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SEPTEMBER 30, 1872
DISAPPEARANCE STILL A MYSTERY

Maggie Stanford has given no sign in two years.
Father dead of grief, mother demented.

THE MYSTERY SURROUNDING the disappearance of Maggie Stanford, now eighteen years old, who disappeared on the night of the annual Patrician Ball two years ago, has yet to be solved. The police never found a ransom note or any indication of kidnapping or foul play in relation to the case, and have suggested the girl ran away of her own volition. Mrs. Dorothea Stanford, of Newport, has reportedly become mentally unbalanced from the shock of her daughter’s disappearance. Mr. Stanford died from grief shortly after Maggie went missing.

Strange hallucinations continue to afflict the mother, who claims that her neighbors and friends are concealing the truth about her daughter’s whereabouts and keeping her from coming home. The Herald visited Mrs. Stanford in her home, and from what could be made of Mrs. Stanford’s speech, she is still laboring under the impression that someone has her girl in custody and refuses to release her.

The Herald has discovered that Maggie Stanford had been living at the St. Dymphna Asylum in Newport for a year before she went missing, receiving treatment for an unknown condition. Anyone having any information on her disappearance is urged to come forward.

C
hic
magazine was located in a snazzy new steel-and-glass building in the middle of Times Square. It was just one of the high-profile media properties owned by the Christie-Best organization, a conglomerate that also counted
Flash
,
Kiss
,
Splendid
, and
Mine
among its many other one-word-only glossy titles. Its lobby was a serene, marbled space with a dribbling zen fountain and an army of blue-jacketed security guards who manned the onyx reception desks. One afternoon after school, Bliss stood patiently in the lobby while waiting for the guard to call up to
Chic
’s model booker for entrance. Farnsworth Models had sent her for a go-see, an appointment to see if the magazine would like to hire Bliss for their next photo shoot. Bliss was wearing her standard go-see outfit: tight, tight dark-wash Stitched for Civilization jeans, Lanvin flats, a loose white blouse. Her face was freshly scrubbed and free of makeup, as advised by her agency. Bliss had been much in demand since she had booked the Stitched campaign, and the photos of her in the dazzling Dior dress had been reprinted all over the globe—crowning her the new young socialite (and displacing Mimi in the international best-dressed list). She had shot a shoe ad, a Gap ad, and had already done a five-page editorial spread in
Kiss
.
Chic
was the mother lode, the top of the glossy heap, and while Bliss thought modeling was a bit of a lark, she also wanted the gig very much.

“Schuyler Van Alen,” she heard the girl at the next station tell the guard.

“Schuyler! Are you here for the
Chic
go-see?” Bliss asked, pleasantly surprised to find Schuyler there as well.

“I am.” Schuyler smiled back. Ever since her grandmother’s passing, she had turned down the modeling opportunities that had come fast and furious after her Times Square Stitched for Civilization billboard. But Linda Farnsworth had convinced her to keep the
Chic
appointment, and Schuyler had agreed, if only to keep her mind off the distressing news that Charles Force wanted to adopt her.

As usual, Schuyler looked like a ragamuffin in her tattered sweater, empire-waist tunic, footless tights, and Jack Purcell sneakers, with several layers of plastic beads draped around her neck. Although, it should be noted that several fashion editors who had spotted her in the lobby had quickly noticed her unique style, and three months later, the pages of
Kiss
,
Splendid,
and
Flash
would all feature an outfit eerily similar to the one Schuyler was wearing.

“You girls can go up,” the guard told them, beeping them through the automatic turnstiles.

The
Chic
office was on the tenth floor, and Schuyler and Bliss felt a little intimidated by the immaculate surroundings. The interior waiting area was lined with poster-size blowups of the most famous
Chic
magazine covers—a virtual tour of the most celebrated beauties of the twentieth and twenty-first century.

A grandmotherly receptionist advised them to take a seat on one of the white Barcelona chairs.

The girls chatted quietly about neutral topics: school gossip, tests, why the cafeteria was suddenly serving hot dogs. They both studiously avoided the topic of Dylan’s death— Schuyler, because she feared it would hurt Bliss too much, and Bliss, because she felt there was nothing more to say, since the boy in the lake had turned out to be Kingsley.

“You’ve been hanging out with Kingsley a lot,” Schuyler said, when Bliss mentioned he had taken her to a party at the hot new club, Disaster.

“Yeah.” Bliss bit her thumb. She was sitting forward on the edge of the chair, not quite comfortable enough to take up too much space. She held her black, modeling portfolio on her lap. “He’s cool.”

Bliss still hadn’t figured out who or what Kingsley had been in her past, although she had to admit he made the present pretty fun. He seemed to have it in his mind that Bliss was his girlfriend, and the two of them spent most of their free time together. Kingsley always seemed to have the latest invitations to the best parties, and with him at her side, Bliss no longer felt like a wallflower, but more like a social butterfly. Besides, her own growing fame was making her increasingly confident among the glittering denizens of New York nightlife. Even Mimi had sourly mentioned how sick she was of seeing Bliss’s name in boldface in the newspaper columns.

“How’s Oliver?” Bliss asked.

“Fine,” Schuyler said abruptly. In truth, Oliver had been a tad distant lately, after being so commiserative before. Maybe it was a reaction to her pulling away from him, or his own reservations about the changing nature of their relationship. The transition from best friend to human Conduit was not an easy one to maneuver.

They stopped talking when a willowy brunette walked through the glass doors. She was wearing a loose peasant blouse belted at the hips, skinny denim shorts, patterned tights, and wedge heels. The effect was quirky and offbeat, as if she’d thrown the outfit together at the last minute, when in reality it had probably taken hours of studying runway shots and careful calculation of each element’s relationship to the outfit as a whole—weighing the options as meticulously as a an artist mixing paints.

“Bliss? Schuyler?” she called.

“Chantal?” Schuyler asked.

“No, I’m Keaton, Chantal’s assistant.”

“As in Diane or Buster?” Schuyler joked.

Keaton ignored her. “Chantal’s late at an accessories meeting, but she told me to bring you in,” she said condescendingly.

Keaton led them through the white carpeted hallway, where girls dressed in similar fashionable eccentricity glided through the maze of cubicles in four-inch heels. Rolling racks of clothing were parked against the wall, with cards and notations on hangers that read “JAN—FRONT OF BOOK,” “REJECTS,” “GO,” “BRANNON MTG,” “RETURNS,” and “INDEX.”

Chantal’s office was a mess of modeling portfolios, and one solid wall was filled with hundreds of models’ glossy eight-by-tens and Polaroid pictures. There were blue pages of next month’s cover, mock-ups of the February issue, and a little teacup-size terrier yapping in the corner.

“Wait here,” Keaton ordered. “Don’t move.”

Schuyler and Bliss did as told, even though Bliss really wanted a glass of water and Schuyler was dying to use the bathroom. But the atmosphere at
Chic
was so intimidating, and Keaton so humorless, neither of them wanted to risk it.

An hour later, Chantal finally arrived. Bliss expected another tall glamazon, but Chantal was a small, short, pinched-looking woman with a pixie haircut and cat’s-eye glasses. She wore a loose APC sweatshirt and baggy trousers, as well as comfortable (but limited edition and therefore, punishingly expensive) Japanese sneakers.

“Hi girls,” she said briskly, then immediately called out, “Keaton! My Polaroid! Didn’t I tell you to bring it?”

She sat at her desk and flipped through each of their portfolios quickly. “Yes, saw that. Nice. Ooh. Not bad. Like that one, not so much that,” she muttered. She slammed both books closed and instructed them to pose against the one blank wall in her office as she took several shots of each girl with her camera. Bliss went first.

It was all business as usual until Bliss suddenly fainted as the flashbulb exploded in her face.

“Oh my God. She’s not anorexic, is she? I mean, it’s fine if she is, God knows all the girls are. But I can’t have her doing that on the shoot,” Chantal said, more annoyed than concerned, as Bliss crumpled to the floor.

“No, that’s not it,” Schuyler said, worried. She knelt down and put a hand on Bliss’s forehead. “It’s a little hot in here.”

Bliss was making odd groaning sounds and dry-heaving. “No . . . Go away . . . No . . .”

“It’ll be hotter on location,” Chantal said darkly. “God help me if she vomits on my carpet.”

Schuyler glared at her, annoyed that the booking editor seemed to care more about her office than Bliss’s health.

“Bliss? Bliss? Are you okay?” she asked, helping her friend to her feet. Bliss blinked her eyes open. “Schuyler?” she said throatily.

“Yeah.”

“I need to get out of here,” Bliss implored.

“Keaton will walk you out. I’ll let Linda know,” Chantal said as she picked up the ringing telephone. It was obvious the booking editor had moved on to other concerns once the threat of projectile regurgitation had subsided.

Schuyler helped Bliss out of the office. “Steady. Easy.” She pressed the down elevator button and glared at a Christie-Best girl, who gave them a curious look.

“I blacked out,” Bliss said. “Again.”

“Again?”

“It happens all the time now.” Bliss told Schuyler about the nightmares she was having and the dizzying experiences of waking up and finding herself in places where she had no memory of going. “I’ll just wake up and I’ll be somewhere else, with no idea where I am. I guess it’s all part of the transformation,” Bliss said.

“Yeah, it’s happened to me too. Not as dramatic as what you’ve described, but a couple of weeks ago I blacked out. More like a hibernation, Dr. Pat said.” Schuyler explained her condition as she led Bliss inside the elevator.

“Mine are pretty short, and it’s part of the memory flashbacks, except I don’t seem to remember anything,” Bliss explained, looking relieved that she wasn’t the only one who suffered from the episodes.

“I guess we just need to deal with it.”

“Kingsley said there are tricks to coping with it. He’s going to show me how.”

The elevator arrived in the lobby, and as the doors opened, Jack Force entered. He was wearing a black Christie-Best “guest” sticker on his lapel with 10TH FLOOR written on it.

“Oh, hey,” he said, looking somewhat embarrassed.

“Don’t tell us . . .” Bliss said, grinning. “Jack Force, super-model! Can you show us Blue Steel?” she joked, quoting from
Zoolander
.

“Shhhh,” Jack said, smiling sheepishly. “It’s not my idea. But they need guys for some upcoming shoot. Chantal’s a friend of my mom’s, and well, here I am.”

“We just saw Chantal,” Bliss said, keeping the conversation afloat since Schuyler was too shy to speak to him directly.

“So I guess I’ll see you guys at the shoot.” Jack grinned.

“Yeah right,” Bliss said. “I don’t think so. I fainted when she took my picture, and Schuyler didn’t even get a Polaroid. I don’t think there’s any chance of either of us getting picked.”

It was difficult to determine who looked more disappointed—Jack or Schuyler—as the elevator doors shut.

“
O
n the first floor, past the Temple of Dendur, among the sarcophagi in the Egyptian antiquities section, there is a gold and lapis snake bracelet that once belonged to Hatshepsut. I would like you to bring it back to me,” Lawrence said, holding up a stopwatch. Schuyler and her grandfather were standing in his study, one of the many rooms that Lawrence’s return had opened. Already, her grandfather had commissioned contractors and architects to restore the mansion to its former glory, and the sound of construction on the facade—drilling, pounding, hammering—was a daily disturbance. But the inside of Lawrence’s study was as soundproof and quiet as a tomb. It was the third day of her training. A week ago, Lawrence had been appalled to discover that The Committee had done almost nothing to teach the newest crop of vampires how to control and use their powers. Schuyler told him that the most they ever did was read a bunch of books and meditate.

“No one has undertaken a
Velox
test?” he had asked, raising his eyebrow in consternation.

Schuyler shook her head. “What’s that?”

“Or learned the four factors of the glom?”

“No.” Schuyler shook her head.

“Then none of you have any idea how to counter a Silver Blood attack,” Lawrence said testily.

“Um. No.”

Lawrence was greatly disturbed, and with the clock ticking—Charles Force’s adoption petition was winding its way through the family court bureaucracy—who knew how much time they would have together? Vampire lessons had formally begun. “If you want to know how to defeat the Silver Bloods, and find out who or what is responsible for their return, you will have to learn how to use your Blue Blood knowledge and abilities first.”

Her grandfather had decided to begin with the
Velox
, or speed test.

“Being swift is not enough,” Lawrence lectured. “You must be so fast that you are undetectable. So fast that you do not set off alarms. So fast that no one can see you. Most Red Bloods think of this as “invisibility.” But this is not a real trait. In fact, there is no such thing as invisibility. It is just that we are so fast, we are undetectable to the human eye. Once you master the art of
Velox
, you will be able to be anywhere you want in a blink of an eye. The Silver Bloods are swift—that is one of their greatest powers. So you must be faster than they, if you are to survive.”

He gave her the instructions on how to find the bracelet in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Snake bracelet. Gold and lapis. First floor. Egyptian antiquities. Among the sarcophagi.

“Go,” Lawrence said, holding up the stopwatch. Schuyler disappeared.

Before it had even clicked to the next second, Schuyler had reappeared.

“Better,” he said. Several days ago, it had taken her two minutes to complete the task.

Schuyler held up the bracelet. She had picked the lock on the case so expeditiously that the alarm had not had time to register a disturbance.

Lawrence allowed a small smile to play on his lips. “Now return it.”

The next day, Schuyler was exhausted from the effort yesterday’s lesson had required, yet she managed to hide it. There was little time for weakness; she wanted to forge ahead without Lawrence worrying about what it was costing her. She was eager to learn the tenets of
animadverto
, or “intelligent sight.”

“The vampire trait of
animadverto
is another one that is founded in myth and misunderstanding,” Lawrence lectured. “Humans think that we have the capacity of infinite knowledge, when in fact all we have is a perfect photographic memory. If you exercise this ability, you will be like me, able to quote verbatim from every book you have ever read in your entire lifetime.

“The library of Alexandria has been lost to humankind for centuries, but thankfully, I was a voracious reader even then,” Lawrence said, pointing to his head. “It is all in here.”

“Why would we need to know all this? How is this helpful to defeating the Silver Bloods?” Schuyler asked.

“The Silver Bloods put no value on learning, and those who do not learn history are condemned to repeat it. It is imperative that we find traces, clues, to their operations by immersing ourselves in the history of the world. Perhaps then one of us will successfully figure out the mystery of their continued existence.”

He gestured to the entire thirty-book
Encyclopaedia Britannica
. “Take a mental snapshot of each page. Catalog it in your memory. With your speed, this should take you less than five minutes. But I will give you an hour.” Lawrence left the study and closed the door behind him.

At the appointed hour, Lawrence came back to find Schuyler splayed on the couch, napping.

“Finished?”

“Fifty-five minutes ago.” Schuyler grinned.

“Fine. Give me their definition of the Egyptian reanimation rite.”

Schuyler closed her eyes and spoke in a slow, measured voice, almost as if she were reading from the page. “The rite to prepare the deceased for afterlife, performed on statues of the deceased, the mummy itself, or statues of a god located in a temple. An important element of the ceremony was the ritual opening of the mouth so the mummy might breathe and eat. The rite, which symbolized the death and regeneration concept of the Osiris myth, in which the dismembered . . .”

“Excellent,” Lawrence praised. “You are doing very well for your age. Very well indeed. It is impressive. I had thought that with your mixed blood, the vampire strength would be diluted, but instead it is even more tenacious.”

“Grandfather?” Schuyler asked hesitantly as she helped him put the encyclopedia volumes back on their proper shelf.

“Yes?”

“If vampires can do this. Why do we need to go to school? I mean, is it really necessary?”

“Of course,” Lawrence replied. “What we are doing here is merely rote memory. School teaches a different skill set entirely: socialization, debate, learning to mix with humans. One must not alienate oneself from the mainstream. Blue Bloods must understand their place in the world before we can attempt to change it. You may be able to call up the entire encyclopedia, but a brain with no heart and no reasoning . . . well, nothing is more meaningless.”

Schuyler began to look forward to the tests every afternoon. Lawrence presented her with the hardest one yet at the end of the week.

“You have heard of the glom,” Lawrence said. “The ability to control human minds.”

“Yes.” Schuyler said. “One of the most dangerous arts, Priscilla Dupont said. Best that we do not attempt it until we are of age.”

“Ridiculous. You need to learn it now, to protect yourself from its seductive effects. Because the glom also works on Blue Bloods. It is a pernicious Silver Blood technique.”

Schuyler shuddered.

“So you must learn how to control it, and defend yourself against it. We shall try the first one, before I can prepare you for the second.” Lawrence decided. “There are four factors to the glom. The first one is merely telepathy. The ability to read minds. To read another’s thoughts, one must concentrate on their energy—and strive to understand its source. A mind is like a puzzle; you must unlock it to read its hidden secrets.”

“Anderson, come in here, please.”

The white-haired gentleman entered the room. “Yes?”

“Anderson has been trained to resist the glom. He must, if he is going to be a good Conduit. One cannot have a vampire’s assistant corrupted.”

For the next three hours, Schuyler sat on one end of a table, Anderson sat at the other. Lawrence would hold up a flash card to show Anderson, and Schuyler had to guess what was on the flash card.

What is he thinking? She focused on his signal, but all she got was static, a dense gray fog.

“Queen of hearts?” Schuyler asked.

Lawrence showed her an ace of spades.

“Ten of clubs?”

Three of diamonds.

And so it went. The gray fog did not lift. Schuyler felt depressed. After her success on the
Velox
and the
aminadverto
, she was certain mastering the glom would be just as straightforward.

Anderson was excused, and Schuyler was left alone with her grandfather.

“It is a hard one.” Lawrence consoled, shuffling the cards and stacking them back in their case.

Schuyler nodded. “But it seems so easy,” she said, mentioning how she could read Oliver’s thoughts with no trouble.

“He is unprotected. Remind me, we will have to train him as well if he is going to be an effective Conduit.”

Schuyler nodded. The effort to master the glom had taken a lot of her energy, and she felt dizzy and tired all of a sudden.

“Are you all right?” Lawrence asked, concerned.

She waved her hand away. Schuyler never admitted it to her grandfather, but sometimes after completing the tests, she was so weak she could barely stand.