Masquerade

Copyright © 2007 by Melissa de la Cruz
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any
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publisher. For information address Hyperion Books for Children, 114 Fifth Avenue,
New York, New York 10011-5690.

First Edition

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Printed in the United States of America
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Designed by Elizabeth H. Clark

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7868-3893-6
ISBN-10: 0-7868-3893-0
Reinforced binding

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• Other Books By Melissa De La Cruz
  
• One
  
• Two
  
• Three
  
• New York Herald Archives, Oct. 1, 1870
  
• Four
  
• Five
  
• Six
  
• New York Herald Archives, Mar. 15, 1871
  
• Seven
  
• Eight
  
• Nine
  
• Ten
  
• Eleven
  
• Twelve
  
• Thirteen
  
• Fourteen
  
• Fifteen
  
• New York Herald Archives, Nov. 24, 1871
  
• Sixteen
  
• Seventeen
  
• Eighteen
  
• Nineteen
  
• Twenty
  
• New York Herald Archives, Feb. 10, 1872
  
• Twenty-one
  
• Twenty-two
  
• Twenty-three
  
• New York Herald Archives, Sep. 30, 1872
  
• Twenty-four
  
• Twenty-five
  
• Twenty-six
  
• Twenty-seven
  
• Patient Record, Part 1
  
• Twenty-eight
  
• Twenty-nine
  
• Thirty
  
• Patient Record, Part 2
  
• Thirty-one
  
• Thirty-two
  
• Thirty-three
  
• Thirty-four
  
• Schizophrenia
  
• Thirty-five
  
• Thirty-six
  
• Thirty-seven
  
• Thirty-eight
  
• Thirty-nine
  
• Forty
  
• Forty-one
  
• Forty-two
  
• Forty-three
  
• Forty-four
  
• Forty-five
  
• Forty-six
  
• Forty-seven
  
• Forty-eight
  
• New York Herald Archives, Nov. 23, 1872
  
• The Van Alen Family Tree
  
• Acknowledgments
  
• About The Author
  

NOVELS

Cat’s Meow
The Au Pairs
The Au Pairs: Skinny-Dipping
The Au Pairs: Sun-Kissed
Fresh Off the Boat
Blue Bloods

NON-FICTION

How to Become Famous in Two Weeks or Less
The Fashionista Files:
Adventures in Four-Inch Heels and Faux Pas

For my brother, Francis de la Cruz,
stalwart ally and kindred spirit

And for my husband, Mike Johnston,
without whom the Silver Bloods would not exist

We become so accustomed to disguise ourselves to others,
that at last we are disguised to ourselves.

—François Duc de la Rochefoucauld

. . . the thing I am becomes something else. . . .
The shadow is cast.

—Bauhaus, “Mask”

T
he pigeons had taken over St. Mark’s Square. Hundreds of them: fat, gray, squat, and silent, pecking at the pieces of
sfogliatelle
and
pane uva
bread crumbs that careless tourists had left behind. It was noon, but the sun was hidden behind clouds, and a gloomy pall had fallen over the city. The gondolas were lined up on the docks, empty, their striped-shirted gondoliers leaning on their oars, waiting for customers who had not arrived. The waters were in low tide, the dark stain of the higher levels visible on the building facades. Schuyler Van Alen rested her elbows on the rickety café table and put her head in her hands, so that the bottom of her chin was hidden underneath her oversize turtleneck. She was a Blue Blood vampire, the last of the Van Alens— a formerly prominent New York family whose influence and largesse had been instrumental in the founding of modern-day Manhattan. Once upon a time, the Van Alen name had been synonymous with power, privilege, and patronage. But that was a long time ago, and the family fortune had been dwindling for many years: Schuyler was more familiar with penny-pinching than shopping sprees. Her clothes—the black turtleneck that hung past her hips, cutoff leggings, an army flak jacket, and beaten-up motorcycle boots—were thrift-store castoffs.

On any other girl, the ragged ensemble might look as though it had been thrown together by a homeless vagrant, but on Schuyler it became raiment equal to royalty, and made her delicate, heart-shaped features even more striking. With her pale, ivory complexion, deep-set blue eyes, and mass of dark, blue-black hair, she was a stunning, impossibly lovely creature. Her beauty was made even more benevolent when she smiled, although there was little chance of that this morning.

“Cheer up,” Oliver Hazard-Perry said, lifting a small cup of espresso to his lips. “Whatever happens, or doesn’t happen, at least we had a bit of a break. And doesn’t the city look gorgeous? C’mon, you’ve got to admit being in Venice is so much better than being stuck in Chem lab.”

Oliver had been Schuyler’s best friend since childhood— a gangly, floppy-haired, handsome youth, with a quick grin and kind, hazel, eyes. He was her confidant and partner in crime and, as she had learned not too long ago, her human Conduit—traditionally a vampire’s assistant and left-hand man, a position of exalted servitude. Oliver had been instrumental in getting them from New York to Venice in a short period of time. He had been able to convince his father to let them accompany him on a business trip to Europe.

Despite Oliver’s cheerful words, Schuyler was glum. It was their last day in Venice and they had found nothing. Tomorrow they would fly back to New York empty-handed, their trip a complete failure.

She began ripping apart the label on her Pellegrino bottle, tearing it carefully so it unwound into a long thin strip of green paper. She just didn’t want to give up so soon.

Almost two months before, Schuyler’s grandmother, Cordelia Van Alen, had been attacked by a Silver Blood, the mortal enemies of the Blue Blood vampires. Schuyler had learned from Cordelia that, like the Blue Bloods, Silver Bloods were fallen angels, doomed to live their eternal lives on earth. However, unlike the Blue Bloods, Silver Blood vampires had sworn allegiance to the exiled Prince of Heaven, Lucifer himself, and had refused to comply with the Code of the Vampires, a stringent rule of ethics that the Blue Bloods hoped would help bring about their eventual return to Paradise.

Cordelia had been Schuyler’s legal guardian. Schuyler had never known her parents: her father died before she was born, and her mother had fallen into a coma soon after giving birth to her. For most of Schuyler’s childhood, Cordelia had been aloof and distant, but she was the only family Schuyler had had in the world, and for better or worse, she had loved her grandmother.

“She was sure he would be here,” Schuyler said, disconsolately tossing bread crumbs at the pigeons that had gathered underneath their table. It was something she had been saying ever since they’d arrived in Venice. The Silver Blood attack had left Cordelia weakened, but before her grandmother had succumbed to the passive state (Blue Blood vampires are continually reincarnated immortal beings), she had pressed on Schuyler the need to find her missing grandfather, Lawrence Van Alen, whom she believed held the key to defeating the Silver Bloods. With her last breath, Schuyler’s grandmother had instructed her to travel to Venice, to comb the city’s crooked streets and winding canals for any sign of him.

“But we’ve looked everywhere. No one has ever even heard of a Lawrence Van Alen, or a Dr. John Carver,” Oliver sighed, pointing out that they had made dozens of inquiries at the university, at Harry’s Bar at the Cipriani, and at every hotel, villa, and pensione in between. John Carver had been a name Lawrence had taken during the Plymouth settlement.

“I know. I’m beginning to think he never even existed,” Schuyler replied.

“Maybe she was wrong—too weak and disoriented and confused about where to send you,” Oliver suggested. “This could end up being just a wild-goose chase.”

Schuyler mulled the possibility. Perhaps Cordelia had been wrong, and maybe Charles Force, the leader of the Blue Bloods, was right after all. But the loss of her grandmother had affected her terribly, and Schuyler was nursing a fevered determination to carry out the old woman’s final wish.

“I can’t think like that, Ollie. If I do, then I’ve given up. I have to find him. I have to find my grandfather. It hurts too much to think about what Charles Force said. . . .”

“What did he say?” Oliver asked. Schuyler had mentioned a conversation she’d had with Charles before they had left, but had kept the details vague.

“He said . . .” Schuyler closed her eyes and remembered the tension-filled encounter.

She had gone to visit her mother in the hospital. Allegra Van Alen was as beautiful and remote as ever, a woman who lingered between life and death. She had slipped into a catatonic state shortly after Schuyler was born. Schuyler had not been surprised to find a fellow visitor at her mother’s bedside.

Charles Force was kneeling by the bed, but he stood up quickly and wiped his eyes when he saw Schuyler.

Schuyler felt a stab of pity for the man. Just a month ago, she had believed him to be the personification of evil, had even accused him of being a Silver Blood. How off the mark she had been.

Charles Force was Michael, Pure of Heart, one of the archangels who had voluntarily chosen exile from Heaven to help his brethren who had been cast out during Lucifer’s revolt and cursed to live their lives on earth as the Blue Bloods. He was a vampire only by choice, not sin. Her mother, Allegra Van Alen, was the only other vampire who shared this distinction. Allegra was Gabrielle, the Uncorrupted, the Virtuous. Michael and Gabrielle had a long and entangled history. They were vampire twins, blood-bound to each other, and had been born brother and sister in this cycle.

The bond was an immortal vow between Blue Bloods, but Gabrielle had forsaken the vow when she had taken Schuyler’s Red Blood father, her human familiar, as husband instead.

“Do you know why your mother is in a coma? Or chooses to be in a coma?” Charles had asked.

Schuyler nodded. “She swore never to take another human familiar after my father died. Cordelia said it was because she wanted to die herself.”

“But she cannot. She is a vampire. So she lives,” Charles said bitterly. “If this is what you call living.”

“It is her choice,” Schuyler said, her voice even. She did not like the judgment inherent in Charles’s words.

“Choice,” Charles cursed. “A romantic notion, but nothing more.” He turned to Schuyler. “I hear you are going to Venice.”

Schuyler nodded. “We leave tomorrow. To find my grandfather,” she declared.
It is said that the daughter of Gabrielle will bring us to the salvation we seek,
her grandmother had told her.
Only your grandfather knows how to defeat the Silver Bloods. He will help you.

Cordelia had explained that throughout the history of the world, Silver Bloods had preyed on Blue Bloods, consuming their blood and their memories. The last known attacks had happened in Plymouth, when the vampires had crossed to the new world. Four hundred years later, in New York City, when Schuyler had started her sophomore year at the elite Duchesne School, the attacks had started again. The first victim was a fellow student—Aggie Carondolet. Soon after Aggie’s death, the body count had increased. Most disturbing to Schuyler, all of the slain had been Blue Blood teens, taken during their most vulnerable period—between the years of fifteen and twenty-one, before they were fully in control of their powers.

“Lawrence Van Alen is an outcast, an exile,” Charles Force said. “You will find nothing but confusion and sorrow if you travel to Venice,” the steely-eyed magnate declared.

“I don’t care,” Schuyler muttered, her eyes downcast. She gripped the hem of her sweater tightly, twisting it into knots. “You still refuse to acknowledge that the Silver Bloods have returned. And already there have been too many of us who have been taken.”

The last killing had happened shortly after her grandmother’s funeral. Summer Amory, last year’s Deb of the Year, had been found drained in her penthouse apartment in Trump Tower. The worst part about the Silver Bloods was that they didn’t bring death—no—they brought a fate worse than death. The Code of the Vampires expressly forbade them from performing the
Caerimonia Osculor
, the Sacred Kiss, the feeding on blood—on their own kind. The
Caerimonia
was a regulated ritual, with stringent rules. No humans were ever to be abused, or fully drained.

But Lucifer and his legions discovered that if they performed the Kiss on other vampires instead of humans, it made them more powerful. Red Blood held the life force of only one being, while Blue Blood was more potent, holding in it an immortal bastion of knowledge. The Silver Bloods consumed a vampire’s blood and memories, sucking them to complete dissipation, making the Blue Blood a slave to an insane consciousness. Silver Bloods were many beings trapped in one shell, forever. Abomination.

Charles Force’s frown deepened. “The Silver Bloods have been banished. It is impossible. There is another explanation for what has happened. The Committee is investigating—”

“The Committee has done nothing! The Committee will continue to do nothing!” Schuyler argued. She knew the history that Charles Force clung to—that the Blue Bloods had won the final battle in ancient Rome, when he had defeated Lucifer himself, then known as the maniacal Silver Blood emperor Caligula, and sent him deep into the fires of Hell by the point of his golden sword.

“As you wish,” Charles sighed. “I cannot stop you from going to Venice, but I must warn you that Lawrence is not half the man Cordelia wished him to be.”

He lifted up Schuyler’s chin, as she stared at him with defiance. “You should take care, Allegra’s daughter,” he said in a kinder tone.

Schuyler shuddered at the memory of his touch. The past two weeks had done nothing but prove that Charles Force might have known what he was talking about. Maybe Schuyler should just stop asking questions, go back to New York, and be a good girl, a good Blue Blood. One who didn’t question the motives or actions of The Committee. One whose only problem was what to wear to the Four Hundred Ball at the St. Regis.

She blew out her bangs and looked beseechingly across the table at her best friend. Oliver had been a faithful supporter. He had been right by her side throughout the whole ordeal, and during the chaotic days right after her grandmother’s funeral.

“I know he’s here, I can
feel
it,” Schuyler said. “I wish we didn’t have to leave so soon.” She put the bottle, completely stripped of its label, back on the table.

The waiter arrived with the check, and Oliver quickly slipped his credit card in the leather tablet before Schuyler could protest.

They decided to hitch a ride on a gondola for one last tour of the ancient city. Oliver helped Schuyler into the boat, and the two of them leaned back on the plush cushion at the same time, so that their forearms pressed against each other. Schuyler inched away just a tiny little bit, feeling slightly embarrassed at their physical proximity. This was new. She had always felt comfortable with Oliver in the past. They had grown up together—skinny-dipping in the pond behind her grandmother’s house on Nantucket, spending sleepovers curled up next to each other in the same double-wide sleeping bag. They were as close as siblings, but lately she had found that she was reacting to his presence with a newfound self-consciousness she couldn’t explain. It was as if she had woken up one day and discovered her best friend was also a boy—and a very good-looking one at that.

The gondolier pushed off from the dock, and they began their slow voyage. Oliver took pictures, and Schuyler tried to enjoy the view. But as beautiful as the city was, she couldn’t help but feel a wave of distress and helplessness. If she didn’t find her grandfather, what would she do then? Aside from Oliver, she was alone in the world. Defenseless. What would happen to her? The Silver Blood—if it had been a Silver Blood—had almost taken her twice already. She pressed a hand to her neck as if to shield herself from the past attack. Who knew if or when it would come back? And would the slaughter stop, as The Committee hoped— or would it continue, as she suspected, until all of them were taken?

Schuyler shivered, even though there was no chill in the air, looked across the canal, and saw a woman walking out of a building.

A woman who looked eerily familiar.

It can’t be, Schuyler thought. It’s impossible. Her mother was in a coma, in a hospital room in New York City. There was no way she could be in Italy. Or could she? Was there something about Allegra that Schuyler did not know?

Almost as if she had heard her, the woman looked straight into Schuyler’s eyes.

It was her mother. She was sure of it. The woman had Allegra’s fine blond hair, thin aristocratic nose, the same knife-blade cheekbones, the same lissome figure, the same bright green eyes.

“Oliver—it’s—oh my God!” Schuyler exclaimed, pulling on her friend’s coat. She pointed frantically across the canal.