Last year during his fall presentation, Rolf Morgan had made the audience walk down the runway while the models sat on front-row seats and pretended to take notes. The gimmick had charmed the fashion press so much he was keen on trying out another fun twist. This year the show would be run backward, starting with the designer's bow and the grand ball gowns and ending with casual sportswear.
As the band played a thundering rendition of "Space Oddity," Rolf ran out onto the stage to thunderous applause. He returned bearing a bouquet of roses, beaming and energized. Schuyler watched as Cyrus, Rolf's spastic show runner, led Bliss to the front of the line. The black lace corset dress was meant to be the showstopping finale, and therefore, in the backward equation, the opener. Schuyler gave Bliss an encouraging wave. She knew her friend was still slightly intimidated by the catwalk, and Bliss looked like a nervous colt, her hands quivering slightly as they rested on her hips.
Bliss returned a few minutes later, a broad smile of relief on her face. "It's madness out there!" she gushed to Schuyler before being whisked away to get changed for her second outing.
Schuyler returned Bliss's smile, thinking she would be glad when it was over, when she could finally put on her own clothes - a certain men's Oxford shirt that was her current favorite, over a pair of black leggings and cloven-hoof boots that she'd picked up at a resale shop.
The girls in their gothic prom dresses had exited the catwalk, and Cyrus motioned her to the front. She was next. "Remember, when you get to the end, one pose, two pose, BAM! And then come back."
Schyler nodded. She took a deep breath and walked onstage. Stepping out onto the catwalk was like stepping onto the moon. You went from the grungy reality of backstage, surrounded by chatter and safety pins and a heroic mess of clothing racks and raided accessory bins, to the bright white lights of the stage and the blinding flash of a hundred cameras.
The atmosphere was electric, a noisy cacophony of hysteria reserved for the best rock concerts - the hoots and cheers from the back row energizing the band to play faster and louder, and the models to assume their haughtiest fa§ءdes. Schuyler never even noticed the grim-faced editors or the tarted-up celebrities in the front row; she was too busy concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other and not making a fool of herself.
She found the marked spot at the end of the runway and snapped the required poses, turning left and rotating her hip forward, and turning right soon after. And just as she was about to do an about-face to turn back, her mind opened to an urgent, forcible sending. It was an incoherent, savage hatred. The unexpected intensity was enough to stop Schuyler in mid-step, and she staggered from the weight of it, tripping over her heels and causing members of the front row to gasp audibly.
Schuyler felt disoriented and broken. Someone - or something - had savagely entered her mind. She recognized it immediately as a manipulation, but this was stronger and more evil than what she had experienced with Dylan. It was an unforgivable trespass, and she felt violated, naked, and terribly afraid. She had to get out of there.
There was no time to make a proper exit. Schuyler leaped from the stage, landing in the middle of the photographer's pit. She knew exactly where she had to go now.
"Sorry!" she told one unlucky shutterbug whose foot she had crushed.
She flew through the crowd, to the confusion of the crew and the delight of everyone else, who thought it was all part of the show.
From backstage she heard, "Hey! Where does she think she's going? Get back here!"
Tomorrow there would be a tabloid story about the model who had run off the catwalk at the Rolf Morgan show, but Schuyler wasn't worried about the media or her model booker or Rolf right then.
What was that? she thought, her heart feeling as if it would explode from fear as she ran up the West Side Highway, moving faster than traffic would ever allow. Who was that? The sickly, defiled feeling diminished slightly the moment she arrived at the shabby old brownstone on Riverside Drive. It didn't look as run-down as it used to, thanks to Lawrence's recent renovation. Its stone steps were newly swept, the graffiti on the doors had been painted over, and the gargoyles had been restored to their former dignity.
When she entered her grandfather's study he was bent over, packing a file of papers into a leather attach§٠case. He had aged in the month they had been separated, Schuyler noticed. His leonine hair was streaked with gray, and there were new lines around his eyes.
Lawrence was an Enmortal, a rare vampire who did not rest, did not go through the regular cycle of reincarnation. He had kept his same physical shell for centuries. He had the ability to look as young as Schuyler, but that evening he looked as if he carried the weight of a thousand years. He looked, for the first time since Schuyler knew him, ancient. He did not look like a man from the twenty-first century. He looked as if he had been there when Moses had been put in a basket and sent down the river.
"Schuyler, what a pleasant surprise," he said, although he didn't look surprised to see her.
"Where are you going?" she asked in response, when she saw his battered valise strapped and packed, next to the desk.
"Rio," he said. "There's been a massive earthquake; have you seen the news?" Lawrence asked, motioning to the television that had recently been installed in his office. The cameras showed a city engulfed in flames, entire buildings collapsed into piles of debris.
Schuyler said a quick prayer at the sight of the devastation. "Grandfather, something happened to me. Just a few minutes ago." She described the sensation, the feeling that she was in the presence of an incredible malice. It was only for the briefest moment, but it was enough to feel polluted in every pore of her being.
"So you felt it too."
"What was it?" Schuyler shuddered. "It was...repulsive," she said, even though repulsive was too weak a word for the inchoate hostility she had experienced.
Lawrence motioned for her to take a seat while he continued to look through his papers. "In your reading, have you come across the chapter on Corcovado yet?"
"I know it's in Rio. ... In Brazil," she said hesitantly. She hadn't made much headway on Lawrence's assignments. It was silly of her, but she felt her grandfather was partly to blame for her living situation, and in petulance she had dismissed his suggestions to brush up on her Blue Blood history. He had pressed her to read copies of ancient, formerly forbidden texts - the history of Croatan that had been expunged from the official records until now.
If Lawrence was annoyed, he didn't show it. Instead he explained patiently, like the university professor he had once been. "Corcovado is a place of power, a source of energy, a primal bivio from which we vampires draw our strength on Earth. Our immortality stems from a harmonic connection to the primordial essence of life, a gift we have retained even after our banishment."
On screen, the camera showed the famous statue of Christ the Redeemer looming over the city on its pedestal on Corcovado Mountain. Schuyler marveled that it was still standing while buildings all around the city had been reduced to rubble.
"The earthquake. The sending I experienced. It's connected, isn't it? Is that why you're going?" she asked, knowing she was right.