Read Online The Van Alen Legacy by Melissa de La Cruz - Free Book Online
Authors: Melissa de La Cruz
Tags: Fantasy
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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
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
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