Blue Bloods

Blue Bloods

By…..Melissa de la Cruz

Acknowledgments

Heartfelt thanks to the book’s fairy godmothers—Brenda Bowen, Helen Perelman, and Elizabeth Rudnick, who gave me a ship and let me fly. Thank you to Colin Hosten , Elizabeth Clark, and everyone at Hyperion for believing in this book. Thanks to Richard Abate, Kate Lee, Josie Freedman, and James Gregorio and Karen Kenyon at ICM for their fantastic support.

Hugs and kisses to the amazing DLCs and Johnstons : Mom—thank you for being at every reading and for always being there for me; Aina , Steve, Nico , and Chito —we are family, and we can boogie, too (especially Nicholas!); Dad J and Mom J—thank you for all your support and for buying all those books; John, Anji , Alex, Tim, Rob, Jenn , Val, and the one on the way we are family and we can mosh pit, too! Thanks to all the extended family, especially the Torres, the Gaisanos , the Ongs , the Izumis , and the de la Cruzes.

Many thanks to the LA and NY support groups: Tristan Ashby, Jennie Kim, Kim DeMarco , Gabriel Sandoval, Tom Dolby, Tyler Rollins, Jason Lundy, Andy Goffe , Jeff Levin, Peter Edmonston , Mark Hidgen , Caroline Suh , Doug Meehan, Thad Sheely , Gabby Sheely , Mindy Wilson, Ji Gilbreth , Catherine Hong, Yumi Kobayashi, Peter Sluszka , Ruth Basloe , Andrey Slivka , Alice Carmona, Michael Casey, Karen Robinovitz , Kate Roche, John Fox, Carol Fox, Karlo Pastrovic , Gabriel de Guzman, Edgar Papazian , Michelle Lenzi , Matt Paco , Fitz Mangubat , Taylor Hsiao, Arisa Chen, Katie Davis, Tina Hay, Diva Gittel , Liz Craft, Adam Fierro , Anna David, MaryClare Williams, Alexandra Jacobs, Nicole Cannon, Ian Kornbluth , Brent Bryan, Nora Gordon, Matthias Kohlemainen , Juliet Gray, Karen Page, Andrew Dornenburg , Sara Shandler , Emily Thomas, Jennifer Zatorski , Abby McAden , Allison Dickens, Jared Paul Stern, Lisa Marsh, Andrew Stone, Ben Widdicombe , Norah Lawlor , and Katie Murphy.

Thanks also to our little Peapod, who we will miss forever.

This book is dedicated to my dad, Bert de la Cruz, true blue in every sense of the word, who has
heroes’ blood in his veins.

This book would not exist without the love, support, insight, and intelligence of my husband,
Mike Johnston, to whom I owe everything.

The family was not simply the sum of the connections created by a large, extended set of
relations … a family… was a name, a material and symbolic patrimony, and a form of
stakeholding inAmerica … “describing a total lineage, past, present and future.”

—Eric Homberger , Mrs. Astor’s New York

You can’t push it underground

You can’t stop it screaming out

How did it come to this?

You will suck the life out of me…

—Muse, “Time Is Running Out”

One hundred and two people arrived on the Mayflower in November of 1620, but less than half lived to see the establishment of the Plymouth Colony the next year. While no one had died during the Mayflower’s voyage, life after arrival was extremely difficult, especially for the young. Almost all of the lost were hardly sixteen years of age.

The staggering mortality rate was partly due to a harsh winter, as well as the fact that, while the men were out in the air, building homes and drinking fresh water, women and children were confined to the damp, crowded recesses of the ship, where disease could spread much more quickly. After the two-month voyage, they remained on the ship for an additional four months while the men built storehouses and living quarters on land. Young Puritans routinely cared for the sick, increasing their exposure to a vast array of illnesses, including a fatal affliction of the blood that historical documents called “consumption.”

Myles Standish was elected governor of the colony in 1622 for thirty consecutive one-year terms. He and his wife Rose had fourteen children, a remarkable seven sets of twins. In an extraordinary turn of events, within a few years, the colony had doubled in size, with multiple births reported in all the surviving families.

—From Death and Life in the Plymouth Colonies, 1620-1641 by Professor Lawrence Winslow Van Alen

Catherine Carver’s Diary

21st of November, 1620

The Mayflower

It has been a difficult winter. The sea does not agree with John, and we are always cold. Perhaps we will find peace in this new land, although many believe we have not left danger behind. Outside my window, the coastline resemblesSouthampton , and for that I am grateful. I will always long for home, but our kind are no longer safe there. I myself do not believe the rumors, but we must do as instructed. It has always been our way. John and I are traveling as husband and wife now. We are planning on marrying soon. There are far too few of us, and more are needed if we are to survive. Perhaps things will change. Perhaps good fortune will shine on us, and our situation will ameliorate. The ship has anchored. We have landed. A new world awaits .

— C.C.

NEW YORK CITY

The Present

ONE

The Bank was a decrepit stone building at the tail end ofHouston Street , on the last divide between the gritty East Village and the wilds of theLower East Side . Once the headquarters of the venerable Van Alen invest ment and brokerage house, it was an imposing, squat presence, a paradigm of the beaux-arts style, with a classic six-column façade and an intimidating row of

“dentals”—razor-sharp serrations on the pediment’s surface. For many years it stood on the corner of Houston and Essex, desolate, empty, and abandoned, until one winter evening when an eye-patch–wearing nightclub promoter chanced upon it after polishing off a hot dog at Katz’s Deli. He was looking for a venue to showcase the new music his DJs were spinning—a dark, haunted sound they were calling “Trance.”

The pulsing music spilled out to the sidewalk, where Schuyler Van Alen , a small, dark-haired fifteen-year-old girl, whose bright blue eyes were ringed with dark kohl eye shadow, stood nervously at the back of the line in front of the club. She picked at her chipping black nail polish.

“Do you really think we’ll get in?” she asked.

“No sweat,” her best friend, Oliver Hazard-Perry replied, cocking an eyebrow “Dylan guaranteed a cakewalk. Besides, we can always point to the plaque over there. Your family built this place, remember?” He grinned.

“So what else is new?” Schuyler smirked, rolling her eyes. The island of Manhattan was linked inexorably to her family history, and as far as she could tell, she was related to the Frick Museum

, the Van Wyck Expressway, and the Hayden Planetarium, give or take an institution (or major thoroughfare) or two. Not that it made any difference in her life. She barely had enough to cover the twenty-five dollar charge at the door.

Oliver affectionately swung an arm around her shoul ders. “Stop worrying! You worry too much.

This’ll be fun, I promise.”

“I wish Dylan had waited for us,” Schuyler fretted, shiv ering in her long black cardigan with holes in each elbow. She’d found the sweater in a Manhattan Valley thrift store last week. It smelled like decay and stale rosewater perfume, and her skinny frame was lost in its voluminous folds. Schuyler always looked like she was drowning in fabric. The black sweater reached almost to her calves, and underneath she wore a sheer black T-shirt over a worn gray thermal undershirt; and under that, a long peasant skirt that swept the floor. Like a nineteenth century street urchin, her skirt hems were black with dirt from dragging on the sidewalks. She was wearing her favorite pair of black-and-white Jack Purcell sneakers, the ones with the duct-taped hole on the right toe. Her dark wavy hair was pulled back with a beaded scarf she’d found in her grandmother’s closet.

Schuyler was startlingly pretty, with a sweet, heart-shaped face; a perfectly upturned nose; and soft, milky skin—but there was something almost insubstantial about her beauty. She looked like a Dresden doll in witch’s cloth ing. Kids at the Duchesne School thought she dressed like a bag lady. It didn’t help that she was painfully shy and kept to herself, because then they just thought she was stuck-up, which she wasn’t. She was just quiet.

Oliver was tall and slim, with a fair, elfin face that was framed by a shag of brilliant chestnut hair. He had sharp cheekbones and sympathetic hazel eyes. He was wearing a severe military greatcoat over a flannel shirt and a pair of holey blue jeans. Of course, the flannel shirt was John Varvatos and the jeans from Citizens of Humanity. Oliver liked to play the part of disaffected youth, but he liked shop ping in SoHo even more.

The two of them had been best friends ever since the second grade, when Schuyler’s nanny forgot to pack her lunch one day, and Oliver had given her half of his lettuce and mayo sandwich. They finished each other’s sentences and liked to read aloud from random pages of Infinite Jest when they were bored. Both were Duchesne legacy kids who traced their ancestry back to the Mayflower. Schuyler counted sixU.S. presidents in her family tree alone. But even with their prestigious pedigrees, they didn’t fit in at Duchesne. Oliver preferred museums to lacrosse, and Schuyler never cut her hair and wore things from consignment shops.

Dylan Ward was a new friend—a sad-faced boy with long lashes, smoldering eyes, and a tarnished reputation. Supposedly, he had a rap sheet and had just been sprung from military school. His grandfather had reportedly bribed Duchesne with funds for a new gym to let him enroll. He had immediately gravitated toward Schuyler and Oliver, recog nizing their similar misfit status.

Schuyler sucked in her cheeks and felt a pit of anxiety forming in her stomach. They’d been so comfortable just hanging out in Oliver’s room as usual, listening to music and flipping through the offerings on his TiVo ; Oliver booting up another game of Vice City on the split screen, while she rifled through the pages of glossy magazines, fantasizing that she too, was lounging on a raft in Sardinia, dancing the fla menco in Madrid, or wandering pensively through the streets of Bombay.

“I’m not sure about this,” she said, wishing they were back in his cozy room instead of shivering outside on the side walk, waiting to see if they would pass muster at the door.

“Don’t be so negative,” Oliver chastised. It had been his idea to leave the comfort of his room to brave the New York nightlife, and he didn’t want to regret it. “If you think we’ll get in, we’ll get in. It’s all about confidence, trust me.” Just then, his BlackBerry beeped. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the screen. “It’s Dylan. He’s inside, he’ll meet us by the windows on the second floor. Okay?”

“Do I really look all right?” she asked, feeling suddenly doubtful about her clothes.

“You look fine,” he replied automatically. “You look great,” he said, as his thumbs jabbed a reply on the plastic device.

“You’re not even looking at me.”

“I look at you every day.” Oliver laughed, meeting her eye, then uncharacteristically blushing and looking away. His BlackBerry beeped again, and this time he excused himself, walking away to answer it.

Across the street, Schuyler saw a cab pull up to the curb, and a tall blond guy stepped out of it.

Just as he emerged, another cab barreled down the street on the opposite side. It was swerving recklessly, and at first it looked like it would miss him, but at the last moment, the boy threw himself in its path and disappeared underneath its wheels. The taxicab never even stopped, just kept going as if nothing happened.

“Oh my God!”Schuyler screamed.

The guy had been hit—she was sure of it—he’d been run over—he was surely dead.

“Did you see that?” she asked, frantically looking around for Oliver, who seemed to have disappeared. Schuyler ran across the street, fully expecting to see a dead body, but the boy was standing right in front of her, counting the change in his wallet. He slammed the door shut and sent his taxi on its way. He was whole and unhurt.

“You should be dead,” she whispered.

“Excuse me?” he asked, a quizzical smile on his face.

Schuyler was a little taken aback—she recognized him from school. It was Jack Force. The famous Jack Force. One of those guys—head of the lacrosse team, lead in the school play, his term paper on shopping malls published in Wired, so handsome she couldn’t even meet his eye.

Maybe she was dreaming things. Maybe she just thought she’d seen him dive in front of the cab.

That had to be it. She was just tired.

“I didn’t know you were a dazehead ,” she blurted awk wardly, meaning a Trance acolyte.

“I’m not, actually. I’m headed over there,” he explained, motioning to the club next door to The Bank, where a very intoxicated rock star was steering several giggling groupies past the velvet rope.

Schuyler blushed. “Oh, I should have known.”

He smiled at her kindly. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why apologize? How would you have known that? You read minds or something?” he asked.

“Maybe I do. And maybe it’s an off day.” She smiled. He was flirting with her, and she was flirting back. Okay, so it was definitely just her imagination. He had totally not thrown himself in front of the cab.