The Gates of Paradise (3 page)

he castle came into view at the edge of a black and winding river, its tall gray walls rising forty feet above the dark waters. Steep cliffs backed the fortress, which meant the stone bridge was the only way in or out. The keep was well fortified, designed to repel a siege. But its defenses would soon prove useless.

“We’ll stop here, lest we give away our location,” Tomasia Fosari decided, and the team drifted into the shadows of the forest. The air was damp and smelled of the rotting river, its murky waters rippling with the current.

“Are you certain you can do this?” Giovanni Rustici asked. In the moonlight his hair was like a halo around his handsome face. Gio was not only the best Venator among them, he was also a fellow sculptor at Donatello’s studio, and Tomasia’s closest friend. He knew how hard this was for her. They had spent days on the road tracking the Dark Prince to his hiding place in Verona.

“Yes,” Tomasia told him, her face set. She had believed that Andreas del Pollaiuolo was the love of her life. Michael to her Gabrielle. But she had been deceived. Dre carried the spirit of Lucifer within him. Simonetta de Vespucci had named him as the father of her baby. “The Mistress,” Simonetta was called, consort to the Dark Prince, his human bride, the mother of Nephilim.

The dark-haired beauty had cowered from Gio’s blade.

“We shall not suffer the demon child to live,” Gio growled.

But Tomi had stayed his hand. “No. She will be kept under guard, protected and watched by our finest Venators. We would be no better than our Silver Blood brethren if we kill her. We shall not shed devil blood, not in the name of all that is Divine.”

Simonetta had revealed Andreas’s location, had begged them to show her lover mercy. They had left the weeping, pregnant woman in the care of the Petruvian priests tasked with her safety.

Tomi shivered at the thought of what might have been if they had not discovered the deception. She would have bonded with Dre, with Lucifer. She would have pledged her troth to his. How could she not have known? How was it that she had been able to see her mate in his soul? It did not make sense.

She looked at the castle looming in the distance. Andreas was hiding inside with a Coven of Silver Bloods, and she was going to burn it down with the Black Fire.

“I know you loved him once,” Gio said softly. “I know how hard this is.”

Gio—dear, lovely Gio. Tomi put a hand on his. “I cannot love one who has been false.” She scanned the castle once more for any sign of life. Torchlight flickered in a distant window. She heard horses neigh, and a shadow of a hawk passed over her head. Otherwise, the night was quiet and nothing moved. The castle towers’ red terra-cotta roofs glowed in the dark. Truly, no terrestrial fire could harm this place, but the Black Fire of Hell was another matter.

She pulled a tinderbox from her cloak and motioned the others to gather around. There were five of them in all. Five Venators, five sides of a pentagram.

The small container glowed with an unearthly light, and the air around it hummed with energy. Tomi ran a finger along the box top, and the lid slid open to reveal a small glowing spark, red flames with a black heart. The air smelled of sulfur and smoke.

“The Black Fire is held in check by a containment spell for now. The spell will not abate until I release the enchantment,” she said as, one by one, the Venators lit their wooden torches with the dark flame.

“Each of us will take a corner of the castle. Wait for my word. Once released, the flame cannot be extinguished. It can destroy stone as well as flesh, and immortal souls as swiftly as mortal. Toss the torches onto the castle, then run away as fast as you are able.” Her voice trembled a little. “Remember, the Black Fire of Hell is treacherous; it will burn you as easily as it will burn our enemies.”

The team disbanded, carrying their torches high in the air. The three other Venators disappeared along the river’s edge, while Tomi and Gio sprinted across the bridge, toward the keep. Tomi watched as the dark flames flickered on both sides of the wall, the Black Fire sucking all light from the murky night.

They crossed to the far side of the bridge.

When she was certain the team was in position, she gave the signal.

Now,
she sent to each Venator as she released her torch, sending the flame to the sky.

Gio sent his flying to the air, toward an open window. “RUN!” he yelled, as they fled the black flames.

Tomi knew the danger, but couldn’t stop from looking backward. The sight was magnificent in its horror. The Black Fire erupted over the castle wall, melting the gray stone as if it were made of wax. The two towers and the mighty gate collapsed backward into a black hole of swirling flames. The far side of the bridge toppled behind them, pulling one of the bridge’s broad pillars with it into the dark waters in a thunderous crash.

The black flames began to consume the river, making the water steam as the fire raced across its length. The smell was hideous, sick and rotten; it consumed everything in its path: air, water, and rock.

When they reached the far bank and the edge of the forest, they heard the first screams from inside the castle. They ran along the riverbank, the fire receding behind them. A mile from the castle, they reached high ground and looked down at the valley below. The river rode in a broad circle around the promontory and back to the castle, and the Black Fire would not spread beyond it once it had consumed the soul of the Dark Prince. Two of the three Venators appeared out of the smoke.

“Where’s Dantos?” Tomi asked.

“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.

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.

Lucas Mendrion had the same ageless visage as Kingsley, the mark of the Enmortal. He could have been anywhere from eighteen to forty, it was hard to tell. He was not handsome—his nose was hawkish and a bit too pointed, his eyes sharp and skeptical—but he projected a reassuring gravity. A man you could trust with your life, and with your secrets, Schuyler thought, understanding why Allegra had chosen him. He was wearing the standard Venator blacks.

“Schuyler Van Alen,” she said, extending a hand. “Thank you for meeting with us, Venator Mendrion.”

He shook it firmly. “Allegra’s daughter,” he said, staring at her intensely. “You have your mother’s face, but not her eyes.…”

“They tell me I inherited my father’s.” She smiled.

“I didn’t know your father. Red Blood, wasn’t he?” Mendrion said with a raised eyebrow. “Highly inappropriate, but all in the past now. I saw your mother in this incarnation. She came to visit me once, before she disappeared from us.”

“What was she like?” Schuyler asked. She knew so little of Allegra, and was eager for any little bits of insight or memory of her mother.

“Exactly the same as when I knew her in Rome,” he said. “Impulsive, tenacious, brilliant. She was…our queen.”

Schuyler nodded. “I’m sorry—where are my manners—this is Oliver Hazard-Perry, my Conduit, and you know Venator Martin.”

Oliver and Kingsley both stood and shook the man’s hand. Kingsley poured everyone drinks.

“So—shall we get started? It’s good of you to have put together this dinner, but I’m afraid we don’t have much time for idle chitchat,” Mendrion said. “Martin said you were here to carry out Allegra’s legacy.”

Schuyler nodded. “They tell me you know about my family’s work, and about the Order of the Seven.”

“Those of us who were not chosen to serve the order served it in other ways,” Mendrion said. “Gabrielle asked me to ensure the safety of this city from its founding.” He took a sip from his glass. “As you must be aware, all the Gates of Hell are under siege at the moment; although so far London has been lucky enough to escape the Dark Prince’s wrath.”

“Do you know where the remaining keepers are—Pentalum? Onbasius? Octilla?” asked Oliver.

The Venator nodded. “Yes. We sent all our remaining Venators to bolster the security of the gates, but the odds are against them. The keepers will stand their ground and give their lives to the battle. But they will fall. The gates will fall. It is only a matter of time. The Nephilim walk the earth now. They will grow in number and influence the Red Bloods. Sow war and disease and despair.”

Schuyler saw Oliver and Kingsley looking as uneasy as she felt. The Venator’s words were defeatist, as if the battle had already been fought and lost.

“You sent
all
the Venators away?” Schuyler asked, her face falling, realizing why there were so few vampires left in London when they arrived; why it had been so difficult for Kingsley to raise a battalion.

“Yes. That is why I am here.” He coughed. “To urge you to make your preparations to go underground, as I am.”

“Excuse me?” Schuyler asked, startled.

“War has come to the vampires; the Croatan has risen. You are not safe here. Especially you, Schuyler Van Alen, as Gabrielle’s daughter.”

“I’m not going anywhere! Kingsley said you could help us!” she said, turning to the other Venator in the room, who looked impassive.

“I
am
helping you,” Mendrion said.

“By abandoning the city? Abandoning your post? You were tasked to guard this Coven! To protect the city that houses the Gate of Promise—do you know where that path leads? What is behind that gate and its true nature?” she asked, her blue eyes shining with anger and indignation.

“It is too dangerous to know,” Mendrion whispered.

“You took an oath! To my mother! To Gabrielle!”

“I kept this city safe for as long as I was able. I financed the Coven, trained the Venators, supported the Regis for as long as I could. But with Michael missing and Gabrielle gone…there is no hope for us. When I recognized Martin as one of our own and he told me you were here, I agreed to meet with you so I could warn you to hide. It’s the least I could do.”

Schuyler felt wrathful, angry at the cowardly Venator in front of her. His ageless countenance wavered, and for a moment he looked centuries old, crippled, weak, and frightened. A sad creature. Her grandmother Cordelia was right—the blood had thinned in their kind. There was little left of their former courage, their former glory, if even the Venators were cowards.

Kingsley said the words that she was thinking: “So there’s nothing you can do to help us—nothing except to tell us to cower and shirk our duty,” he said, a smirk on his lips.

“Venator Mendrion, you cannot leave London. The attack on the Gates of Hell is nothing but a distraction, and an effective one,” Schuyler said. “Lucifer wants the vampires facing the other way. He cares not for the Nephilim, but only for the Gate of Promise, which leads to—”

Lucas Mendrion put up his hand to silence her. “I told you, I don’t want to know.”

Schuyler frowned.

“You are very young and very brave. Very much like your mother. She would be proud of you,” Mendrion said.

Schuyler ignored him. She had no time for his condescension. “You told Kingsley you knew something about the Gate of Promise, about its creation.”

“No, I never said that.” He shook his head. “I merely told him of my relationship with Gabrielle, and he must have assumed the rest. Why? What do you want to know?”

“We have the key to the gate,” Schuyler said, choosing her words carefully. “But we don’t know how to use it.”

Mendrion studied her thoughtfully. “If anyone might know, perhaps Titiana might. She was assigned to Gabrielle’s protection from the beginning, as I was. They were like sisters.”

“Where can we find her?”

“Truth be told, I haven’t seen her in centuries,” Mendrion said, holding his glass to Kingsley for another drop of whiskey.

“Why? What happened to her? A Silver Blood attack?” asked Schuyler.

Mendrion shook his head. “No, no, nothing like that. Have you heard of the ‘mortalize’ movement?”

Schuyler nodded. The mortalize movement was a growing trend among the Blue Bloods—vampires choosing to live as mortals—forgetting their history and passing as Red Bloods. She had heard that it happened a lot, especially during the long peaceful years when the Silver Bloods were all but forgotten.

“I fear that’s what’s happened to Titiana. She’s chosen to turn back against her vampire roots,” Mendrion said.

Schuyler tried not to feel too aghast. While it had been a burden when she’d first learned her true history and ancestry—she remembered the feeling in her stomach when she was first called to join the Committee—how she had refused to believe it was true—and how she wished she had come from a normal family, and not one where her mother was in a coma and her grandmother was her only link to her past. But to chuck it all away? To pretend to be what you were not? When there was so much at stake?

Mendrion gave Schuyler a sympathetic smile. “If it helps, I hear that she might be a student at Central Saint Martins. Some sort of fashion designer. Calls herself Tilly St. James.”