Revelations (15 page)

Twenty-seven

Because Mimi wanted to see Dylan right away, they decided to visit him the next day, which would mean cutting classes again. Not that Bliss minded all too much. Her grades were the furthest thing on her mind at that point. That evening, Bliss did not ask her father why he hadn’t told the Conclave about Dylan. She was wary about letting him know she knew he was keeping secrets from her. Forsyth must have had his reasons, but somehow Bliss had a feeling he wouldn’t share them.

The next afternoon Bliss packed Dylan a care package. She knew he was receiving the best care money could buy, but Transitions wouldn’t have the newest indie-rock CD or a copy of Absolute Sandman. She thought maybe if he had a couple of his favorite things, it would remind him who he was, and in tandem, what Bliss had meant to him. She just didn’t want to give up on him. She’d even decided to stop feeling rejected about what had happened when they’d made out that fateful night. Maybe Dylan freaking out on her was just part of his sickness.

Jordan walked by the doorway and peeked inside Bliss’s room. “Are you going up to Saratoga again?” she asked.

“Yeah. Mimi wants to go see Dylan for the Conclave. And his doctor’s there today. I can finally ask what’s going on with him,” Bliss explained, folding a new leather motorcycle jacket she’d had her stylist track down at Barneys and stuffing it into the shopping bag.

Her sister walked in and sat on the bed, watching Bliss pack. “Hey … I wanted to ask you…you know how you used to have your blackouts?”

“Uh-huh.” Bliss nodded, deciding against bringing the teddy bear in a “Get Well” T-shirt she’d bought on impulse at a card shop. Dylan would definitely think it was corny. He’d always made fun of her for having so many stuffed animals on her bed.

“Do you still get them?”

Bliss paused and thought about it. The blackouts used to come with unnerving regularity. She would pass out and wake up somewhere completely different from where she’d begun, with no knowledge of how she’d gotten there. “No. And I haven’t had a nightmare in months either.”

“That’s good,” Jordan said, looking relieved.

But Bliss wasn’t finished talking. “It’s like, I get them during the day now. Like the other day—I saw this weird thing. I was holding my hairbrush and it turned into this, like, gold snake. Scared the crap out of me.”

Jordan paled. “Gold snake?”

“Yeah.”

“And the other day I looked up at the sky, and I saw this seven-headed dragon.

Freaked me out.”

“This happens a lot?” Jordan asked.

Bliss shrugged. “Kind of. I asked Dad about it. He said it was all …”

“Part of the transformation,” Jordan chimed in.

“Yeah.” Bliss finished packing. Her cell phone buzzed. Mimi was downstairs with the car, waiting. Jordan was still standing there, an odd expression on her face. She looked as if she were wrestling with a decision. “What’s up?” Bliss asked.

“Nothing.” Jordan shook her head. “Have fun visiting your friend.”

Bliss hadn’t hung out with Mimi for months, and at first she thought it would be uncomfortable between them, but she had forgotten how self-absorbed Mimi Force could be.

Mimi chatted easily during the entire drive, talking about everything from her new cast of human familiars, which included the hottest boys from Collegiate and Horace Mann, along with a college kid or two, as well as her plans for the summer: an intensive Chinese-immersion program in Beijing, since she wanted to display language fluency for her Stanford application next year.

“Isn’t that funny? Chinese is the only language that isn’t in my memories. Huh. I’m staying with Wah and Min, you know those Chinese twins we met at the Four Hundred Ball?” Mimi giggled.

When they arrived at Transitions, Dylan was alone in his room, watching television.

“Hey…Bliss…right?” he asked, turning off the tube. “And you are?”

“Mimi.” She looked at him sharply. “You seriously don’t remember us?”

“I remember her,” Dylan said a little shyly. “She’s come to see me a few times.”

“I brought you a couple of things,” Bliss said, holding up the fat bag of treats.

“Cool,” Dylan said, digging into the bag. “What’s this for?” he asked, holding up the black leather jacket.

Bliss felt embarrassed. “I … um…you used to have one…”

“No, it’s…God, it’s great.” Dylan put it on. He looked just as handsome in it as the old one. He smiled at her, and her heart skipped a beat. He rooted in the bag again and removed an iPhone box.

“I thought you might want one,” Bliss said. “I hope you don’t mind. I already programmed my number into it.”

“Bliss,” Mimi asked. “Could you leave us alone for a bit? I’d like to ask Dylan some questions.”

“Sure.”

Bliss left the room. A few minutes later, Mimi opened the door. She looked at Bliss with a mixture of pity and contempt. “Well?” Bliss asked.

“It looks like he really has no memory,” Mimi said.

“I told you.”

“It’s amazing. It’s like he’s a total blank slate.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing.” Bliss glared at Mimi and went back inside the room.

“What did she want to know?” she asked Dylan.

Dylan shrugged. “Not much…just a few weird things— and something about jeans or something. I didn’t really get what she was after. I told her I didn’t even know my name when I woke up.”

“You really have no idea who I am?” Bliss asked, sitting next to Dylan on the bed.

He looked down at the comic book he was leafing through and put it away. Then he reached over and held her hand in his. She was surprised and looked at him fearfully…hopefully…

Dylan frowned and then finally spoke. “I don’t know who you are. But I do know that every time I see you, I feel better.”

Bliss squeezed his hand and he squeezed hers back. They sat holding hands for a very long time. Until Mimi knocked on the door to let Bliss know Dylan’s doctor was ready to see them.

As they walked to the main building, Mimi took off her sunglasses and squinted at a figure walking toward Dylan’s cottage. “Hey, isn’t that Oliver Hazard-Whatever?”

“Yeah,” Bliss said. Oliver had told her he might be visiting Dylan after school.

Apparently he came up a lot to keep Dylan company. The two of them played chess. Dylan might have lost his memory, but he hadn’t lost his ability to slaughter Oliver at the game, Oliver had told her.

“Hold on. I want to talk to him for a bit,” Mimi said, heading in his direction.

Bliss wondered what on earth Mimi would want to talk to Oliver about. The two of them despised each other. But they were too far away for her to overhear them.

She did notice that when Mimi returned, she looked extremely pleased with herself, even more so than usual.

As for Oliver, Bliss didn’t have a chance to catch up with him. Whatever Mimi said to him shook him up so much, he never did visit Dylan that day.

Twenty-eight

She heard the car before it turned the corner. A soft purring engine that grew to a massive roar. It pulled up to the alley behind the Perry Street building. A silver gray 1961 XKE Jaguar convertible, sleek and gorgeous as a bullet, with Jack Force at the wheel.

Schuyler slipped inside the car, admiring its classic finish, its silver antique gauges and simple old-fashioned mechanisms. Jack shifted the gears and the car roared up the highway.

They would only have a few hours together, but it was enough—although, of course, it would never be enough.

Each day brought the bonding closer and closer.

She had spied the invitations, and had merited one herself. She’d been surprised at first, then realized it was Mimi’s way of letting her know exactly where she stood. The other day she had even caught a glimpse of Mimi in her bonding dress. Schuyler didn’t know who was more the fool—she or the girl in the white dress. They were both mad to be in love with the same boy.

Jack was the fool, Schuyler thought, watching him expertly maneuver the car through the thoroughfare. A crazy fool. But she loved him, God how she loved him. She only wished they didn’t have to hide, that they could declare their love to the world. The other evening she had told him she was tired of hiding in one place. As much as the apartment afforded an escape, it was also a prison.

Schuyler was longing to be with him somewhere else, even for one night. In answer Jack had slipped her a note that morning telling her to meet him at twilight at the designated location. She had no idea what he was planning, but the small smile that now played at the edge of his lips hinted at a wonderful surprise.

Jack drove the car across the bridge into New Jersey. In a few minutes they pulled into a private airfield at Teterboro, where a jet was waiting.

“You can’t be serious.” Schuyler laughed and clapped her hands when she saw the airplane.

“You said you wanted to get away.” Jack smiled. “How about Tokyo? Or London?

Seoul? I feel like barbecue. Madrid? Bruges? Where would you like to go tonight? Tonight the world is yours, as am I.”

Schuyler didn’t ask where Mimi was; she didn’t care and she didn’t want to know. If Jack was going to risk it, then she didn’t need to ask.

“Vienna,” Schuyler decided. “There’s a painting there that I’ve always wanted to see.”

So this is what it’s like to be one of the richest and most powerful vampires in the world, Schuyler thought, as she followed Jack inside the Osterreichische Galerie in the Belvedere palace. The museum was closed for the night, but when they arrived at the great entrance doors a gloved security guard greeted them, and the museum curator led them to the proper gallery.

“Is this what you are looking for?” the curator asked, pointing to a dark painting in the middle of the room.

“Yes.” Schuyler took a deep breath and looked at Jack for reassurance. In answer he squeezed her hand tightly.

She moved closer to the painting. She had a faded poster of the same image tacked up in her bedroom. The reality of it astonished her. The colors were so much more vibrant and engaging, fresh and alive. Egon Schiele had always been one of Schuyler’s favorite artists.

She’d always been drawn to his portraits—those heavy, tortured dark lines, the gaunt figures, the eloquent sadness applied as thick as paint.

It was called simply
The Embrace,
and depicted a man and a woman with their bodies entwined together. There was a ferocious energy to the piece, and Schuyler felt as if she could sense the couple’s intense connection to each other. And yet the piece was far from romantic. It was fraught with angst, as if the two people in the painting knew their embrace was their last.

There was a melancholy to his art—it wasn’t for everyone. In Schuyler’s Art Hum.

class everyone was enamored by Gustav Klimt’s Art Nouveau masterpiece
The Kiss.
But Schuyler thought liking that painting was too easy; it was dorm-room decor, a typical safe choice.

She preferred madness and tragedy, loneliness and torment. Schiele had died young, perhaps of a broken heart. Her art teacher was always talking about the “redemptive and transformative quality of art,” and as she stood in front of the painting Schuyler completely understood what that meant.

She had no words for what she was feeling. She felt Jack’s hand in hers—so cool and dry, and counted herself the luckiest girl in the world.

“Where to now?” Jack asked as they left the museum.

“Your choice.”

Jack cocked an eyebrow. “Let’s stop by a café. I have a taste for Sacher torte.”

They dined on the rooftop of an apartment building and watched the dawn break over the horizon. One of the advantages of being a vampire was that it was easy to adjust to a nocturnal schedule. Schuyler didn’t need as much sleep as she used to, and on the nights when she met Jack, they hardly slept at all.

“Is this what you wanted?” Jack asked, leaning over the small rickety table and pouring her more wine.

“How did you know?” she smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear. He had surprised her by bringing her to yet another beautiful apartment his family owned. The Forces had more real estate than Schuyler had holey black sweaters in her closet.

“Come on, let’s go back downstairs,” Jack said, leading her by the hand back inside the apartment. “I want you to hear something.”

The Force pied-a-terre was located in a building that dated back to 1897, in the prestigious Ninth District, with vaulted ceilings, ornate moldings, and views from every window. It was airy and spacious, yet unlike their sumptuously decorated New York home, the place was sparsely furnished and almost monastic.

“No one’s been here in ages, ever since they stopped doing the Viennese Opera Balls properly,” Jack explained. He dusted off an ancient-looking Sony cassette recorder.

“Listen to this,” he said, putting a tape inside. “I think you might like it.” He pressed PLAY.

There was a scratchy hissing sound. Then a husky, low voice—unmistakably female, but sounding ravaged by years of smoking—began to speak.

“It was also my violent heart that broke
…”

Schuyler recognized the lines. “Is it her?” she asked rapturously. “It
is
her, isn’t it?”

Jack nodded. It was. “I found the tape at this old bookshop the other day. They had poets reading their work.”

He had remembered. It was Anne Sexton. Reading from
Love Poems.
Her favorite poet reading from her favorite poem, “The Break.” It was the saddest of the lot, angry and bitter and beautiful and enraged. Schuyler was drawn to grief—like Schiele’s paintings, Sexton’s poetry was brutal, honest in its agony.
Love Poems
had been written during an affair the poet had—an illicit, secret affair not unlike their own. She knelt and huddled close to the little stereo, and Jack folded her in his arms. She didn’t think she could love him more than she did right then.

Maybe there was part of him that she would never understand, but at this moment the two of them understood each other perfectly.

When the tape ended, they were silent, enjoying the warmth of each other’s bodies.

“So…” Schuyler felt hesitant and lifted up on one elbow to speak to him. She feared that talking about the reality of their situation would break the magic of the evening. And yet she wanted to know. The bonding was full speed ahead. “The other day at The Committee meeting you said that there was a way to break the bond.”