"Look, here's what you do. You're supposed to visualize your goal. You have to be the fog. Think like fog. Let your mind go blank. Can you feel it—a wispiness—it starts in the edge of your skin, and then …"
Schuyler obediently closed her eyes. "Okay, I'm thinking fog. Golden Gate. San Francisco. Little cat feet. I don't know…it's not happening."
"Sshhhh," Bliss admonished. She could already feel the transformation begin, could feel all her senses shift, could feel her very being disappear into a soft gray cloud. She was having fun imagining how she could use this new talent, when she had another vision. It hit her with a bang. The starkness of the image was like a punch in the gut.
Dylan.
If he'd looked merely disheveled before, he was worse now. His clothing was in tatters, his shirt ripped to shreds, his jeans torn, and his hair wild. He looked like he hadn't eaten or slept in weeks. He was standing in front of the school gates, shaking the bars and raving like a madman.
"What's wrong?" Schuyler asked immediately when Bliss stumbled.
"Dylan. He's here."
That was all she needed to say.
The three of them ran out of the Committee meeting, ignoring the curious faces of the other members, leaving the library, and running down the stairs. Their vampire speed meant Schuyler and Bliss arrived at the gates ahead of Oliver, who was gasping as he tried to keep up with them.
Duchesne was located on a quiet corner of Ninety-sixth Street, on Prep School Row. Since it was mid-afternoon, the streets were practically deserted, save for a nanny or two pushing a stroller toward the park.
The boy who stood in the middle of the sidewalk violently shaking the gates looked like a prophet from a bygone age, a throwback to a time of preachers and pontificators, when ragged men warned about the End Of The World. There was almost no sign of the teenage boy who had wanted to grow up to play guitar like Jimi Hendrix and had been the instigator of countless pranks.
"ABOMINATION!" he thundered when he saw them.
"It's my fault," Bliss cried, already close to tears at the sight of Dylan. "I know I promised I was going to tell the Conclave about him, but I couldn't. And I didn't check up on him … I left him and I ignored him … I wanted him to just go away. It's all my fault."
"No, it's mine," Schuyler said. "I was going to tell Lawrence, but—"
"It's all our fault," Oliver said firmly. "We should have done something about him, but we didn't. Look, we've got to get him out of here. People are going to start asking questions," he said as an elderly woman walking a poodle crossed the street and shot a puzzled look in their direction. "We don't want the police involved."
Dylan suddenly lunged toward them, clawing through the bars and gargling in a language they didn't understand.
Schuyler just barely ducked his reach. "We've got to get to him before he uses the glom on us again."
Bliss immediately transformed into the golden lioness. She was a sight to behold—a stalking, ruthless creature. She leaped over the gate and padded up to Dylan, who raged at her. "Devil spawn! TRAITOR!" he hissed.
Bliss cornered him against the iron bars and bared her teeth. She reared back on her hind legs and shoved him with her giant golden paws. Dylan cringed and whimpered, cowering with his hands over his head.
"She's got him!" Oliver yelled, motioning to Schuyler to move toward Bliss's right flank.
Schuyler ran to Bliss's side. She looked Dylan in the eyes. Saw the rage, anger, and confusion there. She wavered. This was no monster. This was a wounded animal.
But Oliver had no qualms. "SCHUYLER! DO IT! NOW!"
"Dormi!" she ordered, and waved her hand in front of Dylan's face.
Dylan slumped and fell to the ground. Bliss turned back into herself and knelt by his side.
"He'll sleep until he is commanded to wake up," Schuyler told them.
Oliver knelt beside Bliss, and they were able to make a makeshift straitjacket from Dylan's sweater. The lines on his face slowly smoothed away. Asleep, he looked docile and peaceful.
"We've got to turn him over to the Committee; this has gone on long enough," Oliver said. "I know you don't want to, Bliss, but it's best for him. Maybe they can help him."
"They don't help Silver Bloods—they destroy them. You know that," Bliss said bitterly.
"But maybe…"
"I'll take him to my father," Bliss decided. "I might be able to plead his case with Forsyth. Get him to show Dylan some mercy because he's my friend. He'll know what to do."
Schuyler nodded. Forsyth should be able to deal with Dylan. Meanwhile, the Llewellyns' Rolls-Royce pulled up to the curb. They bundled Dylan into the backseat and strapped him in next to Bliss.
"He'll be okay," Schuyler assured.
"Yeah," Bliss said, even though she knew that none of them believed it anymore. The car pulled away, and she raised her hand in good-bye. Oliver returned the wave, while Schuyler simply looked stricken. Finally the car turned the corner and she couldn't see them anymore.
When Bliss arrived at Penthouse des Reves, her family's extravagant triplex apartment on the top of one of the most exclusive buildings on Park Avenue, BobiAnne was consulting with her astrologer in the "casual" sitting room. Bliss's stepmother was a big-haired Texan socialite who was dripping in diamonds even in the early afternoon. Bliss's half sister, Jordan, was doing homework on a nearby coffee table. The two of them looked up in surprise at Bliss's entry.
"What on earth?" BobiAnne cried, leaping from her chair at the sight of her stepdaughter and the bound, unconscious boy.
"It's Dylan," Bliss said, as if that would explain everything. She was frightfully calm as she addressed her family. She had no idea how they would react at the sight of him, especially since he was so dirty. BobiAnne had a heart palpitation when someone forgot to use a coaster or left sweaty handprints on the Japanese wallpaper.
"The boy who disappeared," Jordan whispered, her eyes round and frightened.
"Yes. There's something wrong with him. He's…not quite all there. I have to tell Dad." Bliss confessed to everything—Dylan's unexpected return, how she'd hid him in the Chelsea Hotel—and gave them the Cliff's Notes version of his previous attacks. "But we're all fine," she assured. "Don't worry about me. Help him," she said, gently setting Dylan down on the nearest chaise longue.
"You did the right thing," BobiAnne said, pressing Bliss to her chest and smothering her with her perfume. "He'll be safe here with us."
Spring in New York was a mirage. The city turned from brutal winter to brutal summer with barely a gap in between. After the winter snows melted, there would be a few days of rain, and then the sun would shine mercilessly, turning the city into one big sauna. Like her fellow residents, Schuyler prized what little spring they had. As she walked across Ninety-sixth Street with Bliss after school, she smiled when she noticed the first fragile buds of the season. However much her life had changed, she could still count on the tulips to blossom in Central Park.
She picked off a tiny yellow flower from a nearby bush and tucked it in her hair. Duchesne was starting to unwind in its last few months before summer vacation. The seniors had all received their college acceptances, and teachers held half their classes in the outdoor courtyards.
Bliss told her that Dylan was being taken care of—and not in a bad way. Forsyth had been more than sympathetic to Dylan's situation. The senator had told her there might still be hope for him, even if he had been corrupted, since it took a long time for a Blue Blood to turn into a Silver Blood. There might still be time to halt the process. Forsyth had put him in a place where he could be observed and rehabilitated.