She didn't sleep at all during the trip, and the cramped coach seat didn't help. Schuyler had only ever traveled with Cordelia or Oliver and his family. With her grandmother they had taken little prop planes to Nantucket, and Oliver only traveled first class. She had once thought of herself as a hardy girl who didn't need life's little luxuries, a common enough mistake made by those who've never experienced life's little inconveniences.
The plane finally landed, and Schuyler retrieved her carryall from the bin and shuffled her way to the front of the line. The airport itself was a disappointment, not at all living up to the magical promise of its moniker. The customs and immigration spaces were large and open, but the decor was cold, utilitarian, dated, and institutional. Not at all beachy, sexy, or whatever it was Schuyler had assumed would greet her when she arrived. It was empty and quiet. She'd expected a party, and was met by the Kremlin.
Schuyler understood that the city was considered pretty dangerous, and kept a wary eye. Lawrence was still frustratingly unreachable. The latest messages she'd sent him had been unreturned, and Schuyler couldn't get a lock on his signal. She followed the crowd out to the front of the terminal. Bliss had advised her to take a taxi, but with the little money she had left, she decided to brave it by taking one of the rickety buses that drove down the central areas along the beaches and stopped around the major hotels.
The bus was full of noisy Australian backpackers, and Schuyler found a seat in the front so she could look out the window. The ride from the airport was confusing, as the highway made various curves and bends, including going through a few tunnels, which left her with little sense of direction. Once in a while Schuyler saw magnificent, moss-covered rock cliffs and hills covered with tropical vegetation, above a coast of yellow-white sand beaches and blue water. She also saw glimpses of the storied favelas—the country's urban slums that dotted the cliffs and hillsides. Evidence of the earthquake's aftermath was everywhere, from the trash-covered lots filled with scavenger birds to the two-story piles of debris that dotted the landscape.
In between the views of mountain and sea she glimpsed towering high-rises, steel-and-glass buildings that were unaffected by the disaster. On the way she also noticed several cars off on the shoulder of the highway, stopped by heavily armed policemen at some sort of ad hoc checkpoint.
Everything was exotic and beautiful and ugly all at the same time. Finally the names on the road signs looked familiar: Ipanema, Copacabana, Leblon. She saw the famous statue of the Jesus with his arms outstretched as if embracing the city, Christ the Redeemer, O Cristo Redentor, on top of Corcovado. She was enjoying the view as the bus chugged along, when its engine suddenly died.
The bus driver cursed profusely as he pulled to the side of the road.
Schuyler was confused, especially when the driver asked the passengers to disembark along the highway, and to take their luggage with them.
"This again," one of the lanky Australians complained.
"Does this happen a lot?" she asked.
"All the time," she was told.
The bus driver advised them to take a break and come back after an hour while he attempted repairs. Fortunately they weren't too far from the main boulevard. All along the shorefront was a paved walkway with inlaid seashells in a mosaic pattern, crowded with joggers, walkers, Rollerbladers, and strollers. Schuyler found a juice stand nearby and bought a drink. The tropical heat was making her feel wilted.
But when she returned to the designated spot an hour later, the shuttle bus, along with the boisterous Australians, was gone. She was alone. Her annoyance was compounded by a flash of uncertainty when she noticed a couple of young toughs—thin, barefoot guys in faded shorts and holey Chicago Bulls T-shirts walking toward her. They looked curiously at the black-clad tourist. "Turista ? "
She knew she had nothing to fear, but she didn't want to blow her cover. The boys came nearer. Only then did she notice one of them was holding a broken bottle.
And just when she thought she would have to start defending herself, a shiny black car pulled up. It looked bulletproof, with darkened rolled-up windows.
What now? Schuyler thought she'd only found more trouble.
Then one of the windows rolled down. Schuyler was sure she'd never felt happier to see the boy inside.
"Took a while to find you. Sorry I lost you at the airport. My flight got delayed," Oliver said as he threw open the back door. Schuyler noticed he had two security men in the backseat, and one in the front, including the driver. "What are you waiting for? Get in."
The Copacabana Palace Hotel was one of Mimi's favorite destinations. She'd traveled to Rio many times for Carnaval and always stayed in the same corner suite. She had no idea why Nan Cutler had brought the Conclave all the way to South America, but she didn't question it. Besides, it wasn't as if she was going to pass up the opportunity to miss school.
Jack had expressed no interest in accompanying her, and she didn't press the issue. Once they were bonded, they would travel the world together. She missed him, but she was also excited to be on her own in a new city.
She put her towel down on the chaise longue located on the private rooftop terrace outside her room. The Conclave had been invited to dine at Casa Alameida, a villa in the hills, later that evening. The Almeidas had been part of the Blue Blood contingent that had moved to Brazil in 1808, when the Portuguese royal family and many nobles had fled from, rather than fight, the red-blooded conqueror, Napoleon. They moved the seat of the king's court to the colonies, making Rio the first non-European capital of a European country.
Of course, once ensconced they never went back, and declared Brazil independent, and the prince, emperor. But when the country declared itself a republic in 1889, the Blue Bloods of the city retreated and concentrated on what they did best: building museums and art collections, grand hotels, and encouraging the cultural renaissance.
Mimi admired what the Brazilian Blue Bloods had done with their city, and reminded herself to invite them all to the Spring Gala. The families should really know each other better, she thought. So many of them lived so far away from each other now. Of course the heads of the various Committees would meet with the Coven's Elders in New York every year, but otherwise they had almost no contact with each other.
She lay facedown on the towel and untied the straps to her bikini top.
A muscular pool boy approached, his dark skin and hair striking against his white swimsuit. "Caipirinha?"
"Sure." Mimi pulled herself up on her elbows and didn't bother to cover herself.
His nonchalant gaze—almost obnoxious really, the way he stared at her chest, excited her senses. She was always on a hunt for a new familiar, and when in Rio…
As far as Bliss was concerned she could stay in Rio forever. All afternoon she'd wandered the city's beautiful beaches, wearing a swimsuit she'd purchased at the hotel shop when the one she'd brought struck her as way too puritanical for this city.
They were staying at the fabulous Fasano Hotel on Ipanema, and although Bliss enjoyed sunning on the roof deck, she'd itched to walk the coast on her own. BobiAnne had asked her to take Jordan with her, and the sisters were having fun swimming in the ocean and people watching. Brazilians wore skimpy bikinis, no matter their shape or size; it was liberating and somewhat appalling at the same time. The American in Bliss believed grandmothers should not wear thongs.