Lost in Time (3 page)

The past seven months had not been easy, and Mimi had barely held it together. The death of the Nephilim had done little to assuage the growing fear and instability in the Coven; the Elders were about to revolt; talk of dissolution and hiding underground was gaining more ground every day; but the Lennox brothers’ betrayal grated hardest of all. Instead of securing her traitorous brother, as she had ordered them to do, they had disappeared into the ether, with only a lame excuse for their resignation—something about hunting down more of the demon-born Nephilim hidden around the world, with the Venators from Shanghai—a noble enough cause, surely. But orders were orders, and insubordination was cause for an ar-rest warrant. Not that Mimi had any more Venators to send after them. The few that were left were too busy protecting the rest of the Coven. News from the outposts was grim: vampires were being slaughtered in every corner of the world—a fire in London during a Conclave meeting, more young ones found drained in Buenos Aires—the Silver Blood menace, far from being extinguished, had only grown.

The Dark Prince remained trapped behind the Gates of Hell, but it seemed to make little difference, as the Covens, mired in fear and infighting, were in danger of self-destructing on their own. Lucifer had struck at the heart of the Blue Bloods when he’d sent his nemesis, the archangel Michael, to the white darkness that had claimed Mimi’s own true love. As for Gabrielle, supposedly Allegra had woken up and left the hospital, but her current whereabouts were unknown.

Overwhelmed and overworked, Mimi had decided that she could not lead the vampires alone. She wanted him back.

She had nothing to live for otherwise, and only Kingsley martin—of the cocky grin and sexy drawl—could help her rebuild the Covens and create a true haven for the vampires, now that her cowardly twin had abdicated his duty in order to be with his half-human whore. If Mimi believed the rumors, Jack had actually made that creature of Abomination his bride. His freaking
bondmate
.

Not that Mimi felt any ounce of love for Jack anymore, but it was still humiliating to hear that he had gone through with it. Broken their bond and cast his lot with that freak.

First Gabrielle had broken her bond to wed her human familiar, now Abbadon was doing the same…. What was next? Did nothing matter anymore? What about the Code of the Vampires? Should they just toss that into the Black Fire as well?

Were they to live like indulgent Red Bloods now, who made and broke their vows without a shred of thought or guilt? Perhaps they should just give up, forsake civilization and the old ways, and live like barbarians.

On Oliver’s advice, Mimi had gone to Egypt in December to make her first attempt at breaking Kingsley out of Hell, secure that when she returned to New York, Jack would be in chains. But the Venators stationed in Italy had reported that Jack had slipped away from them in Florence, and they had no idea where he’d gone. Mimi was surprised, as she had believed deep down that Jack would return to face his crime on his own honor. He was no coward, and she was sure that, at the very least, he would respect the Code and defend himself at a blood trial. Obviously, she was wrong. Perhaps she did not know him as well as she thought. Perhaps his new bride had made him soft—encouraged the delusion that he might live a life of peace without any consequences for his actions.

It didn’t help that Mimi’s first trip to Egypt had been a bust, and she had returned empty-handed. Her mother had convinced her to go back to school, so in may she had graduated from Duchesne—accepted her crown of white flowers and stood in the tiled courtyard in her tea-length white dress, gloves, and satin shoes, like she had in other lifetimes. It was a farce, just like all of the Committee events—the old Blue Bloods clinging to their social calendar and their seasonal rituals as their world fell to pieces. Mimi never felt older in her life than she had that day. “The future is before you,” the graduation speaker had told the assembly. “You are full of promise and have the ability to change the world.” Blah, blah, blah. What a bunch of bull. The future was over. There was no future without the Coven, without the Code, without Kingsley.

Before leaving for Cairo again, Mimi had given instruc-tions to the remaining conclave to contact her should something incredibly stupid or terrible happen to them while she was away. They could not disband the Coven, as she had taken the keys to the Repository with her, which unlocked the cycle files contained in the House of Records, along with the remaining sacred materials. The cowards could go underground, sure, but they would leave knowing they had little hope of returning in a new cycle; and not everyone was strong enough to live as an Enmortal.

Mimi walked onto her expansive balcony to get a closer view of the three pyramids of Giza, grand and intimidating in the near distance. She had wanted to stay as close to them as possible. On a clear day, one could see the Giza pyramids from many points in the city; they appeared as looming triangular shadows just beyond the skyline. But here the pyramids were so close she felt as if she could almost reach out and touch them with her hand, and she felt closer to Kingsley by just looking at them. It wouldn’t be long now.

She yawned, feeling fatigued from her arrival the day before, still sluggish with jet lag, when the phone buzzed. She hit the speaker.

“Breakfast on the terrace?” asked her Conduit, Oliver Hazard-Perry. “I saw they have
t’aamiyyas
today.”

“Mmm. I like those fried little cakes.” Mimi smiled.

When Mimi walked to the buffet, she found Oliver sitting at the table in front of the gardens facing the pyramids. He was wearing a linen safari jacket, a straw fedora, and desert boots.

He stood when he saw her and pulled out a chair for her. The hotel restaurant was crowded with affluent adventure-seeking tourists—Americans spreading
fül
, stewed chickpeas (a

“breakfast chickpea” Mimi thought, amused), on crisp pita bread; English families consulting maps; groups of Germans laughing boisterously at pictures taken on their digital camer-as. A general hum of self-satisfied smugness pervaded the ritzy hotel atmosphere. Mimi had learned that it didn’t matter what country she was in, all five-star hotel buffets were the same, with offerings of expensive cold cuts and delicate pastries along with the custom-omelet stand and a selection of

“native” foods, catering to the same preening sector of the international bourgeoisie. She had traveled all over the world and yet could never escape the denizens of the Upper East Side—from mount Kilimanjaro to the Arctic Circle, the privileged tribe could be found beached on the shores of the mal-dives or scuba-diving in Palau. The world was flat, all right, and best traversed in Jack Rogers flip-flops.

“Don’t you look like you just stepped out of an Agatha Christie novel,” she told Oliver, placing her napkin on her lap and nodding to the waiter to pour her a cup of their strong black coffee.

“Planning my death on the Nile already?” Oliver asked with a smile.

“Not yet,” she growled.

“Because I’d like to get a bite to eat first, if that’s all right with you.” He nodded toward the sumptuous buffet. “Shall we?”

They filled their plates and made their way back to their table. Mimi cast a skeptical eye at Oliver’s plate, which towered precariously with stacks of eggs, strawberries, waffles, toast, pita, cheese, croissants, and bagels. Boys were such food-shoveling machines, but maybe he had the right idea. Who knew when they would be able to get another meal?

She tried to eat but could only pick at the tasty little morsels on her plate, as she had butterflies in her stomach and had lost her appetite. No matter: before she left New York she had visited her current familiar and had “blood-loaded” for her trip, like a marathon runner filling up on carbohydrates the night before the race.

“Pity we’re not staying long,” Oliver said, taking a hearty bite from a flaky biscuit. “I heard that at night there’s some sort of laser light show at the pyramids. The concierge says it’s narrated by the Sphinx. Which begs the question, if the Sphinx could talk, what would it say?”

“Amazing what Red Bloods will do to something so sacred. Is there no limit?” Mimi asked.

“It could be worse. There could be a Sting concert, like last time,” Oliver reminded her.

Now, that was truly a disaster, Mimi thought. When they had arrived in Cairo the first time, the area around the pyramids had been chaos—not only unbearably hot, trying to push through the crowds so they could get to the entrance, but all the while Sting was up there belting out those run-of-the-mill saggy middle-aged yoga melodies. She shuddered at the memory. Rock stars should not age. They should die before they turn thirty, or disappear into their châteaus in mustique, returning only with doorstop-size tomes full of their heroin-fueled misadventures.

“You could stay,” Mimi offered, before she could change her mind. “I can go down alone, like before.” She could find another way to fulfill the exchange, she thought. He didn’t have to do this. Oliver was a bit of a prig, a bit of a stiff, but he was sweet and thoughtful, and it had been his idea to visit the white witch; and thanks to him, Mimi now knew exactly what she needed to get Kingsley out of the underworld.

This is your last chance, she thought.

Oliver sopped up some egg with his toast. He had made a heroic effort and his plate was almost empty. “You said you needed someone to come down with you. And besides, it’s not every day I get to visit Hell. Do I get a souvenir?”

Mimi snorted. If only he knew. Oliver
was
the souvenir.

There was something the witch had told her about her mission that she had kept from him all this time.
The Orpheus Amendment demands a sacrifice in payment for the release of a
soul. A soul for a soul.
Oliver had made it all too easy, Mimi thought. Truly, it was unfortunate to lose him just as she had started to like him, just as they had become friends of a sort, especially after he had practically saved her life not too long ago. Okay, scratch “practically.” He’d saved her life, and he was a proven asset to the Coven, uncovering clues that had led to the hidden Nephilim in the end. He was a good guy, and a good friend to Mimi. Still, it had to be done. She would have to ignore her growing fondness for him if she was going to get Kingsley back. There was no contest. It was just so
convenient
of him to have volunteered to make the journey with her, and Mimi was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Besides, human Conduits lived to serve their vampire masters, didn’t they?

Beatrice

Allegra Van Alen had visited San Francisco many times in her past life cycles, yet had avoided the city in her current one, almost as if she were allergic to it. Whenever Conclave business had called for a trip out West, she’d always found a way to wriggle out of it, find someone to take her place, or a way to handle issues by conference calls.

But now that she was twenty-one years old, and, in the fall of 1989, newly awakened to her full memories and powers, she did not see the harm. She had graduated from college in the spring, standing tall and proud with her brother at the dais, clutching her alumni pin (diplomas would be given out later through the registrar). Amazing that she had accom-plished that much, considering her high school education had been cobbled together from a jumble of prep schools of vary-ing academic reputation. After abruptly leaving Endicott Academy her junior year, she had refused to return to Duchesne, and instead had aimlessly hopped around the Northeastern private-school corridor, sometimes switching midsemester on a whim.

Cordelia had been certain there was no way Allegra would gain admittance into the prestigious university that had just rolled out the red carpet for Charles. But her mother had somehow forgotten the power of a fancy name, or the pull of the family’s illustrious history (along with its generous dona-tions over the years), and an acceptance letter had been sent.

College had been a blur of parties and drama, and Allegra had thrown herself into campus life with gusto, showing an energy and motivation that had eluded her during her peripatetic high school years. It was as if she was finally getting over the terrible mistake she had made at Endicott—of falling in love with her human familiar and putting her bond at risk. Allegra had accepted her destiny and position in Blue Blood society, and Charles was pleased.

It would not be long before she would be bonded to her twin and claim her rightful heritage. Allegra was looking forward to another productive lifetime with Charles, the two of them leading the way, setting examples for the rest of their kind, as they had done since the beginning of time. They had had many names over the years—Junia and Cassius, Rose and myles—but they would always be Michael and Gabrielle, pro-tectors of the Garden, the Uncorrupted, Archangels of the Light.

She was in San Francisco because of Charles. The two of them were rarely apart these days, and when he’d asked her to come with him, she’d said yes. He’d left early that morning to meet with a group of local Elders about an emergency concerning their newest batch of vampires. Allegra had been worried, but Charles had assured her it was probably nothing but the usual issues that came with Transformation. There were always a few kinks here and there: some would awake to the memories too early, causing confusion or catatonia; others would have trouble controlling their bloodlust. The Elders were a jittery bunch.

Allegra and Charles were staying in Nob Hill, in one of the many luxurious apartments and residences around the globe that were now at their disposal as heads of the Coven. Since she had time alone, Allegra had decided to spend the afternoon wandering around the pretty neighborhood, reacquaint-ing herself with the hilly streets, doing a little shopping, paus-ing to admire the view. She’d crossed Union Square and wandered into a tiny jewel box of an alley called maiden Lane—a charming side street filled with small boutiques and art galleries. She walked inside the nearest one.