Schuyler looked thoughtful. "Okay, so some weird dude called you his daughter, big deal. It was just a dream. And as for all the other stuff—are you sure you're not just staying up too late watching Rob Zombie movies?"
"No—it just…" Bliss shook her head, annoyed at being unable to impart just how creepy this man was. And how it sounded like he was telling her the truth. But how could that be? Her father was Forsyth Llewellyn, the senator from New York. She wondered about her mother once again. Her father never spoke of his first wife, and just a few weeks ago Bliss had been surprised to find a photograph of her father with a blond woman who she'd always assumed to be her mother inscribed on the back with the words "Allegra Van Alen."
Allegra was Schuyler's mother, New York City's most famous comatose patient. If Allegra was her mother, did that make Schuyler her sister? Although, vampires didn't have family in the Red Blood sense: they were the former children of God, immortal, with no real mothers and fathers.
Forsyth was merely her "father" for this cycle. Perhaps that was the same with Allegra. She'd refrained from telling Schuyler her discovery. Schuyler was protective about her mother, and Bliss was too shy to claim a connection to a woman she had never even met. Still, she'd felt a kinship to Schuyler ever since she'd found the photograph.
"Do you still get those—you know, blackouts?" Schuyler asked.
Bliss shook her head. The blackouts had stopped at about the same time the visions had begun. She didn't know what was worse.
"Sky, do you ever think about Dylan?" she asked tentatively.
"All the time. I wish I knew what happened to him," Schuyler said, picking apart her sandwich and eating it one section at a time: bread first, then a scoop of tuna, then a bite of the lettuce. "I miss him. He was a good friend."
Bliss nodded. She wondered how she could broach the subject. She had been keeping a huge secret for too long now. Dylan, whom everyone had given up for dead, who'd been taken by a Silver Blood, who'd completely disappeared…had come back, crashing through her window just two weeks ago and telling her the most outrageous stories. Ever since the night he had returned, Bliss didn't know what to believe.
Dylan had to be completely mental. Crazy. What he'd said that night. It just didn't make sense, but he was convinced it was the god's honest truth. She could never talk him out of it, and lately he'd been threatening to do something. Just that morning he'd been seriously unhinged. Raving. Shouting like a maniac. It had been hard to watch. She'd promised him she would…she would…what would she do? She had no idea.
"Bliss Llewellyn?"
"Here," Bliss replied, standing and tucking her portfolio under her arm.
"We're ready for you. Sorry for the wait."
"Not a problem," she said, giving them her most professional smile. She followed the girl into an airy room in the back. Bliss had to walk what seemed like the length of a football field to reach the small table where the designer was seated.
It was always like this. They liked to watch you walk, and after you said hello, they'd ask you to just turn around and walk again. Rolf was casting for his Fashion Week show, and seated next to him were his team: a tanned, blond woman wearing dark glasses, a thin effeminate man, and several assistants.
"Hi, Bliss," Rolf said. "This is my wife, Randy, and this is Cyrus, who's putting the show together."
"Hi." Bliss offered her hand and shook his firmly.
"We're well acquainted with your work," Rolf said, taking a cursory glance at her photographs. He was a deeply tanned man with salt-and-pepper hair. When he crossed his arms, his muscles bulged. He looked like a cowboy, down to his custom-made alligator boots. That is, if cowboys got their tans in St. Barth's and their shirts made in Hong Kong. "In fact, we're pretty sure you're the girl for us. We just wanted to meet you."
Instead of putting Bliss at ease, the designer's friendliness made her even more nervous. The job was now hers to lose. "Oh, um, okay."
Randy Morgan, the designer's wife, was the quintessential "Morgan girl," down to the windswept hair. Bliss knew she had been Rolf's first model, back in the seventies, and still occasionally starred in some of the advertising campaigns. Randy pushed her sunglasses on top of her head and gave Bliss a brilliant smile. "The brand is going in a different direction for the show. We want to set an Edwardian mood—old-fashioned romance. There's going to be a lot of velvet, a lot of lace, maybe even a corset or two in the collection. We wanted a girl who didn't look too contemporary."
Bliss nodded, not quite sure what they were getting at, since every other brand that had booked her in the past thought she had looked "contemporary" enough. "Do you want me to walk or … ?"
"Please."
Bliss headed to the back of the room, took a deep breath, and began to walk. She walked as if she were walking in the moors at night, as if she were alone in the fog. As if she were a bit lost and dreamy. And just as she hit the pivot marker, the room spun and she had another vision.
Like she'd told Schuyler, she never had blackouts anymore. She could still see the showroom, as well as the designer and his team. Yet there it was: seated in the middle between Rolf and his wife was a crimson-eyed beast with a silver forked tongue. Maggots were crawling out of its eyes. She wanted to scream. Instead she closed her eyes and kept walking.
When she opened her eyes, Rolf and his team were clapping.
Apocalyptic visions or not, Bliss was hired.
"I missed you." Oliver's lips against her cheek were warm and soft, and Schuyler felt a sharp ache in her stomach at the depth of his affection.
"I missed you too," she whispered back. That was true enough. They had not been together like this for a fortnight. And while she wanted to press her lips against his neck and do what came naturally, she stopped herself. She didn't need it right now, and she was wary of doing it because of how it made her feel. The Caerimonia Osculor was a drug—tempting and irresistible. It gave her too much power. Too much power over him.
She couldn't. Not here. Not now. Later. Maybe. Besides, it wasn't safe. They were in the supply closet off the copy room. Anyone could walk in and catch the two of them together. They had met, like they always did, in between the first and second bell after fourth period. They had all of five minutes.
"Will you be there…tonight?" Oliver asked, his voice husky in her ear. She wanted to run her fingers through his thick, caramel-colored hair, but she restrained herself. Instead she pressed her nose against the side of his head. He smelled so clean.
How had they been friends for so long without her knowing what his hair smelled like? But now she knew: like grass after the rain. He smelled so good she could cry. She had failed him in every way. He would never forgive her if he truly understood what she had done to him.
"I don't know," Schuyler replied, hesitating. "I'll try." She wanted to let him down as gently as she could. She looked into his genial, handsome face, his warm hazel eyes flecked with brown and gold.
"Promise," Oliver's voice was cold. "Promise." He pressed her tightly against him, and she was surprised at his strength. She had no idea humans could be just as strong as vampires when the occasion arose.
Her heart tore. Charles Force was right. She should keep away from him. Someone was going to get hurt, and she couldn't bear to think of Oliver suffering because of her. She wasn't worth it. "Ollie, you know I—"
"Don't say it. Just be there," he said roughly, and let go of her so quickly she almost lost her balance. Then he was gone just as fast, leaving her alone in the dark room, feeling strangely bereft.