She hadn't meant to be late, but her latest vision had left her disoriented. She'd been brushing her teeth, and when she looked up at the mirror, the same handsome man in the white suit from her dreams was looking back at her.
"Jesus!"
"Hardly. " The man laughed as if it were the funniest thing he'd ever heard. His hair, Bliss realized, was the exact color of molten gold. His eyes were as blue as a clear morning sky. There was a smell in the room of lilies in the spring, but it was a cloying smell that masked something rotten. Like how her stepmother, BobiAnne, smelled when she put on too much perfume after leaving the gym instead of showering.
Bliss decided she would be brave. "Who are you?"
"I am you. "
"I'm going crazy, aren't I? Why are you here?" Bliss turned off the faucet and tried to steady her breathing. "What do you want?"
The golden man in the white suit reached into his coat pocket and removed an old-fashioned pocket watch that hung from a gold chain. "Time. "
When Bliss looked up at the mirror again, he was gone. She'd spent the next hour staring at the glass, waiting for him to appear again. Only when she'd finally wrenched herself away did she realize she was running so late.
But when she checked her cell phone, there were no angry messages from her model booker, no anxious harangues about how the designer was having a fit because she wasn't there. She was doubly confused to find the entrance to the show completely empty, save for a few miserable-looking fashion victims shrouded in black, being held behind police sawhorses. This was fashion week?
Where was the mad carnival of editors and photographers, celebrities and stylists, the fashionable and the fashionably distressed, crowded around, elbowing each other, pushing and shoving to get into the Rolf Morgan show? Rolf's show was the biggest ticket of the season and the hardest invitation to score. And yet, here it was, thirty minutes before showtime and there was hardly anyone around.
She found a lone minion, a production assistant wearing a black T-shirt with ROLF MORGAN emblazoned on the chest, and asked to be directed backstage.
The Armory housed the 69th Regiment of the National Guard, and several soldiers in dress uniform saluted her as she entered. The building was cavernous, and encased in glass cabinets lining the walls were hundreds of firearms and munitions. She followed the directions through a grand atrium, a space as large as an airplane hangar, which was set for a runway show. There were rows of bleachers leading up to the ceiling, and a stage had been set up at one end, where a band was tuning up.
During rehearsals, Rolf had explained that the models would walk on a giant runway suspended above the stage, and Bliss looked forward to the challenge.
She entered the makeshift backstage and was flummoxed to find that instead of the usual frenzy of preparation, thrumming with the adrenaline of fear and excitement, the mood was completely relaxed. She found Schuyler reading a magazine in a nearby chair, her hair pulled back into an extreme ponytail high on her head, her face already runway-ready, with dark kohl smudges lining her blue eyes, and her lips painted a pale, rosy gold.
She was glad to see her friend; they had yet to talk about what had happened the other night. Both of them had been avoiding the subject, almost as if they were embarrassed. She hadn't seen Dylan since then, although he had left her enough messages on her phone, asking for forgiveness and beseeching her to visit him. She had deleted them all.
As for Schuyler, since that evening she had floated around Duchesne in a cloud. Bliss knew Schuyler was seeing Jack, and she couldn't help but be jealous of her friend's newfound happiness. Sure, it sucked that they couldn't be out in public together, because of Mimi and all. And yeah, it totally blew that Jack was basically betrothed to someone else. But still, Bliss could see Schuyler was in love, and her love was returned. It was more than she could say about Dylan and her.
"Where's everybody?" Bliss asked. "There's no one outside even. "
"Oh, hey. " Schuyler put down the latest issue of French Vogue. "Yeah, it's closed. Show isn't starting until midnight, if we're lucky. They told everyone to go away and come back. "
Bliss slumped into a nearby seat. "Are you serious?"
"Is this your first time walking for Rolf?" another model asked, overhearing their conversation. Bliss recognized her as Sabrina Sorboba, the Eastern European giantess, who was the current designer darling.
Bliss nodded.
"He's always late. Last year Brannon Frost actually left the show without seeing it, she was so annoyed to be kept waiting," Sabrina told them. Brannon Frost was the Blue Blood editor of Chic, the most powerful fashion magazine in the world. Brannon snaps her fingers, and suddenly everyone's wardrobe is out of style. Snap! Volume and pouf. Snap! Wasp-waists and skinny pants. Snap! Shifts and round heels! Snap! Crochet and platforms! Snap!
"Midnight? That's in three hours!" Bliss complained. What were they supposed to do, just wait around? She noticed some of the models were playing cards, although most were on their cell phones and BlackBerries.
"Champagne?" Sabrina offered, lifting a magnum of Laurent-Perrier and pouring two glasses for Bliss and Schuyler without waiting for an answer. This was the answer to waiting: drink, smoke, and wait. As a concession to the latest are-models-too-thin scandal, there was a delusory spread of stale crackers and moldy cheese to provide "healthy" foods for the girls. As if! Models lived on fumes: smoke and air.
"Anyway, because of what happened last year, this time they called all the editors of Chic, Mine, and Jeune and told them to go get a drink or dinner and come back later. "
Bliss nodded. "So who're those people outside, then?"
"Nobodies. "
Figured. Of course all the important people would be warned, but as for the lesser echelons, they had to fend for themselves. She tucked her bag underneath the counter and was about to ask Schuyler a question, when a harried man - finally someone who looked and acted like they had to put on a show in a few hours - burst into the models' waiting room.
"Bliss! There you are. We need you in hair and makeup. "
Bliss flipped through the latest issue of Arena Homme, smoked a few cigarettes, and drank too much champagne while a curt hairstylist and his equally tense assistant teased and brushed her hair into a huge billowing creation, and a mellow makeup artist slathered on the spackle. It always amazed her how little effort modeling was. All she had to do was sit there. Then she had to stand. Then walk. That was it. Of course, one had to be breathtakingly beautiful to make it all "work. " Still, it wasn't enough to be jaw-droppingly gorgeous. The best models had a certain air of languor and mystery that was innate to their personalities. There was only one Kate Moss, after all.
When the beauty team was satisfied with their work, two eager design students, who were part of the large volunteer army that shouldered the actual physical labor and made fashion week happen, accosted her next. "We have to get you into your first outfit. Rolf wants to see it. "
The two students helped Bliss into the tight black corset dress. One of them pulled and tied the ribbons in the back while the other helped Bliss into a pair of ankle-length velvet boots that crisscrossed in the front. The dress hugged every curve, and the peekaboo black lace lent the dress a smoky sexiness. The corset bodice dipped so low in the front, Bliss blushed at how much of her skin was exposed.
"What's that?" one of the students asked, pointing to the shining emerald necklace nestled in her cleavage.
"It's mine. "
"I don't know if Rolf is going to like it," the other student said hesitantly.
Bliss shrugged. She didn't care what Rolf wanted. She would never take it off.
Chapter Fifteen
At exactly five minutes to midnight, Mimi and Jack Force entered the Armory to a torrent of flashbulbs. Mimi leaned on Jack's shoulder, pulling her fluffy zebra-striped sable coat closer and hiding behind a pair of extra-large sunglasses, as if the excess
of photography could harm her.
"Watch it," Jack said sharply to an overeager paparazzo who came a little too close and jostled Mimi.
"Mimi! Right here," a young publicist wearing a headset said, sweeping them into the main room and leading them quickly through the fashionista sea to the very first row. "We're a minute to go-time. You're here next to Brannon. "
The room buzzed with excitement, every seat in the house was full, every celebrity was accounted for (Mimi was one of the last), and even the aisles were full of the black T-shirt-wearing volunteers who crept out from backstage and into the main room to watch the action. Onstage, the band thundered through a raucous alt-rock anthem.
Mimi preened for the cameras, shrugging off her fur coat and flexing her calves so that her legs would look thinner. She had no envy for the models; they would only be photographed for the clothes on their backs. Whereas the dizzying crowd surrounding her and yelling her name were taking her picture because they were interested in her.
"You're really enjoying this," Jack teased.
"Mmmm. " For the past week she had concealed her rage so well she thought she deserved an Oscar. But she couldn't even bear to look at her twin. That liar, that traitor. He was risking everything for a dalliance with the half-blood mongrel. She could see through his solicitousness and realized how well he had snowed her for so long. The bastard was only pretending to be in love with her, while he concealed his real feelings.
The worst part of it all was that she couldn't even hate him. She loved him too much and understood his flaws too well. Hating Jack would be akin to hating herself, and Mimi had too much self-esteem to wallow in that particular misery.
"Mimi! Darling!" Randy Morgan, the designer's wife, suddenly swooped down upon them and effusively kissed her on both cheeks. "You must come backstage and wish Rolf good luck!"
Mimi allowed herself to be led to the traditional bow-and-scrape with the designer. The designer, of course, would be the one doing the bowing and scraping. Mimi was one of his biggest clients.
She left Jack and picked her way through the crowd. Rolf greeted her with a bear hug and a shower of compliments. Mimi accepted the homage and generously wished him a good show. She said hello to several other Blue Bloods from her social circle: Piper Crandall in an atrocious yellow dress, and Soos Kemble, who complained about being relegated to the second row. Mimi spied a few uppity Red Bloods as well. Lucy Forbes cooed over Mimi's new Rolf Morgan ensemble that the designer had messengered over just that morning for her to wear to his show. Then she spied the object of her hatred across the room.
Schuyler was letting her dressers fuss over her outfit: a ruffled blouse and a slim-cut riding jacket, velveteen riding pants and high boots. Mimi thought to herself she would buy the outfit if Schuyler weren't the one wearing it.
Without hesitation she walked over to Schuyler. Maybe she could nip this thing in the bud; maybe there was still hope that nothing would come of Jack's stupid little flirtation.
"Schuyler, you have a second?" she asked.
Schuyler sent her handlers away, and the two of them drifted over to a quiet corner. "What's up?"
Mimi decided to get right to the point. "I know what's going on between you and my brother. "
"What do you mean?" Schuyler tried to look calm, but Mimi could sense her alarm. She was right. Goddamnit she was right. The wretch didn't even try to deny it. The two of them were together. How far had it gone? Mimi's heart dropped. She had told herself she would never feel jealous of the annoying little mutt. But Schuyler's defiant face made her feel otherwise.
Schuyler didn't look chastened, or weak, or embarrassed. Gone was the whimpering half-blood who jumped when you said "Boo!" Gone was the girl with the unrequited crush on the great Jack Force. Mimi saw Schuyler very clearly. She looked like a girl who was confident in love. A girl who knew she held his heart in her hands. For a moment Mimi intensely wished the Silver Blood had dragged Schuyler facedown into hell.
"Do you have any idea what you're doing to Jack?"
"What are you talking about?"
Mimi clutched Schuyler's upper arm tightly. "Think of your mother. Why do you think Allegra's in a coma? Why do you think she's immortal but won't die? She is useless and destroyed. Do you want that for him?"
"Don't bring my mother into this," Schuyler warned, shaking Mimi off. "You don't know anything about my mother. "
"Oh, but I do. I have lived much longer than you. " Mimi's face changed, and for a moment, Schuyler saw flashes of all the women in history Mimi had been: the Egyptian queen, the French noblewoman, the hardy Pilgrim, the Newport hostess - all breathtakingly beautiful, all with the same cold green eyes.
"You don't understand the bond," Mimi whispered, as around them the designer and his team were making final corrections on all the clothes. "Jack and I are one and the same. Taking him away from me would be like ripping off his skin. He needs me. If he renews the bond, he will grow stronger, his memories will be whole. He will flourish. "
"And if not?" Schuyler challenged.
"You might as well reserve a spot for him in that hospital my father keeps visiting. This is not some silly high school game, you stupid girl. " This is life and death. Angels and demons. The bond is law. We are made from the same dark matter, Mimi thought but didn't say. She saw that Schuyler could not, or would not, understand. Schuyler was a newborn. She had no comprehension of the rigors of immortality. The harsh and absolute ways of their kind.
"I don't believe you. "
"I didn't expect you to. " Mimi looked exhausted. "But if you do love him, leave him, Schuyler. Release him. Tell him you don't want him anymore. It's the only way he'll let go. "
Schuyler shook her head. Around her, the models were lining up, and Rolf was pinning a hem here, tucking in a pleat there. Outside, the lights had gone black and the show was about to start. She let one of her dressers snip an errant thread from the sleeve of her riding jacket. "I can't do that. I can't lie. "
Mimi took a sip from Schuyler's glass of champagne without asking. "Then Jack is lost. "
Chapter Sixteen
Last year during his fall presentation, Rolf Morgan had made the audience walk down the runway while the models sat on front-row seats and pretended to take notes. The gimmick had charmed the fashion press so much he was keen on trying out another fun twist. This year the show would be run backward, starting with the designer's bow and the grand ball gowns and ending with casual sportswear.
As the band played a thundering rendition of "Space Oddity," Rolf ran out onto the stage to thunderous applause. He returned bearing a bouquet of roses, beaming and energized. Schuyler watched as Cyrus, Rolf's spastic show runner, led Bliss to the front of the line. The black lace corset dress was meant to be the showstopping finale, and therefore, in the backward equation, the opener. Schuyler gave Bliss an encouraging wave. She knew her friend was still slightly intimidated by the catwalk, and Bliss looked like a nervous colt, her hands quivering slightly as they rested on her hips.
Bliss returned a few minutes later, a broad smile of relief on her face. "It's madness out there!" she gushed to Schuyler before being whisked away to get changed for her second outing.
Schuyler returned Bliss's smile, thinking she would be glad when it was over, when she could finally put on her own clothes - a certain men's Oxford shirt that was her current favorite, over a pair of black leggings and cloven-hoof boots that she'd picked up at a resale shop.
The girls in their gothic prom dresses had exited the catwalk, and Cyrus motioned her to the front. She was next. "Remember, when you get to the end, one pose, two pose, BAM! And then come back. "
Schyler nodded. She took a deep breath and walked onstage. Stepping out onto the catwalk was like stepping onto the moon. You went from the grungy reality of backstage, surrounded by chatter and safety pins and a heroic mess of clothing racks and raided accessory bins, to the bright
white lights of the stage and the blinding flash of a hundred cameras.
The atmosphere was electric, a noisy cacophony of hysteria reserved for the best rock concerts - the hoots and cheers from the back row energizing the band to play faster and louder, and the models to assume their haughtiest fa§?des. Schuyler never even noticed the grim-faced editors or the tarted-up celebrities in the front row; she was too busy concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other and not making a fool of herself.
She found the marked spot at the end of the runway and snapped the required poses, turning left and rotating her hip forward, and turning right soon after. And just as she was about to do an about-face to turn back, her mind opened to an urgent, forcible sending. It was an incoherent, savage hatred. The unexpected intensity was enough to stop Schuyler in mid-step, and she staggered from the weight of it, tripping over her heels and causing members of the front row to gasp audibly.
Schuyler felt disoriented and broken. Someone - or something - had savagely entered her mind. She recognized it immediately as a manipulation, but this was stronger and more evil than what she had experienced with Dylan. It was an unforgivable trespass, and she felt violated, naked, and terribly afraid. She had to get out of there.
There was no time to make a proper exit. Schuyler leaped from the stage, landing in the middle of the photographer's pit. She knew exactly where she had to go now.
"Sorry!" she told one unlucky shutterbug whose foot she had crushed.
She flew through the crowd, to the confusion of the crew and the delight of everyone else, who thought it was all part of the show.
From backstage she heard, "Hey! Where does she think she's going? Get back here!"
Tomorrow there would be a tabloid story about the model who had run off the catwalk at the Rolf Morgan show, but Schuyler wasn't worried about the media or her model booker or Rolf right then.
What was that? she thought, her heart feeling as if it would explode from fear as she ran up the West Side Highway, moving faster than traffic would ever allow. Who was that? The sickly, defiled feeling diminished slightly the moment she arrived at the shabby old brownstone on Riverside Drive. It didn't look as run-down as it used to, thanks to Lawrence's recent renovation. Its stone steps were newly swept, the graffiti on the doors had been painted over, and the gargoyles had been restored to their former dignity.