“Jack?” she called, feeling her anxiety triple. She was sure he was fine, of course, but Mimi was in Cairo. He had said so himself—and Schuyler began to feel a cold dread in her stomach. “JACK!” Jack? she sent. Where are you? When she turned, her wristwatch caught on the rug, unraveling part of the wool.
“You buy! You break, you buy!” the shopkeeper screamed.
“You buy!”
“Jack!” Schuyler called, brushing the salesman away. Had he found the guide? Where did he go? Why wasn’t he answering her call in the glom?
“Miss! You buy this! You broke, you buy! One hundred dollar!” The rug merchant gripped her arm and yelled into her ear.
Schuyler pushed him away, sending the tubby fellow crashing into a display of lamps. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry,”
she said, which enraged him even more, and now there were two shopkeepers demanding payment for broken objects.
Starting to feel as if she had been set up, she looked around wildly for Jack, and when she finally saw him, she was horrified to find a hooded assailant coming up from behind him, sunlight glinting off a silver blade. The market was so busy, no one noticed. Tourists and shoppers walked by, oblivi-ous to the danger around them.
She was paralyzed, too frightened to scream, but at the last moment, Jack turned around and swiftly disarmed his attacker and gained the upper hand. But then he looked up in her direction and suddenly released his hold.
What was he doing? Schuyler was about to call to him when a black hood was thrust over her head and she found herself being dragged, kicking and screaming. The noise of the market and the chaos created by the enraged rug and lamp sellers drowned out her cries, and she was pulled away from the crowd into a quiet back alley.
Her attacker kept a solid hold around her neck, but Schuyler ordered her mind to calm, and reached for the hilt of her blade. In a flash, she was gripping its golden handle.
“Your friend has already surrendered his weapon,” a cold female voice said. “I suggest you do the same.”
Schuyler dropped her mother’s sword.
FIVE
The Pyramids of Giza
There was a sleek black limousine waiting at the hotel entrance, and a uniformed chauffeur greeted them with a bow and held the door open as they neared it. “Much better,” Mimi said, thankful that she wouldn’t have to play the cab-fare game today at least.
“I thought it would be.” Oliver smiled. “After you.”
Even if the pyramids were located practically at the hotel doorstep, the car moved at an ant’s pace through the crowded streets. While popular perception held that the pyramids were located in the middle of a vast desert landscape, lone pylons against a blank sky, in reality they were located next to the crowded Giza suburbs, and the scene at the complex was distinctively carnival-like, packed not only with tourists from all over the world, but schoolchildren on field trips, souvenir hawks, spitting camels, and flag-waving tour guides. If Mimi cared to do her memory exercises, she would recall that it had always been this way. The pyramids had been built by Blue Blood pharaohs as oculi in the glom, lighthouses for the spirits, ka, to find their way home. But ever since they had been constructed, the Red Bloods had descended upon them like moths to the light, marveling at their size and beauty. The vampires had found it odd, but from the beginning, the pyramids had always been tourist attractions.
The driver parked them as close as he could to the entrance of the site, and they exited the car. Mimi shielded her eyes from the sun’s glare and looked up at the magnificent structures. They were immense, each stone larger than the tallest man. She remembered that they had been much more beautiful in their original incarnation, covered with polished white limestone blocks. It was a pity they had been stripped over the millennia for use in other building projects. Only the second largest pyramid, Khafra, still had limestone casing at its peak.
Across from the pyramid complex was the Giza Hut, as everyone called the Pizza Hut located across the street. During their first trip to Cairo, Mimi and Oliver had caught lunch there, and Oliver had taken a photo that showed the cheerful modern restaurant logo next to a window with a view of the tombs. You didn’t have to be a Blue Blood to appreciate the delicious irony or the piping-hot pizza.
It was sheer luck, of course, that Mimi and Oliver had discovered this entrance to the underworld at all. Oliver had studied the repository files and concluded that the Gate of Promise was located in the city of Alexandria, but when they landed in Cairo, Oliver suddenly changed his mind when a fellow traveler called the city the “Big mango,” which led to a conversation about the roots of the city’s name. He hadn’t been able to hide his excitement when he discovered that Cairo was called “the victorious city.” The victor’s city on the shore of the river of gold, Oliver had explained, reading from his notes. Not that Mimi had understood a word about all that Gates of Hell hullabaloo. They never did make it to Alexandria, as Oliver had been convinced the gate was in Cairo, and Mimi had followed his lead.
As they walked through the crowded bazaar, Mimi rumin-ated on their relatively easy path down to Hell. Wasn’t this one of those famous gates her brother’s bondmate was looking for? From the so-called Van Alen Legacy? Could it be possible that Jack was nearby? She could sense something in the air, something in the glom that felt like his signature, but she wasn’t sure. It had been so long since they had been able to communicate telepathically, so long since she had been able to read his mind. Mimi felt the old bubbling of hatred rising like bile in her throat. Whenever she thought of her twin, her mouth turned dry, like ashes and sand. She would have his life one day, she promised herself. He owed her a blood trial, a combat to the death. But she pushed aside her venomous thoughts for now. Descending into the underworld required her full attention.
Even if her and Oliver’s journey would not require a Death Walk—that far more dangerous venture that only highly skilled Venators could manage, since one had to hide the spirit trail in order to mimic death—it was still far from easy and no doubt would be hard on her human companion. Mimi planned for them to walk into the glom with their physical selves in-tact; there would be no division between the mind and the body. DeathWalkers had the ability to be anywhere in the underworld at any time. This way, she and Oliver would be much slower and easier targets, but they didn’t have much of a choice, as Oliver was human and unable to separate his spirit from his physical shell. She had no ambition to become a DeathWalker anyway. It was much too risky.
But first they had to reach the gate, of course. The best way to reach their destination was on horse or camel, and once again, Oliver proved his worth, as he had already arranged for guides and two beautiful black Arabian horses to take them to the tombs. Mimi had won many equestrian ribbons and was quickly trotting her horse, while Oliver looked a little awkward in the saddle and had more difficulty controlling his mare. “I should have let my mother talk me in-to riding lessons instead of ballroom, huh?” He grimaced.
Mimi clucked her tongue. “You need to hold the reins a little tighter. Show her who’s boss.”
They picked their way past the public entrances near the great pyramid of Khufu, the largest of the three, and another one by the Sphinx, which, unlike the pyramids, looked smaller in real life than it did in pictures.
There wasn’t much to see inside the pyramids, which were essentially empty tombs and not for the claustrophobic.
The path to the underworld was located in menkaure, the smallest pyramid. They left the horses tied to a tree, made sure the guides had food and water for them, and walked toward the entrance.
“Off-limits. Private tours inside are that way, miss,” a guard said, blocking their approach and pointing to the other pyramid.
“We’re just going to be a second,” Mimi said, using compulsion to make him look the other way. Truly it was so easy: the Red Blood mind was so malleable. When he turned, she unlocked the doors with a spell, and Oliver led them inside and down the underground stairs.
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The Gates of Hell had been built upon the Paths of the Dead by the Order of the Seven during Caligula’s reign, to secure the earthly domain from the demons of the underworld.
The gates kept the Silver Bloods trapped behind them, but anyone could walk in from the other side and into Hell if they knew the way; although Red Bloods usually had to wait until the end of their lives to reach the Kingdom of the Dead.
Mimi pulled Oliver through the living glom, the alternate world hidden from the physical one. “How are you feeling?”
she asked, as he doubled over, clutching his stomach.
“Nauseous. But I’ll live,” he said, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief.
For now, at least, Mimi thought.
In the distance stood a small metal gate, not unlike a garden gate, secured with a hook latch. “That’s it?” Oliver asked skeptically. “That’s the Gate of Promise? It looks like it keeps children out of a pool.”
“Yeah, well.” Mimi shrugged, unhooking the lock. “I think it looks different to everyone. From the other side it looks like a fortress. You ready? You might feel a little sick.”
“Even more than I do now? You should have told me to pack a barf bag.” Oliver wiped his brow and took a few deep breaths.
Mimi rolled her eyes. She held the gate open, and they crossed the threshold together. One step felt equal to a mile, or seven leagues, and after a few paces they were in Limbo, the first circle of Hell’s Kingdom. The space between the worlds manifested as a vast desert landscape, not dissimilar to the one they’d just left, with a lone road cutting through the sand, but without the pyramids.
“It’s easier on the transition if it looks like where we came from,” Mimi explained.
Oliver thought it looked a bit like the mojave Desert in Death Valley, rocky and abandoned. There were palm trees in the distance, and tumbleweeds blew along the highway; the heat was oppressive, and he was sweating through his safari vest.
“Let’s go,” Mimi said, jangling keys to a red mustang con-vertible that had materialized by the side of the road. “Get in, I’m driving. I know the way.”
“Of course you do.” Oliver coughed, but he followed her lead.
Azrael, Angel of Death, had come home.
SIX
Portrait of the Artist as a
Young Heir
Allegra arrived late to the party. She had spent too long standing in front of the mirror, wondering what to wear and feeling nervous. Nothing she’d brought from New York felt right: she hated all her clothes. Charles had gone to the exhibit opening as planned. Allegra had been able to convince him she did not feel like making social chitchat that evening and preferred to stay in and catch up on her reading. Luckily, he had been too excited about the chance to see the remarkable collection of ancient South American art to press for her company. Charles enjoyed the social whirl, enjoyed basking in the attention of a worshipful Coven, and she knew he would not miss her.
The minute the door closed behind Charles, Allegra stormed her closet. The last time Ben had seen her she was sixteen years old, fresh-faced, brimming with youth and life and energy; and while she knew that five years was not such a long time, she did feel older, much more aware of her beauty and the reaction it engendered from the opposite sex. She wore her hair shorter now, cut close to the scalp, almost boy-ish, and Charles hated it—he’d adored her long golden tresses, had loved winding his fingers through the gossamer thickness.
He had been disappointed when she’d returned from the salon with her new haircut.
But Allegra loved the liberating relief: no more of that heaviness behind her neck—she had always been too hot in the summer—and no longer did traffic screech to a stop when she ran across the street, nor did heads turn when she walked down the sidewalk, her golden hair flowing behind her like a sail. She enjoyed being a little less conspicuous, a little more forgettable, a little more ordinary, almost as if she were someone else for a change. But now, as she rubbed the blunt edges of her chopped crop, she fretted that maybe Charles was right, that without her hair she did not look like herself; that shorn of her best asset, she looked dull and plain.
She decided upon an old standby, a white silk shirt, a pair of men’s Levi’s, a thick leather belt, and battered cowboy boots.
The party was in a hilltop mansion in Pacific Heights. Allegra slipped past the gilded doors and took a champagne flute from a waiter carrying a silver tray. She made her way through the good-looking, moneyed crowd—women in fur and velvet, men in Japanese-tailored jackets. The party was centered in the living room, a comfortable book-lined space with a breath-taking view of the Golden Gate and a real monet above the fireplace. Yet for all the rare antiques and remarkable art on display, it still managed to be warm and welcoming at the same time.
“You look so familiar. I’m Decca Chase. Welcome to our home.” One of San Francisco’s premier society matrons, who also happened to be Ben’s mother, smiled at Allegra. “You’re the girl in the paintings, aren’t you?”
There were more of them? Allegra wondered. She had only seen one at the gallery. “Mrs. Chase,” she said, “it’s so nice to see you again.”
“So we have met before!” Ben’s mother said with delight.
She was tall, like her son, and shared his all-American, rangy good looks, and was impeccably dressed in swaths of white cashmere. Allegra recalled something her prep-school roommate had told her, that Ben’s mother was an heiress to a great San Francisco fortune, and his middle name came from his mother’s side of the family.
“I went to school with Ben. At Endicott,” Allegra explained, feeling a little intimidated by her friendly host.
“Of course you did! He’ll be glad to see an old friend.”
Decca Chase swiveled through the party, holding Allegra’s hand, and finally stopped in front of a tall boy in a shabby blue jacket who was regaling a large and adoring crowd with a fas-cinating story that had them snorting into their cocktails.
“Look who I found,” she said triumphantly.
Allegra suddenly felt very self-conscious and wished that she had attended that museum opening with Charles. What was she doing here? She didn’t belong here. His mom was being so nice it was painful. maybe she could simply disappear from the party and no one would ever remember she was there. But she felt rooted to the spot, and Ben was turning around to greet her.
He looked exactly the same—tall and golden-haired, with the same friendly, happy grin, the same sparkling blue eyes, his entire personality as clear and sunny as a summer afternoon. “Legs!” he said. It hurt Allegra to hear that old nickname a little, and to hear him use it so easily. He gave her a hearty embrace and a quick peck on the cheek, as if they were just old schoolmates and nothing more…. As if she had never marked him, had never taken his blood and made it hers.
She wondered what had possessed her to come tonight.
Why had she come? What had she feared? Had she come to see whether he was ruined somehow—whether she had destroyed him? Was she disappointed to find she had not? No.
She had done right in leaving Endicott when she had, after she’d been warned by the vision. Look, he was better off without her. He was the same old Ben, with his ruddy cheeks and dimpled smile. He was wearing a frayed rep tie as a belt—still the same old preppie. The jeans were nattily paint splattered, of course. But if there was any pretense or calcula-tion, she could not find it in him. He was natural and friendly, so hard to dislike, one of those boys whom everyone loved, which was why Charles had loathed him from the beginning.
“Ben, hi,” Allegra said, returning his kiss on the cheek, her smile masking the riot of emotions she felt under the surface.
“No one calls me that anymore,” he said, taking a sip from his beer glass and regarding her thoughtfully.
“No one calls me ‘Legs’ either, but you,” she said faintly.
Ben grinned. “I’m only teasing. Call me whatever you want. Or don’t call me at all,” he joked. The crow
d around him dispersed, as it was obvious the gorgeous new girl—and Allegra should never have doubted; she was still stunning even with the short haircut—had his entire attention.
“Well, you kids get reacquainted. I should go see what your father is up to; make sure he hasn’t eaten all the caviar puffs,” Decca Chase said, looking contentedly at the two of them. Allegra had forgotten his mother was there. She and Ben watched her move easily through the crowd, pinching an elbow here, laughing at a joke over there, the consummate hostess.
A waiter slid by to refill Allegra’s champagne glass, and she was glad for the distraction. She did not know what to say to Ben. She still didn’t know what she was doing here. Only that the opportunity had arisen to see him again, and she had grabbed it, like a drowning man reaching for a life preserver.
“Your mom is cool. You never said she was cool.” She remembered that he’d said his parents didn’t have much time for him growing up. Perhaps they were making up for it now, with this splashy party.
“I forgot to mention it.” Ben grinned. “Oh, right. I did give you the Poor Little Rich Boy act, didn’t I?”
Allegra laughed. He could always make her laugh, and she had missed their easy camaraderie. “Nice house,” she said, raising her eyebrows at the Picasso above the dining table.
Ben rolled his eyes. “My parents,” he said. “The worst thing about having money is that I don’t get to be a starving artist.”
“Is it that bad?” Allegra said, with a slightly mocking tone.
“Oh, it’s the worst,” Ben said cheerfully. “I get to eat well, and my mom uses her connections to get everyone to write about me or buy my work. It’s rough, I’m telling you.”
Allegra smiled. Ben’s background was just part of him. He was not responsible for who his parents were—he was just lucky to be their son.