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OCTOBER 1, 1870 THE MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF MAGGIE STANFORD

—————

Oil man’s daughter disappears on night of society ball.
Was she drugged?

THE NEW YORK POLICE ARE puzzled over the mysterious disappearance of sixteen-year-old Maggie Stanford, who walked out of the home of Admiral and Mrs. Thomas Vanderbilt three weeks ago during the annual Patrician Ball held in their home at 800 Fifth Avenue and has not been seen since by her family or relatives. Maggie Stanford is the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Tiberius Stanford of Newport. The detectives have worked industriously on the strange case but have been unable to to find any clews.

The disappearance of Miss Stanford was reported at the Tenth Precinct police station as having occurred on Friday, August 22. On that evening, according to her mother, Dorothea Stanford, who is known in society, Maggie was presented at the Patrician Ball and led the quadrille. Maggie is of a quiet and retiring disposition. She weighs ninety-five pounds, is fragile, pretty, and delicate, and her home relations are of a pleasant character. She has dark red hair, green eyes, and winning ways. Her engagement was announced to Alfred, Lord Burlington, Earl of Devonshire, on the evening of the ball.

Mrs. Stanford told the police she thought her daughter had been decoyed or abducted by some person of evil influence. The Stanford family has offered a substantial reward for any information leading to her return. Tiberius Stanford founded Stanford Oil, the most profitable organization in the United States.

—————

B
ut she was right here.
Schuyler was certain. The woman she was chasing had disappeared through the door of the very same palazzo that Schuyler was now standing in, and yet the woman was nowhere to be found. Schuyler looked around. She was inside the lobby of a small, local inn. Many of the magnificent floating palaces of ancient Venice had been turned into tourist-friendly pensiones, shabby little hotels, where guests didn’t mind the crumbling balustrades and peeling paint because their glossy brochures had promised them they were experiencing a slice of the “authentic” Italy. An old woman with a black scarf around her head looked up curiously from the registration table.
“Posso li aiuto?”
Can I help you? Schuyler was confused. There was no sign of the blond woman anywhere in the room. How could she have hidden herself so quickly? Schuyler had been right at her heels. The room was empty of closets or doors.

“Ci era una donna qui, sì?”
Schuyler said. A woman just came in here, yes? She was grateful that the Duchesne School made their students take not one but two foreign languages, and that Oliver had urged her to take Italian, “so we can order better at Mario Batali’s restaurants.”

The old lady frowned.
“Una donna?”
She shook her head. The conversation continued in rapid Italian. “There is no one here but me. No one came in but you.”

“Are you certain?” Schuyler demanded.

She was still questioning the landlady when Oliver arrived. He pulled up to the side of the building in a sleek speedboat. He’d found that a water taxi was more suitable to his needs than the man-powered gondola.

“Did you find her?” he asked.

“She was just here. I swear. But this lady says no one came in.”

“No woman,” the old lady said, shaking her head. “Only the Professore lives here.”

“The Professore?” Schuyler asked, her ears keen. Her grandfather had been a professor of linguistics, according to the Repository of History, the Blue Blood archive that held all the knowledge and secrets of their race. “Where is he?”

“He has been gone many months now.”

“When will he return?”

“Two days, two months, two years—it could be anytime.

Tomorrow or never,” the landlady sighed. “No one knows with the Professore. But I am lucky, he always pays his bills on time.”

“Can we—can we see his room?” Schuyler asked.

The landlady shrugged and pointed to the stairs.

Her heart beating in her chest, Schuyler ascended the stairway, Oliver close behind.

“Wait,” Oliver said as they reached a small wooden door at the front of the landing. He jiggled the knob. “It’s locked.” He tried again. “No dice.”

“Damn,” Schuyler said. “Are you sure?” She reached around him to try. She turned the knob and it clicked open.

“How do you do that?” Oliver marveled.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“It was totally locked,” he said.

Schuyler shrugged and pushed on the door gently. It led to a neat, spare room with a single bed, a worn wooden desk, and shelves of books stacked up to the ceiling.

Schuyler pulled a book from the lower shelves. “
Death and Life in the Plymouth Colonies
by Lawrence Winslow Van Alen.” She opened to the first page. It was inscribed in elegant handwriting: “To my dear Cordelia.”

“This is it,” Schuyler whispered. “He’s here.” She peered at several more books on the shelves and found that many of them bore spines that declared L. W. Van Alen as their author.

“Not right now, he is not,” the landlady said from the doorway, making Schuyler and Oliver jump. “But the Biennale ends today, and the Professore has not missed one yet.”

The Biennale, the biannual art exhibit in Venice, was one of the most definitive, influential, and exhaustive presentations of art and architecture in the world. For several months every other year, the entire city was taken over by an international collection of artists, art dealers, tourists, and students eager to partake of the historic art festival. It was an event Schuyler and Oliver had missed during the weekend, due to their fruitless search for her grandfather.

“If it’s closing today,” Schuyler said, “we’ve got to hurry.”

The landlady nodded and left the room.

Schuyler wondered again about the woman who had looked so eerily like her mother. Had her mother led her to her grandfather? Was she helping Schuyler in some way? Was it just her spirit that Schuyler had seen?

They hurried down the stairs and found the landlady shuffling papers at the reception desk.

“Thank you for all your help,” Schuyler said, bowing to the old woman.

“Eh? Excuse me.
Posso li aiuto?
” the old woman snapped.

“The Professore, the Biennale, we are going to try and find him now.”

“Professore? No, no. No Professore . . .” The old woman made the sign of the cross and began shaking her head.

Schuyler frowned. “No Professore? What do you think she means by that?” she asked Oliver.

“He leave . . . two year ago,” the landlady said in halting English. “He no live here no more.”

“But you just said . . .” Schuyler argued. “We were just talking, upstairs. We saw his room.”

“I never see you in my life, his room is lock,” the landlady said, looking shocked and sticking determinedly to her stilted English even though it was obvious Schuyler was fluent in Italian.

“Eravamo giusti qui,”
Schuyler argued. But we were just here.

The landlady balefully shook her head and muttered to herself.

“There’s something different about her,” Schuyler whispered to Oliver as they walked out of the inn.

“Yeah, she’s even more cranky now,” Oliver cracked.

Schuyler turned back to look at the cross old woman again, and noticed that she had a mole underneath her chin from which a few stray hairs had sprouted. And yet the old woman who had spoken to them earlier had not been afflicted with such a mole, Schuyler was sure of it.

M
imi looked at her vibrating cell phone as she exited her AP French class. Am I on the list? Another text message. It was the seventh one today. Could everyone
please
calm down? Somehow, in less than twenty-four hours, the news that the fabulous Mimi Force was planning an after-party to the Four Hundred Ball had gone out to the entire New York City teen vampire elite. Of course, Mimi herself had told Piper Crandall, the biggest gossip in the school, and Piper had made sure everyone knew exactly what was going down. There was a secret location. The Force twins were hosting. But no one would know if they were invited until the night of the event. Sheer social torture! Just say Y or N!!!! She deleted the text without replying.

Mimi walked down the back staircase at Duchesne that led to the cafeteria in the basement. As she passed by, several Blue Blood teens tried to capture her attention.

“Mims . . . heard about the after-party . . . Great idea, do you need any help? My dad can get Kanye to DJ,” offered Blair McMillan, whose father headed the largest record label in the world.

“Hey, Mimi, I’m invited, right? Can I bring my boyfriend? He’s an RB . . . Is that cool?” Soos Kemble wheedled.

“Hey, sweetie, just making sure you got my RSVP. . . .” Lucy Forbes called out, blowing Mimi an exaggerated air kiss.

Mimi smiled graciously at all of them and put a finger to her lips. “I can’t say anything about anything. But you’ll all find out soon enough.”

Downstairs in the cafeteria, underneath the gold baroque mirror that hung across from the fireplace, Bliss Llewellyn picked listlessly at her sushi roll, as if it were a particularly distasteful specimen. Mimi was supposed to meet her for lunch, and she was late as usual. Bliss was glad of the reprieve, since it gave her a chance to lose herself in the events of the night before.

Dylan. It had to be him. The stranger in the park who had saved her from drowning. Bliss had to believe he had survived the Silver Blood attack. Perhaps he was now in hiding, and maybe he would be in danger if he revealed his identity. Like a superhero, she thought dreamily. Who else would have sensed her distress? Who else could have swum through the cold waters of the lake to reach her? Who else could have been so strong? Who else could have made her feel so safe?

Bliss hugged this information to herself like a warm blanket. Dylan was
alive
. He had to be.

“Not hungry?” Mimi asked, sliding in next to her.

In answer, Bliss pushed away her tray and made a face. She shoved all thoughts of Dylan out of her mind.

“What’s all this about an after-party everyone’s been harassing me about? No one believes me when I tell them I have no idea what’s going on. You and Jack are throwing some kind of bash after the ball?”

Mimi looked around to make sure no one could overhear, and only when she was certain they were beyond earshot did she speak. “Yeah, I was going to tell you about it today.”

She filled Bliss in on the details. She had secured the perfect spot—an abandoned synagogue downtown. There was nothing Mimi enjoyed more than advocating a night of debauchery in a once-sacred space. The Angel Orensanz Center was a neo-Gothic building in the middle of the Lower East Side. It had been designed as a synagogue in 1849 by a Berlin architect who modeled it after the cathedral of Cologne. Mimi wasn’t the only New Yorker who liked to throw over-the-top extravaganzas in the space: the center had already played host to several fashion shows during Fashion Week, which was how she got the idea in the first place. Mimi didn’t care about points for originality, she only cared about being where the action was, and right now, desecrated synagogues were hot.

“The inside is a mess,” Mimi said gleefully. “There are like, rotting columns and exposed beams . . . It’s like a beautiful ruin,” she whispered. “We’re going to light the whole place with tea light candles—no electric lights at all! And that’s it, no other decor. The place has enough atmosphere. It doesn’t need anything.”

Mimi ripped out a sheet of notebook paper from her binder and passed it to Bliss. “This is who I’m thinking for the party. I wrote it down during my French quiz.” Mimi was enrolled in AP French, but the class was a joke. Once her vampire memories resurfaced, she had discovered she was already fluent in the language.

Bliss looked down at all the names. Froggy Kernochan. Jaime Kip. Blair McMillan. Soos Kemble. Rufus King. Booze Langdon.

“These are all Committee members. But not even
all
of the Committee members,” Bliss noted.

“Exactly.”

“You’re not inviting Lucy Forbes?” Bliss asked, aghast. Lucy Forbes was a Blue Blood senior, and Head Girl of the school.

Mimi wrinkled her nose. “Lucy Forbes is a drip. A goody-goody.” Mimi had had a vendetta against the girl ever since Lucy had reported that Mimi had abused her human familiars by feeding on them without adhering to the forty-eight hour rest period mandate.

They went down the list, Bliss proposing a name and Mimi rejecting it.

“How about Stella Van Rensslaer?”

“Freshman! No frosh at this shindig.”

“But she’s going to be inducted next spring. I mean, she
is
a Blue Blood,” Bliss argued. All the names of potential Blue Blood vampires were available to Committee members so they could watch out for their younger brethren, the way Mimi had taken Bliss under her wing earlier that year.

“Ugh. No,” Mimi said.

“Carter Tuckerman?” Bliss proposed, thinking of the friendly, skinny boy who spent Committee meetings taking copious notes as secretary.

“That geek? No way.”

Bliss sighed. She hadn’t seen Schuyler’s name on the list either, which bothered her.

“And what about . . . you know . . . ‘significant others,’ the familiars?” Bliss asked. Blue Bloods used the term “human familiar” to describe the reliant relationship between the mortal and immortal races. Human familiars were lovers, friends, vessels from which the vampires drew their greatest strength.

“No Red Bloods at this party. This is like the Four

Hundred Ball, but even more exclusive. Vampires only.” “People are going to be really upset about this,” Bliss warned. Mimi smiled her cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. “Exactly.”

T
he Venice Biennale was located in several overlapping pavilions, so that visitors wandered through a long series of darkened rooms, searching as video installations crackled to life in unexpected corners. Faces projected on vinyl balls expanded and contracted, shrieking and giggling. Flowers blossomed and withered on the screens. A rush of Tokyo traffic sped by, claustrophobic and threatening. When Schuyler and Oliver had first arrived in Venice, Schuyler had been fired up with a wild, almost feverish, energy. She was relentless in her search, dogged and determined. But her enthusiasm had flagged when it became clear that finding her grandfather in Venice would not be as easy as she had assumed. She had come with nothing but a name—she didn’t even know what he would look like. Old? Young? Her grandmother had told her Lawrence was an exile, an outcast from the Blue Blood community. What if all those years of isolation had led to madness and insanity? Or worse, what if he was no longer alive? What if he had been taken by a Silver Blood? But now, after seeing the Professore’s room, she was filled with the same fierce hope as when she had first arrived.
He is here. He is alive. I can feel it.

Schuyler drifted from one room to the next, scanning the dark places for a sign, a clue that would lead her to her grandfather. She thought most of the art was intriguing, if somewhat overwrought, with just a hint of pretension. What did it mean that a woman kept watering the same plant over and over again? Did it even matter? As she looked at the video, she realized she was the same as the woman, trapped in a Sisyphean task.

Oliver had already skipped ahead several installations. He took the same amount of time to study each piece— approximately ten seconds. Oliver claimed that that was all he needed to understand art. They were supposed to call each other if they found anything, although Oliver had pointed out that neither of them knew what Lawrence Van Alen actually looked like. Oliver was not as convinced as Schuyler that a visit to the Biennale would be fruitful, but he had held his tongue.

She stopped at the entrance to a room bathed in a crimson haze. A single light cut through the entire space, projecting a glowing orange equator through the expanse of red light. Schuyler walked inside and paused for a moment, admiring it.

“It’s an Olaf Eliasson,” a young man standing next to her explained. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? You can see the influence of Flavin.”

Schuyler nodded. They had studied Dan Flavin in Art Humanities, so she was familiar with the work. “But then again, doesn’t all fluorescent art come under the influence of Flavin?” she asked saucily.

There was an awkward silence, and Schuyler started to move away, but her companion spoke again. “Tell me. Why have you come to Italy?” the handsome Italian boy asked in perfectly accented English. “You are obviously not an art tourist, one of those with the big cameras and their cultural guidebooks in tow. I would bet you have not even seen the new Matthew Barney.”

“I am looking for someone,” Schuyler replied.

“At the Biennale?” he asked. “Do you know which venue?”

“There are others?” Schuyler asked.

“Of course, this is only the
giardini
; there is also the
Arsenale
and the
corderie
. The whole city of Venice transforms for the Biennale. You are going to have a hard time finding just one person. Almost a million people visit the Biennale— the garden itself has thirty pavilions.”

Schuyler’s heart sank. She had no idea the Biennale was such a vast and confusing collection of places. She had walked along the promenade, past other buildings before entering the Italian pavilion, but she had no idea what stretched beyond. The gardens were a vast landscape filled with buildings from every era, each one built by its host country. Each building had its own style and housed its own country’s art.

If what the boy was saying was true, going to the Biennale to look for the Professore was akin to searching for a needle in the middle of a haystack.

Useless.

Impossible.

A million people every year! Which meant there must be thousands upon thousands of people at the exhibit right now. With those odds, she might as well give up immediately.

Schuyler despaired. She would never find her grandfather now. Whoever he was, wherever he was, he did not want to be found. She wondered why she was even being so forthright with the boy, but she felt she had nothing to lose. There was something in his eyes that made her feel comfortable, safe.

“I am looking for someone they call the Professore. Lawrence Winslow Van Alen.”

The boy studied Schuyler coolly as she looked around at the glowing red room. He was tall and slim, with a hawkish nose, jutting cheekbones, and a dash of thick, caramel-blond hair. He wore a white silk scarf around his neck, a finely tailored wool jacket, and gold-rimmed aviator frames pushed back on his handsome forehead.

“One should not seek those who do not wish to be found,” he said abruptly.

“Excuse me?” Schuyler asked, turning to face him, startled by his unexpected reply. But by then the boy had ducked behind a thick black felted curtain and disappeared.

Schuyler exited the Italian pavilion onto the rough stones of the main promenade, punching Oliver’s number into her cell phone as she ran after the boy.

“You rang?” Oliver asked with comic obsequiousness.

“There’s a boy—tall, blond—looks like a race-car driver. Aviator shades, driving gloves, tweed coat, silk scarf,” Schuyler described, panting as she ran.

“Are you chasing a model? I thought we were looking for your grandfather.” Oliver laughed.

“I was talking to him. I told him the name of my grandfather, then he disappeared. I may be on to something— Hello? Ollie? You there? Hello?” Schuyler shook her cell phone, and noticed she had no bars. Damn. No signal.

Moving through the garden exhibitions was like being in a time machine. There were Greco-Roman atriums interspersed with bold, clean modernist structures. Buildings were hidden behind long paths and camouflaged in forestry. Schuyler sighed, helpless for a moment.

But she was not helpless. She could sense him. She saw his silhouette pass behind a reproduction of a Greek theater. He darted through the columns, disappearing in and out of her vision. Schuyler lunged forward, careful to keep her speed in check this time, in case any of the scattering of tourists noticed something odd.

She spotted the boy dashing through a grove of trees, but was confounded when she arrived at the spot. Before her stood only a building. She moved quickly up the steps and into the structure. Once inside, she understood why she had been confused.

The interior of the building had been constructed to resemble an exterior patio; trees sprang up through the open roof, making the room appear as if it were outside. Sculptures were dotted throughout the white stone covered courtyard. All around her, she heard voices speaking in Italian, the tour guides’ proud declarations the loudest of all.

Concentrate, she told herself. Listen for him. For his footsteps. She closed her eyes, trying to sense him, trying to zero in on his particular scent, remembering the combination of leather and cologne from his silk scarf, and looking as if he had just exited a fast, shiny new sports car.
There!
She spotted the boy standing at the far end of the space.

This time, she was unafraid to use her speed, her strength. She ran so fast she felt as if she were flying, and as before, she was exhilarated by the chase. She was even stronger than when she had chased after the woman who looked like her mother earlier that afternoon, she could feel it. She was going to catch him.

He was moving farther back into the garden. The buildings gradually became more modern, their shapes almost frightening. She passed through a building made only of glass, its walls etched with words and names. Another was composed of plastic tubes colored brightly and glowing like candy. She saw his shape moving within.

Inside, the pavilion was dark. A glass floor separated the viewer from the art below. Or at least she assumed it was art. All she could see was a writhing mass of toy robots grinding and climbing over each other endlessly as colored lights flashed in red, blue, and green in the darkness. She sensed movement, and from the corner of her eye, saw the boy’s head moving quickly out of the room on the other side.

“STOP!” She called.

He looked at her, smiled, and then disappeared again.

Schuyler walked back out to the garden path, once again scanning for him among the crowd. Nothing.

Oh, what was the use?

She thought for a moment. She tried to imagine Lawrence and where he might be; why he might be drawn to this place. The Biennale.

Then she remembered the map in her back pocket. She pulled it out and studied the serpentine pathways that connected the pavilions. She felt silly for a second, having not thought of it sooner. She folded up the map and walked swiftly to her new destination.

Her cell phone rang. Oliver.

“Sky, where are you? I was worried.”

“I’m fine,” she said, annoyed to be interrupted. “Listen, I’ll call you back. I think I know where he is.”

“Where who is? Schuyler, where are you going?”

“I’ll be fine,” Schuyler said impatiently. “Ollie, please don’t worry about me. I’m a vampire.”

She hung up the phone. Minutes later she was standing in front of a small, red brick building. A modest construction compared to the mostly outlandish structures in the exhibit. Its facade was Georgian, Early American, with white painted trim and neatly detailed wrought iron handrails. It was a relic from another time, and the kind of place—reminiscent of the early colonial settlements.

No sooner had she stuffed the map back into her pocket then she saw the boy again. He looked as if he had aged during the chase: his breath was shallow, and his hair was askew.

He looked startled to find her there. “You again,” he said.

Now was her chance. Cordelia had instructed her, before she had expired in this cycle, that if she ever found Lawrence, or anyone whom she thought would be able to lead her to him, that Schuyler must say the following words.

She said them now, clearly, and in the most confident voice she could muster.

“Adiuvo Amicus Specialis. Nihilum cello. Meus victus est tui manus.”
I come to you for aid as a secret, special friend. I have nothing to hide. My life is in your hands.

He looked into her eyes with an icy stare that could only belong to Schuyler’s kind, and her words faded into silence.

“Dormio,”
he ordered, and with a wave of his hand, she felt the darkness come upon her as she fainted.