Blood Ties (12 page)

Oliver turned to Emalie. “Can you get into her head and find out what she knows?”

Emalie nodded. “Pretty sure.” She reached to her neck and pulled a silver chain from her shirt. At the end was a ruby-colored oval, round on one side and carved like a beetle on the other.

Oliver recognized it immediately. “Cool, a scarab. What dynasty?” he asked, referring to its Egyptian origin.

“Old Kingdom,” said Emalie. “This one's got a conduit charm in it. It can link me to her.”

There was another hideous cracking sound from below and a fresh scream from the curator.

Emalie placed the conduit between her palms, then pressed them together in front of her face. She closed her eyes and blew between her hands. There was the faintest glow of red, and Emalie seemed to slump.

Dean snapped in front of her face. Emalie didn't respond at all. “Where is she?”

Oliver turned back to the railing. “Down there.” They watched as Bane shook the curator. “In her head.”

“Last chance,
signora bella
…” Bane pulled the curator close. “
Dicami dove trovare Selene.
”

“Kinda surprised he knows Italian,” murmured Dean.

“Probably got it from his demon,” Oliver explained. “They usually bring along a handful of languages, since they've been around for so long.” Oliver gripped the railing, watching. If Emalie was successful, Bane would never know she was in there—

Suddenly the woman's eyes hardened. Her free hand shot to Bane's neck. Her mouth opened and the voice that came out sounded as if it had been piped through an enormous, echoing hallway.

“
Siete il guasto allineare!
” the curator screamed.

Bane recoiled. He tossed the curator away. She sprawled across the floor, hit her head against the base of the wall, and slumped over, unconscious.

“What just happened?” asked Dean.

“Guh!” Emalie returned, her shoulders thrusting with a huge intake of breath.

Oliver watched as Bane warily approached the curator. He looked shaken. When he found her out cold, he turned and started to leave—yet stopped, sniffing the air. Oliver ducked back, pressing Dean and Emalie into the shadows … but Bane continued out. Oliver kept still until his scent faded. He turned to Emalie.

She was still catching her breath, but had an excited smile. “Wow,” she said. “Okay, the statue is that way.” She pointed down the hall.

“What about Selene?” Dean asked.

“I'm not sure, but Francesca—that's the curator—was thinking about the statue when Bane asked her about Selene. Let's go—”

“Emalie,” Oliver interrupted. “What did you say to Bane?”

“Oh, that…” Emalie looked away and shrugged. “I'm not really sure.… Okay, so I got into Francesca's head and it was really tight in there, 'cause she was so scared.… I was seeing out her eyes, into Bane's—that was freaky—and something, I don't know, clicked.”

“What do you mean, clicked?” asked Oliver.

“Like, for a second, I could sort of see into your brother's head, too. I felt this big, well, I guess it was fear inside him, and it was like suddenly I connected their minds together. This big fear in Bane's head came flashing across into the curator's head, and so it flooded over me. It felt really freaky, so I pushed it back out, and then Francesca just yelled it.”

“Yelled what?” asked Dean. “It came out in Italian.”

“She said:
You are the true failure.
”

“What's that mean?” wondered Dean.

Emalie shrugged. “You'd have to ask Bane. It was his fear. Anyway, he freaked, and I got thrown out of Francesca's head when she was knocked out.”

Oliver wondered what this all meant. Why would Bane feel like he was a failure? Maybe it had to do with his jealousy, as Oliver suspected: He felt like a failure for not being the chosen vampire.

Emalie was starting down the hall. “Come on,” she said brightly. Oliver couldn't help noticing how excited she seemed after her harrowing trip into the curator's mind. It reminded him of how vampires could get a blood high: like a sugar rush in a human.

They hurried back down to the first floor and entered a smaller exhibit room. The room was lined with a series of heads sculpted from black metal. These were the busts of Roman emperors. A few had white eyes made of marble, but in most the eyes were missing, leaving hollow spaces. There was a single large painting on each wall, and in the center of the room was the statue.

The woman stood in stride, wearing flowing robes, her long hair waving over her shoulders. One arm was bent in front of her, holding up a flat object. It had a short handle and a diamond-shaped top. It looked like a hand mirror.

Emalie halted directly in front of the statue. She gazed up at the face, her lip quivering.

Oliver and Dean walked around to the side of the pedestal, where a plaque explained the statue in English and Italian.

“This is Phoebe,” Oliver said, reading the plaque. “The artist is unknown, but it was found in Tempiale di Necromancy, which is somewhere nearby.” Oliver read on. “Phoebe was a moon goddess, often associated with…”

“Selene,” Dean finished. He looked over at Emalie. “Does she look like—”

“So much,” Emalie whispered, as if she feared awakening the statue. Her gaze remained locked on its face.

Oliver stepped back, taking in the tall marble form, smooth stone face, and blank eyes.… He felt a presence rush through him. They were close to something here, but what?

Dean was trying to piece it together. “So, there's a statue that looks like your mom,” he said quietly from beside Emalie, “and the statue's named Phoebe, which is a name for the moon goddess. And the moon goddess can also be named Selene. Does this mean that your mom
is
Selene?”

Emalie glanced at him uncertainly, biting her lip in thought.

“And how could a statue from, like, thousands of years ago look like your mom?”

“I don't know,” Emalie whispered.

Oliver kept staring at the statue, moving behind it to get a better look at that diamond-shaped object she was holding. It did look like it was supposed to be a mirror—

Oliver spied something else in that hand. Something stuffed in a small space between the grasping fingers and the handle … something that wasn't part of the sculpture.

Without really thinking about it, he leaped up onto the rectangular pedestal and grabbed Phoebe's waist for support—

A high-pitched electronic whine flooded the room.

“What are you doing?” Oliver barely heard Dean shout from below. To his sensitive ears, the museum's alarm was practically deafening.

Wincing, Oliver reached forward and plucked the tiny object from the cool, smooth statue hand. He jumped to the floor, landing behind the statue and shoving the object in his pocket.

“We should probably be leaving!” Dean shouted, starting out of the room. Emalie began backing out after him, her eyes still fixated on the statue's face.

Oliver was about to follow them, but now something else about the statue caught his eye. On the back of its rectangular base, in the shadow beneath the raised heel of the left foot, there was a tiny scratch mark that most any human would've assumed was the hasty graffiti of some long-ago vandal. To Oliver, it was something much more informative:

Oliver gazed at it for a long moment to be sure of what he was seeing, then raced around to Emalie and Dean. “Let's get to the roof!”

They sprinted back through the hall, yet as they neared the staircase, they heard the pounding of footsteps and shouting voices.

“This way!” Oliver called. They sprinted down another hall and found themselves back in the long, high gallery where the curator still lay unconscious. Oliver looked up, eyeing the railing they'd stood at moments before. There was a railing for a third floor above that. He glanced at Dean and they shared a nod. They flanked Emalie on either side, grabbed her by the shoulders—

“Hey!”

They leaped upward, shooting to the third-floor balcony, where they landed in a stumbling mass of legs and arms. Straightening themselves out, they continued down a short, low-ceilinged hall with offices on either side. Oliver ran ahead to a stairwell door and found a narrow flight of stairs, which led up to a locked door. He easily slammed it open, and they emerged on the roof, finally free of the high-pitched alarm din.

“Geez,” Emalie complained, rubbing her neck. “Can you guys let me know next time you're going to go all superhero, so I can at least brace myself?”

“Sorry,” said Dean. They headed to the back of the building. “Brace yourself,” he said, and he and Oliver grabbed Emalie by the shoulders again, this time leaping from the museum to the next roof over. They bounded over three streets before stopping.

“Hang on to me,” Oliver instructed. As Emalie did so, Oliver dangled over the side of the building, concentrated on the forces, and scaled down it feet first.

“You guys have it rough,” said Dean with a smile as he leaped down from one balcony to the next. He landed on the railing of one that had golden light spilling out, and when he glanced inside, his eyes went wide with interest. “Whoa—” He proceeded to lose his concentration and drop like a rock the rest of the way to the quiet, twisting street below. Oliver and Emalie found him sprawled among a pile of trash cans.

“Nice,” Oliver joked.

Dean got up, rubbing his head. “It was worth it. There was this lady—”

“I don't want to know,” Emalie interrupted, “do I?”

Dean smiled. “Probably not.”

Emalie turned seriously to Oliver. “What were you thinking in there, leaping on that statue?”

Oliver reached into his pocket and produced the tiny object. “This was in her hand.” In his palm was a small leather strap with a buckle. A single gold bell dangled from it.

“It looks like a pet collar,” Emalie mused.

Oliver shrugged. “There was something else: I saw a Skrit symbol on the back of the statue. Any vampire would know it. It's for the Asylum Colony.”

“What's that?” Emalie asked.

“Well, it is what it sounds like: an asylum. For the insane, or the dangerous. Morosia's Asylum Colony is, like, the vampire world's most famous one. I think maybe Selene is there.” It made sense to Oliver as he thought about it. He didn't know much about the Asylum—nobody in the New World did—but it was likely a safe place to keep an important oracle.

“Can we go there now?” Emalie asked.

“No,” Oliver replied. “I don't know where it is. But I can find out easily enough from my family.” Oliver knew just the person to ask. But he had a worried thought. “It's a dangerous place. At least, that's what I've heard.”

“What else is new?” Emalie retorted. “So, tomorrow night, then?” she asked eagerly.

“Well, yeah,” Oliver agreed, knowing there was no use in arguing against her joining them. “Can you meet us at those catacombs?”

“Gotcha.” Emalie nodded.

Oliver turned to Dean. “Okay. We should get back.”

The three parted ways, Oliver and Dean heading out of town toward the cemetery and the catacombs. Oliver felt a steady buzz in his gut. He didn't know what to make of Bane, but he knew where to find Selene, and there was a chance they could get to her before the sacrifice.

The sacrifice … Maybe Bane knew about that, too, and wanted to take Oliver's place as the chosen child once Oliver was out of the way.…

It was too much to figure out right now.

All the way back to Morosia, his thoughts continued to swirl, flashing bright and random, like the fireflies in the bushes along the roadside.

Chapter 9

Hades' Well

“
I WAS WONDERING ABOUT
the Asylum Colony,” said Oliver.

Phlox heard him first. She looked up from her espresso slowly, as if every little thing at this point in the visit was more than she could bear. “Why would you wonder about—”

“Yes, yes!” Oliver's words had reached Myrandah, who was pushing a poker into the curved opening of the brick oven. She spun around and waddled across the kitchen, brandishing the red-hot glowing poker in front of her. “Listen to the little darling,” she snarled approvingly. “He takes an interest in the proud history despite his upbringing.”

Phlox's head dropped back to her espresso. Sebastian had left earlier for some other bit of business. Bane was still asleep. Dominus was out on a walk.

Myrandah dropped the poker in a bucket of water with a hiss. “Come along, Phloxiana,” she barked, guiding Oliver across the room. “Does he know of his great-uncle Renfeld, a pioneer of the work at the Colony?”

“No, I don't,” Oliver replied, trying to sound as interested as possible. “What did he do there?”

“Why, he studied beneath the great Irving Emerick, though maybe you don't even know of him.”