days of Rome. Tomi leaned against Gio, blinking back tears.

She watched the castle implode upon itself, and crumble into a thousand dark pieces. Good-bye, Andreas. Her hatred of her former love was as great as her grief for her fallen comrade.

Burn, devil, burn.

FIVE

Schuyler

he house on Primrose Hill was larger than the typical London town house, with a curved facade boasting several first-floor balconies, a soaring triple-height ceiling in the entryway, a formal dining room that could seat twenty, an industrial-style kitchen, eight bedrooms, a spacious upper terrace, and a suite of offices in the attic. When the Coven had disbanded, the house was kept in pristine condition by the remaining Venators and their Conduits. Schuyler had to admit she was glad for the home comforts, the French soap and the three-ply towels—such luxuries after the months spent in that tiny, dingy hotel room in Egypt.

Even though the staff was due to arrive at any minute, Schuyler spent the morning cleaning up from the party the night before—picking cigarette butts up off the floor, tossing all the dirty champagne glasses into the dishwasher, fluffing up pillows, vacuuming. At the very least, it gave her something to do with her nervous energy. She hadn’t been sleeping very much lately, and the thought that they were now nearer to discovering the truth about the Gate of Promise had kept her up all night.

Oliver rolled into the dining room in time for lunch, still in pajamas, his hair sticking up from his forehead, sleepy-eyed and yawning. The cook had set out a “ploughman’s lunch” on the buffet table: plates of cheese-and-pickle sandwiches, a tray of “crisps,” and bottled water, in deference to their American tastes. Oliver filled up a plate and took a seat across from Schuyler at the long table.

“I just found out this house used to belong to the Ward family before they bequeathed it to the Venators fifty years ago,” Schuyler said. “Maybe that’s why it feels so comfortable…like Dylan is still with us.” Maybe that was why she felt the way she did—maybe the presence that was never too far away was her old friend watching over them. But why did it feel so detached, then? As if whatever or whoever it was—was judging her and finding her wanting.

Oliver nodded. “I’m sure he’s looking out for us in some way…wherever he is.”

Schuyler was glad for Oliver’s faith. Since they’d arrived in England, she had allowed herself to feel nothing but a grim, dogged determination to carry out her mother’s plan. She could not trust herself to hope—but without hope, she realized, she had no reason to go on. She had to hope it would work out: that she would succeed not only in protecting the gate but in leading the vampires on the path back to Paradise; that Bliss would come through with the wolves; and that in the end, somehow, although she didn’t know how, she and Jack would be together. Otherwise, what was the point of it all? Without hope, she was without life. She might as well chuck her bonding ring into the Thames.

“You’re right, we’re not alone in this fight,” she told Oliver. “We’ll give it the best we have,” she said, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand.

Kingsley walked in at that exact moment, and upon seeing their clasped hands, gave them a curious look, and Schuyler quickly took her hand away from Oliver’s, feeling embarrassed. Sometimes Kingsley had a way of insinuating things that weren’t at all true.

“Are there any doughnuts?” he asked, looking at the food offerings. Oliver was right—the Venator seemed to live only on sugar and caffeine.

“Let me check; I think there might be,” Schuyler said. “There’s definitely coffee. I just made a pot.”

Somehow, throughout the course of the day, the casual meeting with the Venator captain had evolved into an elegant dinner party. Schuyler ordered the staff to set the table with the fine embroidered linens she’d found in the hall closet. Maybe it was the house’s grandeur that did it, but she had fallen sway to the same impetus that had caused Kingsley to throw the swanky New Year’s bash the night before—a desire to live up to their surroundings and to celebrate the grand history of their Coven. Schuyler remembered the Countess’s last party at the Hôtel Lambert. Tonight was yet another effort to honor what was left of their glory before it was swept away. What would happen to the house on Primrose Hill? Schuyler wondered. Would it be sold to pay the Coven’s debts? Or left to ruin when the vampires were finally gone?

“What is this?” she asked Kingsley, as she looked through the kitchen cupboards for the formal china. She held up a white plate and showed him the barely discernable embossed logo on the back of it.

“The Venator sigil.” Kingsley smiled and sipped from his eighth cup of coffee. “I carry the same one on my…” He grinned and pulled on the waistband of his jeans, as if he were about to moon her. “Want to see?”

“NO!” Schuyler said, with a hand up. Kingsley, ever the joker, had his Venator mark tattooed near his unmentionables.

“Your loss,” Kingsley teased. “Anyway, tradition dictates that the Venator set is only used for when the Regis is in town.”

“There is no more Regis,” Oliver reminded him, having wandered in to refill his coffee cup. Truly he was getting to be as much of a coffee addict as Kingsley. “Charles has been missing since the Silver Blood attack in Paris.”

“Right.” Kingsley shrugged.

“No more Regis, no more Coven, no more rules,” Schuyler decided, directing the housekeepers to use the set in her hands instead of the Spode Blue Italian.

“What are you serving? It smells lovely,” said Kingsley, walking over to the simmering pots on the stove. “The house is full of it. We could smell it all the way up in the attic.”

Schuyler smoothed the linen napkins so that the same Venator sigil was showing the right way. “Just something I used to make in Alexandria. A local specialty.”

“Kebabs is it?” he asked. “But aren’t those grilled?”

“You’ll see.” She smiled. “Get ready. Our guest will be here soon. I’ve noticed one thing about Brits: they’re never late.”

Just as Schuyler had predicted, the doorbell rang promptly at seven o’clock. The housekeeper answered the door, and a few minutes later the Venator captain entered the library, where Schuyler, Kingsley, and Oliver were having cocktails.