“I guess I’ll survive,” Allegra said ruefully. “What happened?”
“Accident on the field. They said you got hit by the ball.”
“Ouch.” She grimaced, scratching the bandage around her forehead.
“You’re lucky; doctor said it would have taken out a Red Blood.”
“How long was I out?”
“Just a few hours.”
“Any chance I can get out of here today? I have a Latin test tomorrow, and I have to study.” Allegra groaned. Like the rest of the school, the clinic was comfortable enough. It was housed in a cozy New England cottage, with white wicker furniture and bright floral curtains. But right then she wanted nothing more than to be in the refuge of her own room, with its black-and-white Cure posters, old-fashioned rolltop secretary desk, and newly purchased Walkman, so she could be alone and listen to Depeche Mode. Even in the clinic, she could hear strains of a Bob Dylan song wafting from the open windows. Everyone else at school listened to the same music from twenty years ago, as if prep-school life was stuck in a sixties time warp. Allegra had nothing against Dylan, but she didn’t see the need for all the angst.
Mrs. Anderson shook her head as she fluffed Allegra’s pillows and set her patient back against the feathery plumpness. “Not just yet. Dr. Perry’s coming in from New York to check on you in a bit. Your mother insisted.”
Allegra sighed. Of course Cordelia would insist. Her mother watched over her like a hawk, with more than the usual maternal concern. Cordelia approached motherhood as if it were akin to guarding a precious Ming vase. She treated her daughter with kid gloves, and always acted as if Allegra was one nervous breakdown away from being sent to the nuthouse, even though anyone could see that Allegra was the very picture of health. She was popular, cheerful, athletic, and spirited.
Life under Cordelia’s care was suffocating, to say the least. It was why Allegra could not wait until she turned eighteen and got out of the house for good. Her mother’s all-consuming anxiety over her well-being was one of the reasons she had campaigned to transfer out of Duchesne and enroll at Endicott. In New York, Cordelia’s influence was inescapable. More than anything, Allegra just wanted to be free.
Mrs. Anderson finished taking her temperature and put away the thermometer. “You have a few visitors waiting outside. Shall I send them in?”
“Sure.” Allegra nodded. Her head was starting to feel a little better—either from the melted chocolate in Mrs. Anderson’s famous cookies or from the massive painkillers, she wasn’t sure.
“All right, team, you can come in. But don’t tire her. I can’t have her relapse now. Gentle, gentle.” With a last smile, the friendly nurse left the room. In a moment, Allegra’s hospital bed was surrounded by the entire girls’ field hockey team. They crowded around, breathless and windswept, still wearing their uniforms: green plaid kilts, white polo shirts, and green knee-high socks.
“Oh my god!” “Are you okay?” “Dude, that thing careened off your head!” “We’re gonna get that bitch from Northfield Mount Hermon next time!” “Don’t worry, they got flagged!” “Oh my god, you totally blacked out! We were sure we couldn’t see you till tomorrow!”
The cheerful cacophony filled the room, and Allegra grinned. “It’s all right. I got free cookies; you guys want some?” she asked, pointing to the platter by the windowsill. The girls fell on the cookies like a hungry mob.
“Wait—you guys haven’t told me! Did we win?” Allegra asked.
“What do you think? We kicked ass, Captain.” Birdie Belmont, Allegra’s best friend and roommate, gave her a mock salute that would have been more impressive if she hadn’t been holding a giant chocolate chip cookie in her right hand.
The girls gossiped conspiratorially when a male voice interrupted from the other side of the curtain that divided the room in two. “Hey, you guys have cookies over there? Aren’t you going to share?”
The team giggled. “Your neighbor,” Birdie whispered. “I think he’s hungry.”
“Excuse me?” Allegra called. She hadn’t even noticed that she was sharing a room until now. Maybe she had suffered a pretty hard blow to the head and not just a run-of-the-mill field injury.
Rory Antonini, a talented midfielder with the best scoring percentage in the league, pulled back the curtain that separated the room. “Hey, Bendix,” the girls chorused.
Bendix Chase was the most popular boy in their class. It wasn’t hard to figure out why: at six feet three, he looked a bit like a young blond giant, with his broad shoulders and powerful build. His face resembled that of a Greek god’s: with a fine brow, a perfect nose, and cut-glass cheekbones. He had a dimple on each cheek, and his clear, cornflower-blue eyes twinkled with fun. He was lying on a hospital bed with his right leg in a cast. He waved cheerfully.
“When are you getting out?” asked Darcy Sedrik, their goaltender, as she handed him the almost empty plate of cookies.
“Today. Cast is finally coming off. Thank god—I’m tired of hopping to class,” Bendix said, nodding his gratitude for the cookie. “What happened to you?” he asked Allegra.
“Merely a flesh wound,” she said, pointing to her gauze turban and affecting a British accent.
“At least you still have your arms,” Bendix mused with a smile at the Monty Python quote.
Allegra tried not to seem overly charmed that he had picked up the reference so quickly.
She didn’t want to appear as just another of his googly-eyed fan club, as the entire field hockey team had now migrated over to his side of the room to sign his cast with heart-shaped dots over their i’s and innumerable X’s and O’s.
“Visiting hours are over, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Anderson declared, reappearing in her starched white uniform. There was another chorus of “Aww” as she shooed the girls out. She was about to close the curtain that separated her two patients when Bendix asked if they could keep it open.
“I hope you don’t mind. It gets a bit claustrophobic. And your side has the TV,” he said.
“Sure.” Allegra shrugged. She and Bendix knew each other, of course, as Stuart Endicott Academy, like the Duchesne School, was a small and tight-knit community of the breathtakingly advantaged children of the elite. However, unlike the rest of the female population, she did not swoon in his presence. She found his all-American good looks a bit too obvious, too Hollywood movie star, too universally admired. Bendix looked like the jock from The Breakfast Club, except even more handsome. And Bendix wasn’t just good looking and athletic and adored, he was also, shockingly, for a boy of his privilege and status—kind. Allegra noticed that far from being an arrogant snob who stalked the halls with his massive ego, Bendix was genuinely nice to everyone, even her brother Charles, which was saying something.
Still, even if the most gorgeous boy at Endicott was sitting mere feet away, watching music videos with her (why on earth was Eddie Murphy singing? And what was up with that striped shirt he was wearing?), Allegra paid him no more thought.
TWO
The Van Alen Twins
When Dr. Perry arrived from New York, he pronounced Allegra well as ever, and she was back in her dormitory the next day. She was running between classes when she saw her brother walking purposefully across the quadrangle toward her.
“I came as soon as I heard,” Charles Van Alen said, taking her elbow gently. “Who did it? Are you sure you’re all right? Cordelia is beside herself….”
Allegra rolled her eyes. Her twin brother was such a dork sometimes. Not only because he insisted on calling their mother by her first name, but also because of his whole big-protector act. Especially since she was taller than him by two inches. “I’m fine, Charlie, really.” She knew he hated being called by his childhood nickname, but she couldn’t help it. He was the last person she wanted to see right then.
Unlike Allegra, Charles Van Alen was short for his age. The twins could not have looked less alike, as he had dark hair and cold gray eyes. Unlike his casually dressed peers, Charles wore a
n ascot to class and carried a leather briefcase. He wasn’t very popular at Endicott, not because of his pretensions (although they were many) but mainly because he complained about the school constantly and let everyone know he wouldn’t be there if his sister hadn’t insisted they transfer. Most of the students thought he was an annoying, pompous windbag, and in return he acted as though they were all beneath him.
Allegra understood that most of his insecurity came from his small stature. If only he would relax—the doctors had agreed he had yet to hit his growth spurt, and there was no question he would be handsome. His face was just a little off right now. In a few years he would grow into his nose, and his features—those intense eyes, that deep forehead—would settle into regal symmetry. But for now, Charlie Van Alen was just another nerdy short guy on the debate team.
He had been in Washington, D.C., for the Elocution Finals over the weekend, for which Allegra was glad. Otherwise she knew he would have made a huge fuss at the clinic, and would have probably insisted they transfer her to a better care facility at Mass General or something. Charlie was as bad as Cordelia when it came to looking after Allegra. Between the two of them, she felt like a Dresden doll: precious, fragile, and unable to help herself. It drove her insane.
“Here, let me…” he said, taking her bag.
“I can carry my backpack. Let go. Don’t be weird,” she snapped. She tried not to feel guilty about the shocked, sad look that appeared on his face.
This wasn’t any way to speak to her bondmate, but she couldn’t help it. Because Charlie was Michael, of course. After what had happened in Florence, there was no question about it now—they had been born as twins in every cycle since then. The House of Records insisted on the practice, so that what had happened back then would never happen again. So that from the beginning, there would be no doubts, no questions, no more mistakes.
Still, every incarnation since had been worse than the last. Allegra couldn’t put a finger on it, but over the years she had begun to feel a distance from him. Not only because of what had happened back then—Oh, who was she kidding—it had everything to do with what had happened in Florence. She could never forgive herself. Never. It was all her fault. And the fact that he still loved her—would always love her—forever and ever and ever—through all the years and the centuries—made her feel more resentful than grateful. His love was a burden. After what had come between them, in every cycle she came closer to believing she did not deserve his love, and with the resentment came the guilt and the anger. She didn’t know why, but it had become harder and harder to feel for him what he still felt for her.
It was ironic, really. She had been in the wrong, and yet he was the one being punished. It was depressing to think about, and on that bright fall afternoon, she felt as far away from him as she ever had.
“No—let me,” he insisted, pulling on the strap.
“Charlie, please!” she yelled, and yanked with all her strength so that her backpack flew out of his hands, and he slipped and fell on the grass.
He glowered at her as he picked himself up and dusted off his pants. “What is wrong with you?” he hissed.
“Just—leave me alone, can’t you?” She raised her hands and raked through her long blond hair in frustration.
“But I—I…”
I KNOW. You love me. You’ve always loved me. You’ll ALWAYS love me. I know, Michael. I can hear you loud and clear.
“Gabrielle!”
“My name is Allegra!” she almost screamed. Why did he have to call her by that name all the time? Why did he have to act like people didn’t notice how obsessed he was with her? Sure, none of the Blue Bloods kids thought it was weird, since they knew who they were even if they still hadn’t had their coming-out yet; but the Red Bloods didn’t know their history or what they meant to each other, and it bothered her. This wasn’t ancient Egypt anymore; this was the twentieth century. Times had changed. And yet the Conclave was always so slow to react.
Sometimes Allegra just wanted to experience life as it happened, without the burden of her entire immortal history on her shoulders—she was only sixteen years old—at least, in this lifetime. Give her a break. In 1985, in Endicott, Massachusetts, your twin brother’s having a crush on you was simply gross and disgusting; and Allegra was beginning to agree with the Red Bloods.
“This guy bothering you, Legs?” Bendix Chase asked, happening upon them as the third bell rang.
“Did this guy just call you ‘Legs’?” Charles gaped.
“It’s all right,” Allegra said, sighing. “Bendix Chase, I don’t think you know my brother, Charlie.”
“Freshman?” Bendix asked, pumping Charles’s hand. “Good to meet you.”
“No. We’re twins,” Charles replied icily. “And I’m in your Shakespeare seminar.”
“Sure you guys are related?” Bendix winked. “I don’t see the resemblance.”
Charles turned red. “Of course we’re sure. Now, if you’d excuse us,” he said, turning away and pulling Allegra toward him.
“Hey, hey—there’s no need to be rude,” Bendix said mildly. “You dropped your book.” He handed Charles back a textbook that had slipped from his hold when he’d fallen to the ground. Charles neglected to thank him.
“There really isn’t, Charlie,” Allegra agreed. She moved away from him to stand next to Bendix, who swung an arm around her shoulders.
“I believe we have a Latin midterm today, my dear,” Bendix said. “Shall we?”
Allegra allowed the popular jock to lead her away. She would never have done so except that Charles had been so irritating. Served him right. She left her twin, who continued to stare at them, alone in the quadrangle.
THREE
The Only Subject Vampires Aren’t Good At
Allegra was a top-notch student, but she was horrible at Latin. She found it difficult to differentiate the bastard Red Blood rendition of the Sacred Language from the real thing, and was constantly messing up. Latin had declensions and three genders, which just didn’t make sense to her. She could never keep the real language of the immortals straight from its human, quotidian version.
She stared at the angry red D– circled on the top of her test paper. That sucked. If she didn’t keep up her grades, Cordelia would pull her out of Endicott and put her back in Duchesne. She would be right where she started: a virtual prisoner of her mother’s grand expectations for her future and her future contributions to their race. Seriously, Cordelia spoke like a World War II demagogue sometimes. Not that Allegra had been in cycle then, but she read the Repository reports.
“Phew, that’s ugly,” Bendix remarked, upon stealing a look at her paper.
“What’d you get?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.
He waved his A+ in her direction with a smug smile.
Ugh. Why did he have to be so annoyingly perfect? There was nothing Allegra despised more than the word “perfect,” other than the people who personified it. She hated when people called her perfect, when they couldn’t see past her looks, past the waves of lustrous blond hair and the sun-kissed tan and the body. Why anyone could make such a big deal of such superficial things, she would never understand. She thought everyone was beautiful—and not just in some ridiculously saintly way wherein she believed everyone had a beautiful soul. No. Allegra truly believed most of the people she met were beautiful to look at—who cared about a few pounds here or there, or a crooked nose or a weird mole? She loved looking at people. She thought they were gorgeous.
She was just as bad as Bendix when it came down to it, wasn’t she? She was perfect to look at, and on top of that, she liked everybody. Sometimes she was so tired of being herself.
“I can help you with Latin, if you’d like,” Bendix offered as they gathered their things and began to make their way out of the classroom.
“You’re offering to tutor me?” That was new. A Red Blood offering to teach an immortal vampire new tricks. Charlie would sneer. Allegra shook her head. “I t
hink I’ll be okay, thanks. Just have to bone up on my nouns.”
“Up to you. But you might not be aware, since you just transferred here, that if you don’t keep up a decent average you can kiss the field hockey team—and the division cham-pionships—good-bye,” Bendix said, holding the door open for her.
The man had a point.
Over the next few weeks, Allegra met Bendix at the main library for Latin lessons every other night. What started out as a sincere effort between the two of them to help Allegra learn the language, slowly turned into long and far-reaching discussions about anything and everything: the quality of the food served in the refectory (atrocious), their thoughts on the Palestinian crisis, whether “Abracadabra” by the Steve Miller Band was the worst or best song ever written (Bendix was for best, Allegra voted worst).
One evening, Bendix leaned over the Latin textbook and sighed. His blond bangs fell in his eyes, and Allegra stifled a desire to reach over and push them off his forehead. “Your folks coming up for Parents’ Day next week?” he asked. “You’re from New York, right?”
Allegra nodded and shook her head at the same time. “Mother is coming, of course. She’d never miss it. My dad…is away.” That seemed the easiest way to explain Lawrence’s absence. “You?”
“Nah. My mom has this board meeting, so she has to stay in San Francisco. Dad can’t be bothered. Wouldn’t want to interrupt his art.”
“Your dad’s an artist?”
“He makes found sculptures. So far he hasn’t sold one, probably because they look like trash. But don’t tell him that.”
“It doesn’t sound like you like either of them very much,” Allegra said, feeling sympathetic. She was very fond of both Lawrence and Cordelia. It was just that she hadn’t seen Lawrence in years, and Cordelia had morphed into a shrill, nervous old lady.