The Gates of Paradise (7 page)

he tour guide was speaking in hushed tones to a small gathering of tourists, her quiet words punctuated by the snaps and flashes of eager photographers. One man was filming with his handheld video camera, walking in circles around the apse. Behind him, a young couple clearly on their honeymoon posed against the wrought-iron fence, the groom holding his phone at arms’ length to take the shot.

Mimi kept her distance from the group. The guide didn’t seem to mind that she’d lingered near the entrance, unlike the usual tourist herders, who were strict about keeping everyone together.

She’d arrived in Midlothian earlier that week and had visited the Rosslyn Chapel every day, under a different guise each time, lest the nuns who guarded the place recognize her. So far, she had found nothing, and while she was glad of that, there had been no sign of Kingsley either. Perhaps he had not understood the message. If so, then she was a bit disappointed in him. She wondered how long she could pretend to be “looking” for the grail, and she knew she would not be allowed to return to the underworld empty-handed unless she had a reasonable explanation.

Inside the chapel, every available surface was elaborately decorated in twisted stone carvings. One section depicted the underworld and its inhabitants—an upside-down hanging devil, the mythic “green man” marching a row of skeletons into Hell. The sculptures wound their way around columns and along the arches, across the ceiling and on the floor. There was a term for this, she knew:
horror vacui
—the fear of empty spaces. Every inch of the place was bursting with decoration, as if the chapel’s creators had feared blank walls like a literal plague.

What a mess, Mimi sniffed.

“This is called the apprentice column,” the tour guide said, coming around to stand next to a nearby pillar. “An apprentice boasted to the master mason that he could carve the design without consulting the original on which it was based. When the master saw that the apprentice had done the work perfectly, he became so enraged with jealousy that he struck the apprentice on the head and killed him. When the master was hauled off to justice, the remaining masons carved an exact replica of his face on the column across from this one,” she said, motioning to the other post, which held the visage of a scowling man. “So that forever, the master would be forced to gaze at the perfect work of the apprentice that had caused him so much pain.”

Creepy, Mimi thought. But justifiable. She remembered the hot fire of jealousy that she’d once felt over Jack’s attraction to Schuyler. If she had never met Kingsley, she probably would have suffered the same doom—forced to endure the reality of the two of them together till the end of time.

The small group chattering in myriad languages shuffled by her on their way to the crypt. Mimi didn’t follow. Wherever the grail was held—and it certainly wasn’t that jeweled cup displayed at the center of the chapel—it wouldn’t be there. The crypt was too obvious. The knights would have made sure it was well hidden.

Look someplace where no one else can look. Find a place no one
knew existed.

She walked back outside, circling the chapel in a wide arc. The exterior on each side was composed of a series of flying buttresses that supported the tall center space. In between each one was a stained glass rose window. The stone was sandy in color and worn from erosion.

Mimi looked up and realized she probably should have paid attention to the boring tour. There was something odd about the chapel, but she couldn’t figure out what it was. She stepped back, the pebbles crunching beneath her
heels.

There was a rough-hewn wall that extended higher than the rest of the building, giving it a lopsided look. The wall was ragged at its edges, as if indicating a temporary construction. Unfinished. Mimi circled the wall, imagining it as a blade that had chopped the chapel in half. When she touched it, the stone was cold and mossy. She walked back to the other side, the lower side, and saw that it had none of the buttresses that lined the other wall.

“The chapel that stands at Rosslyn is only a small fraction of what the original builders intended,” a voice said behind her.

Mimi turned to see another tour guide. She was a nun, Mimi realized, from the cross on her lapel. “What was it supposed to look like?”

“The buttressed end was to be the choir, the portion of the building behind the altar. The long cathedral nave where parishioners would have sat was never built. The wall on that side was only supposed to be temporary, like a bandage slapped over the unfinished end,” the nun explained. “They dug up the foundations for the remainder of the building in the nineteenth century. It would have been quite spectacular if it had been finished.”

Just like St. John the Divine in New York, Mimi thought. The site of her almost-bonding. So much ambition and hubris, so many unfinished churches in the world.

“We’ll be closing soon. Feel free to take a walk around, then meet me at the gate. Your group should be leaving the crypt by then.” The nun smiled again, but not so warmly this time. The old woman looked a bit tired and maybe eager to finish her day.

When she walked away, Mimi headed to the place where she guessed the buried foundations were located. She knew where the crypt would be, ending just outside of the building’s footing.

If I were a Knight Templar, where would I hide the grail?

In a place where no one would ever even think to look, perhaps?

Maybe there was more to this structure—something a nineteenth-century conservator wouldn’t even think to look for. She went back and stood at the edge of the rough-hewn wall, the place where the chapel would have continued it if had been completed.

She squinted, and in the dim light she finally saw it. The nave. Hiding in plain sight. One moment she was outside, and the next she was standing within an elegant cathedral.

Impossible,
Mimi thought.
I’m not in the glom and not in
Rosslyn, so where am I?

“The wolves call it Limbo. Their historical realm before they were turned into Lucifer’s dogs. The nun was wrong—the chapel was built as intended, but not on earth and not by man.”

Mimi knew the voice. She turned to the Venator standing behind her. He had come through, just as she had hoped. But she kept her face calm.

“It took me a long time to find the magic needed to unearth the hidden portion of the chapel. Lucky you, to show up and take advantage of my work.” He was holding
a cup by its lip, letting it dangle from his hands.

“Looking for this?” Kingsley asked with his usual smirk.

he thing that had gotten hold of Renfield was a crimson-eyed vampire that bared its fangs and drank deeply from the blood gushing from the poor historian’s throat. Renfield’s legs kicked feebly in the air, and he gurgled as the life was drained out of him.

“Renfield!” Bliss shouted, and ran forward.

But before she could reach him, Lawson darted in front of her and shoved her out of the way. He was strong, even
in human form, and she skidded across the floor, safely out of reach from the monster in front of them.

What had she been thinking? She wasn’t a vampire anymore; she didn’t have the strength to stand up to the demon that had attacked Renfield. A Silver Blood in the Repository—it brought back memories of that other attack not too long ago.

The demon dropped Renfield’s body to the ground as Lawson lunged at the beast from behind. Bliss frantically searched for a weapon, anything that could help Lawson, who was now wrestling with the monster. The Silver Blood had the upper hand, its fangs outstretched, hungry for the kill. It would tear Lawson apart.…

Lawson suddenly shifted form, and in a moment he was his true self. Fenrir. The mightiest wolf of the underworld. The change startled the Silver Blood, and the demon roared and jumped back from Lawson, who pawed the ground and growled. They paced around one another, each waiting for the other to attack first.

“Well, well. A dog out of its cage,” the Silver Blood sneered. “Heel, boy.”

Lawson howled.

The demon raised a whip to strike, and brought it down hard on Lawson’s left flank. The wolf whimpered in pain and cowered.

Out of the corner of her eye, Bliss could see a large plank of polished wood, now cracked and broken. A shelf from one of the bookcases that had toppled to the ground. If she could just reach it, maybe she could use it to distract the Silver Blood, slow him down so Lawson would have the advantage.

Quietly, she crawled off to the side and retrieved the plank. The creature was still taunting Lawson, who looked just about ready to pounce. Bliss stood up as quickly as
she could, lunged forward, and, swinging the plank low, bashed the vampire below its knees.

Her ploy worked—the demon fell to the ground. It only took a moment for Lawson to attack, taking advantage of the demon’s weaker position to rip him to pieces with his fierce teeth and sharp claws.

The Silver Blood was consumed by a bright silver flame, then collapsed into a bag of bones. It was dead.

Lawson panted heavily before shifting back to his human form. Bliss was breathing pretty hard herself—she couldn’t believe how close they’d come to being killed. Her clothes were drenched in blood—the historian’s and the demon’s. They fell into each other’s arms in relief.

“You okay?” Lawson asked, letting go as quickly as he had hugged her tightly.

Bliss nodded, blushing a little at the force of his embrace. “You?”

“Nothing that won’t heal up quickly,” he said. He was covered in scratches and blood.

“Do you need anything? Bandages?”

“Nope. Already on the mend. See?” He held up an arm dotted with small cuts, but as Bliss looked at it, they disappeared. “You saved my life, you know.”

“Funny, I thought you saved mine.”

“We saved each other,” he said. “We make a good team.”

“We do, don’t we?” she said, and smiled.

“I just wish we’d gotten that thing before it killed Renfield,” Lawson said.

“Poor Renfield,” Bliss said. “All he wanted was to serve the vampires.”

“We’ll take him up with us when we leave, so that his body can be found and buried properly.”

Bliss nodded. She was exhausted and traumatized, but she knew there was no time to stop and grieve for the poor human Conduit. They had to try to find what they had come for, the Venator bulletin Renfield had spoken of, which had given her hope that the vampires had not been completely wiped out. “He said it was in his office. You think maybe the Silver Blood was after it too?”

“Could be. Why else would it have been here?” Lawson said.

“Let’s check it out.” Bliss walked over to Renfield’s desk and started going through the drawers, but didn’t find anything that looked like it came from the Venators’ office. Bliss wished she’d paid more attention during Committee meetings. She didn’t even know what she was looking for. It had come over the wire, the Conduit had said. The Repository was notorious for relying on out-of-date technology.

“There’s a file cabinet over here,” Lawson said. “It’s locked, but I think I can take care of that.” He pulled the handle as hard as he could. Bliss could see his muscles straining through his shirt, and her heart started racing. Was it jealousy over her lost powers, or just a reaction to Lawson’s body? Which was a pretty nice body, as she well remembered from their one brief encounter.

Finally the lock broke and the drawers opened. “Files,” Lawson said, taking folders out and spreading them on the floor.

Bliss started flipping through them. The first drawer held records of all the vampires who’d originally come to America so long ago. The second contained files on the Venators. It was the third, though, that was the most chilling.

“What is it?” Lawson asked.

“It’s the files on the human Conduits,” Bliss said. “It says they’re dead.”

“All of them?”

“Hard to be sure. All the ones whose files are here. See the black marks? That means they’re gone. It looks like Renfield was one of the last to survive.”

“Didn’t you say your friend Oliver was a Conduit?” Lawson asked.

Bliss nodded, trying not to panic. Oliver—dead? There was no way. Mimi would not allow that to happen. Bliss quickly looked through the files to see if his name was there. “His file’s missing,” she said, somewhat relieved. “He might still be alive. We have to find him.”

“Why is he so important?” Lawson asked. “Were you two, like, close?”

Was she imagining things, or did he sound a little jealous? Was it wrong that she hoped he was? “Oliver’s just a friend,” she said gently. “He was Schuyler’s Conduit, and I think more than that, for a while, but there was never anything between
us
,” she said firmly. “If we could find him, though, he might be able to tell us what happened. Or help us find Schuyler. He’s never that far from her.”

She realized she still had the notebooks she’d taken from Oliver’s apartment. She took one out and skimmed the pages, but it was all gibberish. It didn’t take her long to figure out it was a code—Oliver had just moved every letter over by three. She started making out words, though it was hard to tell how they were significant.
Freya
?
Egypt
? She flipped to the e-mail printout, which she now discovered was addressed to Oliver’s parents. “Hand me a pen, would you?” she said.

Lawson waited patiently while Bliss decoded the last paragraph of the e-mail. Finally, she raised her head in triumph. “He’s in London. Something about the gates. Schuyler’s with him. They’re staying at a Venator safe house. They must have received the same bulletin Renfield was talking about.”

“Does it mention where the house is?”

“No, but we can find it. We just need to get there.” And then she remembered. “Jane! She’s in London too. How could I have forgotten?” Jane Murray, the Watcher, had told her that the Venators were gathering in the British capital and for Bliss to meet them there.

Lawson’s brow furrowed. “London? We just got to New York.”

Bliss realized Lawson had never really been in a city before, and now she was carting him all over the globe. She knew it made him uncomfortable to have to rely on her, to trust that she knew what she was doing.

“It’s going to be fine,” she said. “We just have to get plane tickets and passports and some clothes, and we can get out of here.”

“You’ve got a magic wand?” He smirked.

“Something better. A Park Avenue apartment,” she said. Her apartment! Penthouse du Rêves. She hadn’t been there in what felt like forever. There was no reason to think it wasn’t still there: she was the sole beneficiary of her foster parents’ largesse, and while the Repository had been destroyed, she had a feeling the Silver Bloods had left the apartment alone. After all, it had belonged to one of their own—Forsyth Llewellyn, when he was alive, had been Lucifer’s closest ally.

“I don’t have a passport,” Lawson said. “And what about my brothers, and Ahramin? I need to check in with them.”

“We will. I can arrange for a passport for you, I know I can. We’ll make sure everything is okay with the pack before we leave. Don’t worry, it’s going to be fine.” Bliss was back in New York City, back home, and she felt invigorated, glad to be useful instead of helpless.

“If you say so,” Lawson said. But he didn’t look so sure.