The Van Alen Legacy

The Venators were truth-tellers, skilled in the ability to decipher dreams and access memories. While only a bloodletting would allow them to tell true memory from false, there were other, quicker ways to discriminate fact from fiction without having to resort to the Sacred Kiss. Mimi learned that the Committee only consented to the blood trial when a most grievous charge had been levied, as in her case. Otherwise, the practice of memory hunting, venatio, while not infallible, was acceptable for their purposes. Mimi had been given a crash course in Venator training before joining up. It helped that she had been one in previous lifetimes. Once she had relearned the basics, it was just like riding a bike— her core memories kicked in and the whole exercise became second nature.

Mimi watched as Sam and Ted Lennox, the twin brothers who rounded out their Venator team, led their witness to a dark corner booth. They had been plying him with pitcher after pitcher of beer at the bar. Mr. Glory Days probably thought he’d just made a couple of new friends.

As soon as they sat down, Kingsley slipped into the opposite bench, Mimi right next to him. “Hey, buddy, remember us?” he asked.

“Huh?” The guy was awake, but drunk and drowsy. Mimi felt a twinge of pity. He had no idea what was about to happen.

“I’m sure you remember her,” Kingsley said, guiding the witness to lock eyes with Mimi.

Mimi held Frat Boy with her smoulder, and for all anyone in the real world knew, the dude was just entranced with the pretty blonde, staring deep into her green eyes.

“Now,” Kingsley ordered.

Without a moment to spare, the four Venators stepped into the glom, taking the witness with them. It was as easy as slipping down the rabbit hole.





THREE

Bliss


When she woke up that morning, the first thing that came to mind was that the bright white shutters looked familiar. Why did they look familiar? No. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t the right question to ask. She was getting ahead of herself again. It happened. But now she had to concentrate. Every day she had to ask herself three very important questions, and that wasn’t one of them.

The first question she had to ask herself was, What is my name?

She couldn’t remember.

It was like trying to decipher a scribble on a sheet of paper. She knew what it was supposed to say, but she couldn’t make out the handwriting. Like having something just out of reach, behind a closed door, and she had lost the key. Or like waking up blind. She groped wildly in the dark and tried not to panic.

What is my name??

Her name. She had to remember her name. Otherwise . . . otherwise . . . she didn’t want to think about it.

Once upon a time there was a girl named . . . ?

Once upon a time there was a girl named . . .

She had an unusual name. She knew that much. It wasn’t the kind of name that you found on ceramic coffee mugs at airport gift shops or emblazoned on mini–license plate souvenirs you could hang on your bedroom door after you returned from Disneyland. Her name was pretty and unusual and had meaning. Something that meant snow or breath or joy or happiness or . . .

Bliss. Yes. That was it. Bliss Llewellyn. That was her name! She’d remembered! She hugged it to herself as tight as she could. Her name. Her self. As long as she could remember who she was, she was okay. She wouldn’t go crazy. At least not today.

But it was hard. It was so, so hard because now there was the Visitor to consider. The Visitor who was in her, who was her, for all intents and purposes. The Visitor who answered to her name. She called him the Visitor because it made it easier for her to believe that her situation would be temporary. What did visitors do, after all? They left.

Bliss wondered, were you still you if someone else made the decisions? Spoke in your voice? Walked with your legs? Used your hands to bring death to the person you loved the most?

She shuddered. A sudden unbidden memory came to her. A black-haired boy lying limp in her arms. Who was that? The answer was somewhere, but she would have to dig for it. The image faded. Hopefully she would remember later. Right now she had to move on to the second question.

Where am I?

The shutters. The shutters were a clue. It was enough that she was able to see something. It happened so rarely now. Most of the time she woke up in darkness. She concentrated on the shutters. They were wooden and painted white. Charming in a way, something that recalled a farmhouse or an English cottage—except they were too bright, too shiny and perfect. More like Martha Stewart’s idea of an English cottage than a real one. Ah. No wonder they looked familiar.

Bliss knew where she was now. If she could still smile, she would have.

The Hamptons. She was in her Hamptons house. They were in Cotswold. BobiAnne had named the house. BobiAnne? Bliss saw an image of a tall, lanky woman wearing too much makeup and gargantuan jewelry. She could even smell her stepmother’s noxious perfume. Everything was coming back now, and coming back fast.

One summer during a dinner party at a famous designer’s house, BobiAnne had learned that all the great houses in the area had names. Owners dubbed their homes “Mandalay” or “Oak Valley” according to how pretentious they were. Bliss had suggested they name theirs Dune House for the large sand dune at the beachfront edge of the property. But BobiAnne had other ideas. “Cotswold.” The woman had never even been to England.

Okay. Bliss was relieved. She’d figured out where she was, but it didn’t make sense.