“Senhora Bonita, Senhora Bonita,” they chanted, their bare feet slapping on the wet path.

“Shoo?” Mimi hissed, batting them away like pesky flies. “I have nothing for you today. Nada para voce. Deixe-me sozinho?” Leave me alone. Their begging gave her a headache. She wasn’t responsible for these people, for these children. . . . She was a Venator on official business, not some celebrity on a public relations campaign. Besides, this was Brazil, a developing country. There were places around the globe that were far more desperate. Really, the little urchins didn’t know how lucky they were.

“Senhora, senhora.” The little one, a cherub in a stained undershirt, dark curls bobbing, had grabbed the back of her shirt. Like the other Venators, Mimi was wearing a black polyver coat and waterproof nylon pants, standard-issue wear. She’d refused to wear the clunky boots (they made her feet look fat), and was wearing the high-heeled pony-hair boots again. “Oh, all right,” Mimi said. It was her fault the kids were around them.

For as much as she tried to harden her heart, to remain impassive and stoic and indifferent in the face of truly appalling poverty, mimi considered her standard room back at the hotel (not even a suite!) deprivation enough, ’she found that whenever the children crowded around her, she always had something to give them.

A piece of candy. A dollar. (Yesterday ten dollars each.) A chocolate bar. Something. The children called her The Beautiful Lady, Senhora Bonita.

“Nothing for you today! Really! I’m out!” she protested.

“They’ll never believe you. Not since you caved the first day,” Kingsley said, looking amused.

“As if you’re any better,” Mimi grumbled, reaching into her backpack. The four of them were a soft touch. The silent twins gave out bubble gum while Kingsley could always be counted on to pay for deep-fried kibe snacks from the street carts.

The little girl with the curls waited patiently as Mimi brought out a stuffed toy dog she’d bought from the gift shop that morning especially for her. The stuffed animal had a face that reminded her of her own dog. She wished the gentle chow were with her, but need for the canine familiar’s protection lessened in the later years of the transformation. “Here. And this is for all of you to share,” she said, handing over a huge box of bonbons. “Now go?”

“Obrigado! Obrigado, Senhora!” they yelled as they ran away with their booty.

“You like them,” Kingsley said with a twisted half smile that Mimi found infuriating because it made him even more handsome than he needed to be.

“No way.” She shook her head, not meeting his eyes. Maybe she’d been drinking too much of the super-sweet Mexican Coca-Cola they had down here. Or maybe she was just tired, alone, and far from home. Because somewhere in the brittle, concrete center of Azrael’s dark heart, something was melting.

Missing

“You must ask Charles. You must ask him about the gates . . . about the Van Alen legacy and the paths of the dead.”

Those were her grandfather’s last words.

But Charles Force was gone when Schuyler returned to New York. Oliver had found out through his contacts at the Repository that Charles had embarked on his usual amble across the park one afternoon but had never come home. That was a week ago. The former Regis had left no note, no explanation. Apparently, he had left everything a mess.

The Force corporation had lost half its value in the stock market crash, and the board was up in arms: their company was sinking and there was no captain steering the ship.

But somebody must know where he was, Schuyler thought, and one morning she waylaid Trinity Force at the salon where she had her hair highlighted. The leading social doyenne of New York was wrapped in a silk robe, sitting under a heat lamp.

“I take it you’ve heard the news,” Trinity said dryly, putting down her magazine as Schuyler took the seat next to her. “Charles must have good reasons for his actions. I only wish he would have shared them with me.”

Schuyler told her about Lawrence’s last words on the mountaintop, hoping that maybe Trinity could shed a little light on his message.

“The Van Alen legacy,” Trinity said, staring at herself in the mirror and patting the plastic cap covering her foils. “Whatever it is, Charles turned his back on everything that had to do with his ‘family’ a long time ago. Lawrence was living in the past, as he always had.”

“But Lawrence insisted that Charles was the key.”

“Lawrence is finished.” The way Trinity said it, it sounded as if Lawrence were an actor who had merely finished his role in a play. Not passed away. Not dead. Not gone forever.

Finished.

There was another thing, something strange her grandfather had said that Schuyler wanted confirmed. She wasn’t sure if Trinity would know anything about it, but she had to ask. “He also said that I have a sister, and that she will be . . . that she will be our death.” Schuyler felt silly repeating such a dramatic statement. “I have a sister?”

Trinity did not answer for a long time. The sound of hair dryers and patrons gossiping with their stylists filled the silence. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet and guarded. “In the sense that your mother had another daughter, yes. But that was long ago, long before you were born, in a different cycle, in a different century. And the girl was taken care of. Lawrence and Charles saw to that. Lawrence . . . One reason he went into exile was that he never gave up on his fantasies. He was dying, Schuyler, and you will have to understand . . . he was grasping at straws, trying to tie up loose ends. He probably wasn’t even in his right mind.”

So Lawrence had told the truth. She had a sister. Who? When? She was already dead? Taken care of , what did that mean?

But Trinity refused to elaborate further. “I have already told you too much,” she said with a frown.

“The Conclave has asked me to testify tomorrow about what happened in Rio. Will you be there?” Schuyler asked a little wistfully. It suddenly struck her how much she needed a mother in her life. Trinity had never tried to fill that role, but she had a pragmatic no-nonsense way about her that reminded Schuyler of Cordelia. It was better than nothing.

“I am sorry, Schuyler, but I won’t be able to come. As usual, the Red Bloods have let greed take over their financial system. With Charles gone, I am obligated to the board to do what little I can to staunch the bloodbath. I leave for Washington tonight.”

“It’s all right.” Schuyler hadn’t expected anything else.

“And, Schuyler?” Trinity looked at her keenly, as a mother would when chastising a wayward daughter. “since your return, your room has been empty.”

“I know,” Schuyler said simply. “I’m not going to live with your family anymore.”

Trinity sighed. “I will not stop you. But know that when you are out of our house, you are out of our protection. We cannot help you.”

“I understand. I’ll take that risk.” Out of habit, Schuyler and Trinity exchanged double-cheek air kisses and said good-bye. Schuyler left the soothing warm cocoon of the beauty salon and went out into the streets of New York, alone.

Charles Force was gone. Charles Force was a dead end. He had disappeared, taking his secrets with him.

She would have to discover the Van Alen Legacy on her own.

 CHAPTER 12

Schuyler

The Baron de Coubertin was dressed as Attila the Hun in full battle armor, with a bow and arrow in a quiver slung over one shoulder, along with a shield and a throwing spear. On his head he wore a pointed metal cap over a wig of long black hair. His long beard was also fake.

He approached with a terrifying frown on his face and tapped Schuyler on the shoulder. “La contesse voudrait que vous me suiviez, s’il vous plait.” The countess would like you to follow me, please. Then he turned abruptly on his heel. Schuyler and Oliver began to walk together behind him, but the baron stopped them.