Melissa de la Cruz - Blue Bloods Book 4 - The Van Alen Legacy Copyright 2009 by Melissa de la Cruz A Conversation It is said that Allegra’s daughter will defeat the Silver Bloods. I believe Schuyler will bring us the salvation we seek. She is almost as powerful as her mother. And one day she will be even more powerful. Schuyler Van Alen . . . the half-blood? Are you certain she is the one? Charles asked. Lawrence nodded. Because Allegra had two daughters, Charles said, in a light, almost playful tone. Surely you have not forgotten that. The Elder Van Alen's voice turned cold. Of course not but it is beneath you to make sport of such a serious matter as Allegra’s firstborn. Charles dismissed Lawrence’s rebuke with a wave. My apologies, I meant no offense to the dead. Her blood is on our hands, Lawrence sighed. The events of the day were tiring him, as were the memories of the past. Only, I wonder . . . Yes As I’ve wondered all these years, Charles, if such a one could ever be truly destroyed. The New York Times Obituary Lawrence Van Alen, 105, Philanthropist and Philosopher, Dies Lawrence Winslow Van Alen, a professor of history and linguistics at the University of Venice, died last night in his home on River side Drive in Manhattan. He was 105. His death was confirmed by Dr. Patricia Hazard, his attending physician. The cause of death was listed as advanced age. Professor Van Alen was a descendant of William Henry Van Alen, known as the Commodore, an American icon and one of the richest men of the Gilded Age, whose wealth came from steamships, railroads and private investment and brokerage businesses. The Van Alen's founded the New York Central Railroad Line and what is now Grand Central Terminal. The family’s charitable trust, the Van Alen Foundation, was a cornerstone in the development of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Metropolitan Opera, the New York City Ballet and the New York Blood Bank. Lawrence Van Alen is survived by his daughter, Allegra Van Alen Chase, who has been in a coma since 1992; and his granddaughter, Schuyler Van Alen. ONE Schuyler There had been little time to mourn. Upon returning to New York after Lawrence’s murder in Rio (covered up by the Committee with a proper obituary in the Times), Schuyler Van Alen had been on the run. No rest. No respite. A year of constant motion, barely one step ahead of the Venator's hunting her. A flight to Buenos Aires followed by one to Dubai. A sleepless night in a youth hostel in Amsterdam followed by another in a bunk bed in an auditorium in Bruges. She had marked her sixteenth birthday aboard the Trans-Siberian Railway celebrating with a cup of watery Nescafe coffee and several crumbly Russian tea cookies. Somehow, her best friend, Oliver Hazard-Perry, had found a candle to light in one of the suharkies. He took his job as human Conduit pretty seriously. It was thanks to Oliver’s careful accounting that they had been able to stretch their money so far. The Conclave had frozen his access to the well-funded Hazard-Perry accounts as soon as they had left New York. Now it was August in Paris, and hot. They had arrived to find most of the city a ghost town: bakeries, boutiques, and bistros shuttered while their proprietors absconded to three-week vacations in the beaches up north. The only people around were American and Japanese tourists, who mobbed every museum gallery, every garden in every public square, inescapable and ubiquitous in their white sneakers and baseball caps. But Schuyler welcomed their presence. She hoped the slow-moving crowds would make it easier for her and Oliver to spot their Venator pursuers. Schuyler had been able to disguise herself by changing her physical features, but performing the mutatio was taking a toll on her. She didn’t say anything to Oliver, but lately she couldn’t even do so much as change the color of her eyes. And now, after almost a year of hiding, they were coming out into the open. It was a gamble, but they were desperate. Living without the protection and wisdom of the secret society of vampires and their select group of trusted humans had taken its toll. And while neither of them would ever admit it, they were both tired of running. So for now Schuyler was seated in the back of a bus, wearing a pressed white shirt buttoned to the neck over slim black pants and flat black shoes with rubber soles. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and except for a hint of lip gloss, she wore no makeup. She meant to blend in with the rest of the catering staff who had been hired for the evening. But surely someone would notice. Surely someone would hear how hard her heart was beating, would remark on how her breathing was shallow and quick. She had to calm down. She had to clear her mind and become the blasé contract caterer she was pretending to be. For so many years Schuyler had excelled at being invisible. This time, her life depended on it. The bus was taking them over a bridge to the Hotel Lambert on the le Saint-Louis, a small island on the Seine River. The Lambert was the most beautiful house in the most beautiful city in the world. At least, she had always thought so. Although house was putting it mildly. Castle was more like it, something out of a fairy tale, its massive river walls and gray mansard roofs rising from the surrounding mist. As a child she had played hide-and-seek in the formal gardens, where the conical sculpted trees reminded her of figures on a chessboard. She remembered staging imaginary productions inside the grand courtyard and throwing bread crumbs to the geese from the terrace overlooking the Seine. How she had taken that life for granted! Tonight she would not enter the hotel's exclusive, exalted domain as an invited guest, but rather as a humble servant. Like a mouse creeping into a hole. Schuyler was anxious by nature, and she needed almost all her self-control to keep it together. At any moment she feared she might scream she was already so nervous she couldn't stop her hands from trembling. They vibrated, fluttering in her lap like trapped birds. Next to her, Oliver was handsome in a bartender's uniform, a tuxedo with a black silk bow tie and silver shirt studs. But he was pale beneath his butterfly collar, his shoulders tense under a jacket that was a little too big. His clear hazel eyes were clouded, looking more gray than green. Oliver's face did not display the same blank, bored look as the others. He was alert, ready for a fight or flight. Anyone who looked at him long enough could see it. We shouldn’t be here, Schuyler thought. What were we thinking? The risk is too great. They’re going to find us and separate us . . . and then . . . well, the rest was too horrible to contemplate. She was sweating under her starched shirt. The air-conditioning wasn’t working, and the bus was packed. She leaned her head against the windowpane. Lawrence had been dead for over a year now. Four hundred forty-five days. Schuyler kept count, thinking that maybe once she hit a magical number, it would stop hurting. This was no game, although sometimes it felt like a horrid, surreal version of cat and mouse. Oliver put a hand on top of hers to try and stop her hands from shaking. The tremors had begun a few months ago, just a slight twitching, but soon she realized she had to concentrate whenever she did something as simple as pick up a fork or open an envelope. She knew what it was, and there was nothing she could do about it. Dr. Pat had told her the first time she visited her office: she was the only one of her kind, Dominium Cognato, the first half- blood, and there was no telling how her human body would react to the transformation into immortal; there would be side effects, obstacles particular to her case. Still, she felt better once Oliver held her hand in his. He always knew what to do. She depended on him for so much, and her love for him had only deepened in the year they had spent together. She squeezed his hand, intertwined her fingers around his. It was his blood that ran through her veins, his quick thinking that had secured her freedom. As for everyone and everything they had left behind in New York, Schuyler did not dwell on it anymore. All of that was in the past. She had made her choice and was at peace with it. She had accepted her life for what it was. Once in a while she missed her friend Bliss very keenly, and more than once wanted to get in touch with her, but that was out of the question. No one could know where they were. No one, not even Bliss. Maybe they would be lucky tonight. Their luck had held so far. Oh, there had been a few close calls here and there? That one evening in Cologne when she’d abruptly run from a woman who had asked for directions to the cathedral. Illuminata had given the agent away. Schuyler had caught that soft imperceptible glow in the twilight before booking as fast as she could. Disguises only went so far. At some point, your true nature revealed itself. Wasn’t that what the Inquisitor had argued during the official investigation into the events in Rio. That maybe Schuyler wasn’t who she was supposed to be. Outlaw. Fugitive. That’s what she was now. Certainly not Lawrence Van Allen’s grieving granddaughter. No. According to the Conclave, she was his killer. TWO Mimi Oh, gross! She’d stepped in something icky. Beyond icky. It squished beneath her foot, a wet, gasping sound. Whatever it was, it was sure to ruin her pony-hair boots. What was she doing wearing pony-hair boots to a reconnaissance mission anyway? Mimi Force lifted her heel and assessed the damage. The zebra pattern was stained with something brown and leaky. Beer? Whiskey? A combination of all the bottom-shelf alcohol they served in this place? Who knew? For the umpteenth time this year, she wondered why on earth she’d ever signed up for this assignment. It was the last week of August. By all rights she should be on a beach in Capri, working on her tan and her fifth limoncello. Not creeping around some honky-tonk bar in the middle of the country. Somewhere between the dust bowl and the rust belt. Or was it the rust bowl and the dust belt. Wherever they were, it was a sleepy, sad little place, and Mimi couldn’t wait to leave it. What's wrong? Kingsley Martin nudged her. Shoes too tight again? Will you leave me alone? She sighed, moving away from him, making it clear she found the alcove they were hiding in too close quarters. She was tired of his teasing. Especially since, to her complete and utter horror, she discovered she was starting to like it. That was simply unacceptable. She hated Kingsley Martin. After everything that he’d done to her, she couldn’t see how she could feel otherwise. But where's the fun in that, He winked. The most infuriating thing about Kingsley, other than the fact that he had once tried to bring about her demise, was that somewhere between chasing down leads on the beaches of Punta del Este or through the skyscrapers of Hong Kong, Mimi had started to find him . . . attractive. It was enough to make her stomach turn. C'mon, Force, lighten up. You know you want me, he said with a smug smile. Oh my god! She huffed, turning around so that her long blond hair whipped over her shoulder and hit him square in the face. As if!? He might be faster and stronger than she was the big man on the Senator team, and for all intents and purposes her boss but really she should be the one leading them, as she outranked him in the Conclave hierarchy. If you could call that sorry group of cowards a Conclave. Kingsley Martin had another think coming if he thought he had any chance with her. He might be too cute for words (damn those rock-star looks), but it didn’t matter one iota. She was not interested, no matter how much her pulse quickened whenever he was near. She was bound to another. Mmm. Nice. You don’t use the hotel shampoo from the airport Hilton, do you? This is the good stuff, he purred. But is it the conditioner that makes it so soft and silky? Shut up . . . just… Hold on. Save your speech for the after-party. I see our guy. You ready? Kingsley interrupted his voice serious now, controlled. Like a shot. Mimi nodded all business as well. She saw their witness, the reason they were a few miles outside of Lincoln, Nebraska (that was it! She remembered now) in the first place. A former frat boy, probably just shy of thirty, with a baby beer gut and the beginnings of middle- age crab face. He was the type of guy who looked like he’d played cornerback in high school, but whose pounds of muscle had turned to fat after a few years behind a desk. Good, because this is not going to be easy, Kingsley warned. Okay, the boys will bring him to that corner booth and we’ll follow. Square him off and then go. No one will notice as long as we don’t get up. Waitress won’t even bother to come around. It was easier and more painless to enter the mind of another during REM sleep, but they didn’t have the luxury of waiting until their suspect had drifted off to la-la land. Instead they planned to barge into his subconscious with no warning and no consideration. Better that way: there would be no place for him to hide. No time to prepare. They wanted the unadulterated truth, and this time they were going to get it. The Venator’s were truth-tellers, skilled in the ability to decipher dreams and access memories. While only a bloodletting would allow them to tell true memory from false, there were other, quicker ways to discriminate fact from fiction without having to resort to the Sacred Kiss. Mimi learned that the Committee only consented to the blood trial when a most grievous charge had been levied, as in her case. Otherwise, the practice of memory hunting, venatio, while not infallible, was acceptable for their purposes. Mimi had been given a crash course in Venator training before joining up. It helped that she had been one in previous lifetimes. Once she had relearned the basics, it was just like riding a bike, her core memories kicked in and the whole exercise became second nature. Mimi watched as Sam and Ted Lennox, the twin brothers who rounded out their Venator team, led their witness to a dark corner booth. They had been playing him with pitcher after pitcher of beer at the bar. Mr. Glory Days probably thought he’d just made a couple of new friends. As soon as they sat down, Kingsley slipped into the opposite bench, Mimi right next to him. Hey, buddy, remember us? He asked. Huh? The guy was awake, but drunk and drowsy. Mimi felt a twinge of pity. He had no idea what was about to happen. I'm sure you remember her, Kingsley said, guiding the witness to lock eyes with Mimi. Mimi held Frat Boy with her smoulder, and for all anyone in the real world knew, the dude was just entranced with the pretty blonde, staring deep into her green eyes. Now, Kingsley ordered. Without a moment to spare, the four Venator’s stepped into the glom, taking the witness with them. It was as easy as slipping down the rabbit hole. THREE Bliss When she woke up that morning, the first thing that came to mind was that the bright white shutters looked familiar. Why did they look familiar? No. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t the right question to ask. She was getting ahead of herself again. It happened. But now she had to concentrate. Every day she had to ask herself three very important questions, and that wasn’t one of them. The first question she had to ask herself was what is my name? She couldn’t remember. It was like trying to decipher a scribble on a sheet of paper. She knew what it was supposed to say, but she couldn’t make out the handwriting. Like having something just out of reach, behind a closed door, and she had lost the key. Or like waking up blind. She groped wildly in the dark and tried not to panic. What is my name? Her name. She had to remember her name. Otherwise . . . otherwise . . . she didn’t want to think about it. Once upon a time there was a girl named . . . Once upon a time there was a girl named . . . She had an unusual name. She knew that much. It wasn’t the kind of name that you found on ceramic coffee mugs at airport gift shops or emblazoned on mini license plate souvenirs you could hang on your bedroom door after you returned from Disneyland. Her name was pretty and unusual and had meaning. Something that meant snow or breath or joy or happiness or . . . Bliss. Yes. That was it. Bliss Llewellyn. That was her name! She’d remembered! She hugged it to herself as tight as she could. Her name. Herself. As long as she could remember who she was, she was okay. She wouldn’t go crazy. At least not today. But it was hard. It was so, so hard because now there was the Visitor to consider. The Visitor who was in her, who was her, for all intents and purposes. The Visitor who answered to her name. She called him the Visitor because it made it easier for her to believe that her situation would be temporary. What did visitors do, after all? They left. Bliss wondered were you still you if someone else made the decisions. Spoke in your voice? Walked with your legs? Used your hands to bring death to the person you loved the most? She shuddered. A sudden unbidden memory came to her. A black-haired boy lying limp in her arms. Who was that? The answer was somewhere, but she would have to dig for it. The image faded. Hopefully she would remember later. Right now she had to move on to the second question. Where am I? The shutters. The shutters were a clue. It was enough that she was able to see something. It happened so rarely now. Most of the time she woke up in darkness. She concentrated on the shutters. They were wooden and painted white. Charming in a way, something that recalled a farmhouse or an English cottage except they were too bright, too shiny and perfect. More like Martha Stewart’s idea of an English cottage than a real one. Ah. No wonder they looked familiar. Bliss knew where she was now. If she could still smile, she would have. The Hamptons. She was in her Hampton’s house. They were in Cotswold. BobiAnne had named the house. BobiAnne? Bliss saw an image of a tall, lanky woman wearing too much makeup and gargantuan jewelry. She could even smell her stepmother’s noxious perfume. Everything was coming back now, and coming back fast. One summer during a dinner party at a famous designer’s house, BobiAnne had learned that all the great houses in the area had names. Owners dubbed their homes, Mandalay or Oak Valley, according to how pretentious they were. Bliss had suggested they name theirs Dune House for the large sand dune at the beachfront edge of the property. But BobiAnne had other ideas. Cotswold. The woman had never even been to England. Okay. Bliss was relieved. She’d figured out where she was, but it didn’t make sense. What was she doing in the Hamptons? She was a stranger in her own life, a tourist in her own body. If someone had asked her what it was like, Bliss would have explained it this way: it’s like you’re driving a car, but you’re sitting in the backseat. The car is driving itself, and you’re not in control. But it’s your car; at least you think it is. It used to be yours, anyway. Or like being in a movie. The movie is your life, but you don’t star in it anymore. Someone else is kissing the handsome lead and making the dramatic monologues. You’re just watching. Bliss was an observer of her own life. She was not Bliss anymore, but simply the memory of the Bliss that had been. Sometimes she wasn’t even sure that she had ever really existed. FOUR Schuyler The bus pulled to a stop up past the gates, and the group silently filed out. Schuyler noticed that even the most jaded of her coworkers, a rather haughty collection of moonlighting actors and actresses along with a smug culinary student or two, were looking around in amazement. The building and its immaculate grounds were as opulent and intimidating as the Louvre, except someone still lived here. It was a home, not a national monument. The Hotel Lambert had been closed to the public for much of its history. Only a vaunted few had been welcomed inside its massive doors. The rest of the world could leaf through pictures of it in books. Or enter as catering staff. As they walked past the burbling fountains, Oliver nudged her. All right, he asked in French. One more reason to be thankful for the Duchesne School. Years of mandatory foreign language requirements meant they had been able to pass for two restaurant workers from Marseille at the job interview, although their textbook accents were in danger of giving them away at any time. You look worried. What’s wrong? Nothing. I was just thinking about the investigation again, Schuyler said as they made their way toward the service entrance located at the back of the house. She remembered that terrible day at the Repository, when she’d been accused so unjustly. How could they have believed that of me? Don't waste any more time on it. It’s not going to change anything, Oliver said firmly. What happened on Corcovado was terrible, and it wasn’t your fault. Schuyler nodded, blinking back the tears that came whenever she thought of that day. Oliver was right as always. She was wasting energy wishing for another outcome. What was past was past. They had to focus on the present. Isn't this place beautiful? She said. Then, whispering so no one would hear, Cordelia brought me here a couple of times, when she came for meetings with Prince Henri. We stayed in the guest apartments in the east wing. Remind me to show you the Hercules galleries and the Polish library. They have Chopin’s piano. She felt a mixture of awe and sadness as she followed the hushed crowd through the gleaming marble halls. Awe at the beauty of the place, which had been built by the same architect who had designed the Palace of Versailles, and displayed the same gilded moldings and baroque flourishes, and sadness because the building reminded her of Cordelia. She could sure use some of her grandmother’s brusque tenacity right then. Cordelia Van Alen wouldn’t think twice about crashing a party to get what she wanted, whereas Schuyler had too many doubts. The party that evening was called A Thousand and One Nights, in homage to the extravagant Oriental Ball thrown at the residence in 1969. Like that party, tonight would feature dancing slave girls, half-naked torchbearers, zither players, and Hindu musicians. Of course, there would also be a few modern additions: the entire cast from a Bollywood musical would perform at midnight, and instead of having papier-mâché elephants at the entrance, a pair of real Indian elephants had been borrowed from a traveling Thai circus. The pachyderms would be carrying riders under golden canopies. The newspapers had already nicknamed it The Last Party. The party to end all parties. The party that would mark the end of an era. The last night that the fabled building would house royalty. Because the Hotel Lambert had been sold. Tomorrow it would no longer be home to the surviving family of Louis- Philippe, the last king of France. Tomorrow the property would belong to a foreign conglomerate. Tomorrow the chateau would fall into the hands of developers who were rich enough to have met its steep asking price. Tomorrow it would be divided up, or renovated, or made into a museum, or whatever the conglomerate had planned for it. But tonight it was the scene of one last grand Bal des Vampires: Parisian Blue Blood society gathering together one final time in a celebration worthy of Scheherazade. Cordelia told me Balzac made a pass at her once, during a ball here. She was a deb then, in an earlier cycle, before she became my grandmother, she told Oliver as they made their way down into the vast basement kitchens, where modern stainless-steel appliances were installed next to medieval hearths. She said he was pretty drunk. Can you imagine?? One of France's leading lights hitting on an eighteen-year-old girl, He smirked, pushing open a swinging door. Totally. The party was in two hours, and they found the cooks angrily yelling at each other, the whole kitchen in a flurry of hurried preparation. Steam was billowing from giant industrial- size vats, and the place smelled of sizzling butter? smoky and delicious. What are you doing here? the head chef demanded when the wait staff arrived. Allez, allez, upstairs with you!? The chef had a brief argument with the staff director, but in the end they agreed that the servers could help the grounds crew, and Schuyler and Oliver were separated. Schuyler was sent outside, where she found the elephant trainers explaining to the actor and actress playing the King and Queen of Siam how to manage the beasts. Looking to be useful, she set about lighting candles, smoothing down tablecloths, and arranging the floral centerpieces just so. All around her, the courtyard was a cacophony of noise, with performers and acrobats jumping off the roofs, musicians tuning up, and dancing slave girls giggling at the half-naked male models. Finally all the candles were lit. The tables were set. Everything was ready. One thing was for sure. This was going to be some party. She found Oliver polishing glassware at his station. Remember, meet me at the bottom of the staircase after your first round, Oliver whispered, trying not to attract too much attention from the other servers. I'll look out for you. They had been ordered by their superiors to turn off their cell phones, not that it mattered since neither of them was able to get a signal. No cell phone towers were allowed on the exclusive part of the island. Schuyler nodded. They had their assignments: she would be part of the team responsible for welcoming guests with trays of champagne the minute they alighted from the boats. Oliver would be upstairs, working the back bar. And, Sky? It’ll be all right. She’ll have to see you. He smiled. I'll make sure of it. His bravado endeared him to her even more. Dear, sweet, kind Oliver, who had left everything he loved in New York to save and protect her. She knew he was just as afraid as she was, but he wasn’t going to show it. Tonight’s plan was a long shot at best. She didn’t even know if the Countess of Paris, the evening’s hostess and the soon-to-be-former owner of the Hotel Lambert, would remember her. Much less offer them the refuge they so desperately sought. But she had to ask, for her sake and for Oliver’s. And if she ever wanted vengeance on the demon who had killed her grandfather, she had to try. The European Conclave was her last and only hope. FIVE Mimi Stepping into someone’s subconscious is like discovering a new planet. Everyone’s internal world is different and unique. Some are cluttered, stuffed with dark and kinky secrets pushed to the edge of their minds, like racy underwear and handcuffs shoved in the back of a closet. Some are as pristine and clear as a spring meadow: all hopping bunnies and falling snowflakes. Those are rare. This guys psyche looked pretty standard, and Mimi chose a neutral environment in which to interrogate him in his childhood home. A suburban kitchen: white tiles, Formica table, clean, orderly, ordinary. Kingsley pulled up a stool across from Frat Boy. Why did you lie to us, he asked. In the glom the Venator looked fiercely handsome. The glom did that to vampires: made them look even more beautiful than they already were. What are you talking about, the guy asked, a confused look on his face. Show him. Mimi found the memory and played it on the television set on the kitchen counter. You remember this night? Kingsley asked as they observed Frat Boy step out onto a hotel balcony and watch a tall man carrying a child-size bundle out of the resort gates. You remember this man? Jordan Llewellyn had been missing for over a year. The eleven-year-old girl had been kidnapped from her hotel room at the same time the Conclave was being slaughtered at a party by Silver Bloods. The Venator’s had scanned the mind-memories of everyone at the hotel who was there the night the little girl had disappeared, every guest, every staff member, from security guards to the chambermaids, with no luck. The Llewellyn’s had been too traumatized to be of much help. Which was understandable, but still useless. No one knew anything, no one remembered anything. Except for the guy sitting in front of them now. You told us you saw something. That you saw this man when you stepped outside for a cigarette that night, Kingsley said. This man does not exist. You lied to us? But I don’t smoke, Frat Boy protested. I don’t remember this at all. What is this? Who are you?? In the bar, Mimi could see that he was starting to stir. They didn’t have much time. Why did you lie to us? Answer the question!? Kingsley barked. For months they had tracked down every man who had stayed in the hotel who fit the description Frat Boy had given them. They had chased down marketing executives, businessmen on holiday, tourists and locals. But nothing of significance had turned up. After the better part of a year, they began to wonder if they were chasing a ghost, a phantom, a mirage. The whole team was frustrated and on edge. Just yesterday the Conclave had ordered them to give up the mission and return to New York. Jordan was gone, case closed. But Kingsley decided they needed to pay their witness another visit. Let me rephrase this: who told you to lie to us? Kingsley asked. Nobody . . . I don’t know what you want me to say . . . I don’t remember that night. I don’t even remember you guys. Who are you? What are you doing in my mom’s kitchen?? Why were you in Rio? Ted Lennox asked mildly, playing good cop. A buddy of mine was getting married. . . . he slurred. We were there for the bachelor party. You went all the way to Rio for a bachelor party. You, Mimi scoffed, peering through to the real world, looking down at his prone form sprawled on the table. The guy looked like the farthest he ever traveled was the corner 7-Eleven. Hey, I lived in New York not too long ago. I was a banker. We always went away whenever anyone got married. Thailand. Vegas. Punta Cana. But then I lost my job and had to move back in with my parents. Don’t be a hater now. Laid off, Sam Lennox asked. No . . . just . . . I don’t remember things that well anymore. I took a leave of absence and haven’t gone back. Something wrong up here, he said, knocking on the side of his skull with a worried look on his face. Come to think of it, something about the witness did seem odd. Mimi remembered Frat Boy differently. The guy they had questioned a year ago had been much more articulate and alert, much cockier. She had found it strange that they had tracked him down in the boondocks. She had assumed anyone who stayed at such a fancy hotel also came from a fancy place. He's not lying, Sam said. Look at his prefrontal cortex. It’s clear. He doesn't remember that night, Ted agreed. Bring it up again, Kingsley said. This doesn’t make sense. Mimi pulled up the memory for a second time. The four of them watched it intently. It was the same: the tall man, the bundle, the cigarette. But Sam was right; his prefrontal cortex showed the guy wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t remember it. Oh, dear lord. How could we have missed this? Look at this. Force! Lennox! Look! Kingsley said, magnifying the edge of the picture. Then she saw what Kingsley saw: a slight tear on the border of the guy’s memory. It was like a seam that had been repaired. It was so fine, and so well done, you would never even notice it. Whoever had done this was good. You needed to be majorly advanced in the glom to pull this off. A false memory expertly weaved into a real one. Enough to have fooled a team of Venator’s for the better part of a year. Imprinting false memories on Red Bloods was very dangerous. It could mess people up: turn them into raving lunatics, unable to distinguish fact from fiction. Or turn a big-city banker into a slacker who lived with his parents. Let him go, Kingsley said wearily. Mimi nodded. She released her hold on his mind, and the four of them stepped back into the real world. Their witness was slumped over the table, snoring. This was no suspect. This was a victim. SIX Bliss