Bloody Valentine
Page 10
“No, this one is too busy for you, signorina,” the saleslady clucked, thrusting a different dress in her direction. This one was simple and backless, but when Schuyler put it on, she felt as if she were trying to be someone else. And on her bonding day she wanted most of all, to look like herself, only a little better.
Like many girls, she had taken it for granted that she would get married—one day—in the future—to someone. Didn’t everyone get married? But it had never crystallized into a real desire, or intent, or focus. She was much too young, in the first place. She had just turned seventeen. But this was no ordinary bonding, and these were strange times. Most of all, she had pledged her heart to an extraordinary boy.
Jack Force was more than she had ever dared wish for, and he was better than a dream or a fantasy because he was real. He was far from perfect, moody and distant at times, and burdened with a sharp temper and an impulsiveness that was part of his dark nature. But she felt more love for him than she thought possible. He wasn’t perfect, but he was perfect for her.
Schuyler allowed the helpful salesladies to talk her into trying on another dress, this one a tight strapless column with a row of minuscule buttons down the back. As nimble fingers latched every hook, she ruminated on how Jack’s proposal had been a surprise, even if she had expected it. She was unprepared that it had happened so soon, but she understood the urgency. They had precious little time together. In a few days he would leave to return to New York, to face his fate, and afterward she might never see him again. She tried not to dwell on her fears, and instead focused on the brief moment of happiness they would be allowed before they would be separated again.
As for the bonding itself, they decided to keep it a secret from the Petruvians at the monastery. They did not know if they trusted the priests, and it was not an event they wanted to share with strangers. Schuyler had only a hazy idea of what Jack had planned. He had mentioned something about an old church in a far corner of the city, and a ceremony by candlelight. That was all she knew, except that there would never be a better time or place for this moment. It was all they had.
“Bellissima!” the sales team cooed as Schuyler apprised herself in the mirror. The dress hugged her in all the right places, and it was stunning.
However, it was not quite right. It was too formal somehow. She shook her head sadly. She thanked and hugged each of the saleswomen and exited the shop empty-handed.
Schuyler visited a host of dress shops on the plaza but found nothing that worked. The dresses were all too beaded, or too voluminous, too corseted, or too revealing. She wanted something simple and clean, a dress that promised fresh beginnings but also hinted at the swoon of surrender. She was about ready to give up the search—surely Jack would not care what she wore, would he?—could she make do with what she already had?—maybe that white cotton sun-dress?—when she found a small fabric shop tucked away in a dim alley by the Ponte Vecchio.
The elderly shopkeeper smiled. “How can I help you, signorina?”
“Could I see that? On the top shelf over there?” Schuyler asked, pointing to a bolt of fabric that had caught her eye the minute she entered the shop.
The old woman nodded and climbed the creaky ladder to bring it down. She laid it on the counter and unwrapped it slowly. “It is a rare Venetian silk, made by artisans from Como, the same way since the thirteenth century,” the shopkeeper told her.
“It’s beautiful,” Schuyler whispered. She touched it reverently. It was a fine silk, soft and supple, light and airy to the touch. She had thought she would wear white—she was not so contrarian as to think she would get bonded in anything else. Yet the fabric she had chosen was the palest shade of blue. To the na**d eye it looked ivory, but once you took a closer look you could see the hint of cobalt under the light.
Hattie had taught her a little about dressmaking, and the moment Schuyler saw the cloth she knew it was what she had been looking for all day. She paid for the fabric, her heart beating, her cheeks flushed with excitement at the task at hand. When she returned to their quarters that evening, Jack was still away. She borrowed needle and thread from the supply cabinet and started to work. First she cut a pattern on the muslin: the dress would be off-the shoulder, peasant-style, then drape and flow to the ground. That was all.
As she stitched, she sewed all her wishes and dreams into the dress, threaded there by her blood and her love. She felt a profound sense of joy and anticipation. Not for the first time, Schuyler wondered how she could be so lucky.
When she was done, her fingers were sore and her arms were tired. Night had come, but Jack had not yet returned. She took off her clothes and tried on the dress. The silk felt like water to the touch. She faced her reflection in the mirror with some trepidation, worried about what she might find. What if she had chosen wrong? What if Jack did not like it? What if it didn’t fit correctly?
No. She had nothing to worry about. The muted blue color made her blue eyes shine even more brightly. It fell beautifully off her shoulders, and she decided she would wear her hair down.
It was the first time that Schuyler understood that she was actually going to be a bride. She clapped her hands to her mouth and tried to hide her smile. But it was too much—the happiness bubbled inside her, and she twirled in front of the mirror, laughing.
The sound of footsteps made her stop. Jack. He had returned. Quickly, she took off her bonding dress, hung it carefully in the back of her closet, and put her old clothes back on.
She did not believe old wives’ tales, but she did not want him to see her in her dress until their bonding. Maybe she was a tiny bit superstitious after all.
TWO
Dark Circle
They had been together for only a few months, but Schuyler knew the sound of Jack’s step by heart, and something about the footsteps approaching the room sounded strange—as if someone was trying too hard to sound like Jack. She was instantly on alert, and removed her mother’s sword from its hidden sheath, grasping its jeweled handle tightly. She stood by the side of the door and waited. The footsteps stopped abruptly, and there was only silence. She sensed that whoever was outside that door knew that she was aware of the deception, and she slowed down her breathing and calmed her nerves.
When the door opened, its centuries-old hinges turned without creaking, and Schuyler realized her unwanted visitor had set a spell of silence around the room. No one would be able to hear her scream for help. Not that she needed any. She could defend herself. When the tip of a sword appeared at the opening, she held her breath and steadied her hand, ready to attack.
A black-clad Venator entered the room, stepping soundlessly toward her across the rough wood floors. The black-and-silver cross on his clothing marked him as one of the Countess’s men, and Schuyler felt absurdly thankful that he was not from the New York Coven.
She lifted her weapon. The Venators’ relentless pursuit had added misery upon misery to her life. She never felt safe anywhere, and the opportunity to finally face that fear and fight a hidden and unstoppable enemy came as a relief.
The man in black swung wide with his sword, and she managed to block his blow even as his reach exceeded hers by more than a foot. A simple swordfight would not end in her favor, and Schuyler circled the room for a moment, tracing a path just outside of his weapon’s reach. If she fought this battle on his terms, she would be his captive in mere moments.
The Venator attacked again; but instead of meeting his parry, Schuyler jumped up and landed on a wood truss that crossed the room’s high cathedral ceiling. Safe for a moment, she looked down at her foe. He crouched in preparation to leap; but before he could fly, Schuyler slashed fiercely at the wooden trusses holding her. The heavy timber split like soft twigs, sending the massive beams collapsing down on the Venator. She leapt from beam to beam, breaking the trusses, and the wooden shards rained down to the floor, splinters shattering in all directions.
The destruction would have raised a ruckus large enough to wake the entire city had it not been for the silentio. The roof heaved, but held. Meanwhile, the Venator had managed to climb on top of the woodpile and was closing in fast. Schuyler turned back quickly and cut the nearest post to its base, sending it flying toward her attacker.
The Venator looked up just as the first shards bit into his shoulder. With inhuman speed, he stopped it from crushing him by driving his blade into the heavy wood. Now was her chance. Schuyler leapt toward the Vena-tor, and the force of her left foot crashed on his clasped hands, pushing them against the hilt of his sword in the opposite direction until the weapon snapped in half. Schuyler drew her own sword and pressed it to his neck.
“Surrender!” she demanded, her voice echoing through the room. She had broken the spell when she had broken his blade.
The Venator only regarded her with contempt. “You can slay me, but doing so will doom your friend.” He lifted his hand and turned his palm to reveal a Venator stone, hanging on a chain—and inside the stone was an image.
The stone showed Oliver Hazard-Perry, blindfolded and bound.
Schuyler gasped. “This is a trick. Oliver is back in New York….” she said, keeping her sword at his neck.
“He arrived in Italy a half an hour ago. We caught him in the airport.”
Like many girls, she had taken it for granted that she would get married—one day—in the future—to someone. Didn’t everyone get married? But it had never crystallized into a real desire, or intent, or focus. She was much too young, in the first place. She had just turned seventeen. But this was no ordinary bonding, and these were strange times. Most of all, she had pledged her heart to an extraordinary boy.
Jack Force was more than she had ever dared wish for, and he was better than a dream or a fantasy because he was real. He was far from perfect, moody and distant at times, and burdened with a sharp temper and an impulsiveness that was part of his dark nature. But she felt more love for him than she thought possible. He wasn’t perfect, but he was perfect for her.
Schuyler allowed the helpful salesladies to talk her into trying on another dress, this one a tight strapless column with a row of minuscule buttons down the back. As nimble fingers latched every hook, she ruminated on how Jack’s proposal had been a surprise, even if she had expected it. She was unprepared that it had happened so soon, but she understood the urgency. They had precious little time together. In a few days he would leave to return to New York, to face his fate, and afterward she might never see him again. She tried not to dwell on her fears, and instead focused on the brief moment of happiness they would be allowed before they would be separated again.
As for the bonding itself, they decided to keep it a secret from the Petruvians at the monastery. They did not know if they trusted the priests, and it was not an event they wanted to share with strangers. Schuyler had only a hazy idea of what Jack had planned. He had mentioned something about an old church in a far corner of the city, and a ceremony by candlelight. That was all she knew, except that there would never be a better time or place for this moment. It was all they had.
“Bellissima!” the sales team cooed as Schuyler apprised herself in the mirror. The dress hugged her in all the right places, and it was stunning.
However, it was not quite right. It was too formal somehow. She shook her head sadly. She thanked and hugged each of the saleswomen and exited the shop empty-handed.
Schuyler visited a host of dress shops on the plaza but found nothing that worked. The dresses were all too beaded, or too voluminous, too corseted, or too revealing. She wanted something simple and clean, a dress that promised fresh beginnings but also hinted at the swoon of surrender. She was about ready to give up the search—surely Jack would not care what she wore, would he?—could she make do with what she already had?—maybe that white cotton sun-dress?—when she found a small fabric shop tucked away in a dim alley by the Ponte Vecchio.
The elderly shopkeeper smiled. “How can I help you, signorina?”
“Could I see that? On the top shelf over there?” Schuyler asked, pointing to a bolt of fabric that had caught her eye the minute she entered the shop.
The old woman nodded and climbed the creaky ladder to bring it down. She laid it on the counter and unwrapped it slowly. “It is a rare Venetian silk, made by artisans from Como, the same way since the thirteenth century,” the shopkeeper told her.
“It’s beautiful,” Schuyler whispered. She touched it reverently. It was a fine silk, soft and supple, light and airy to the touch. She had thought she would wear white—she was not so contrarian as to think she would get bonded in anything else. Yet the fabric she had chosen was the palest shade of blue. To the na**d eye it looked ivory, but once you took a closer look you could see the hint of cobalt under the light.
Hattie had taught her a little about dressmaking, and the moment Schuyler saw the cloth she knew it was what she had been looking for all day. She paid for the fabric, her heart beating, her cheeks flushed with excitement at the task at hand. When she returned to their quarters that evening, Jack was still away. She borrowed needle and thread from the supply cabinet and started to work. First she cut a pattern on the muslin: the dress would be off-the shoulder, peasant-style, then drape and flow to the ground. That was all.
As she stitched, she sewed all her wishes and dreams into the dress, threaded there by her blood and her love. She felt a profound sense of joy and anticipation. Not for the first time, Schuyler wondered how she could be so lucky.
When she was done, her fingers were sore and her arms were tired. Night had come, but Jack had not yet returned. She took off her clothes and tried on the dress. The silk felt like water to the touch. She faced her reflection in the mirror with some trepidation, worried about what she might find. What if she had chosen wrong? What if Jack did not like it? What if it didn’t fit correctly?
No. She had nothing to worry about. The muted blue color made her blue eyes shine even more brightly. It fell beautifully off her shoulders, and she decided she would wear her hair down.
It was the first time that Schuyler understood that she was actually going to be a bride. She clapped her hands to her mouth and tried to hide her smile. But it was too much—the happiness bubbled inside her, and she twirled in front of the mirror, laughing.
The sound of footsteps made her stop. Jack. He had returned. Quickly, she took off her bonding dress, hung it carefully in the back of her closet, and put her old clothes back on.
She did not believe old wives’ tales, but she did not want him to see her in her dress until their bonding. Maybe she was a tiny bit superstitious after all.
TWO
Dark Circle
They had been together for only a few months, but Schuyler knew the sound of Jack’s step by heart, and something about the footsteps approaching the room sounded strange—as if someone was trying too hard to sound like Jack. She was instantly on alert, and removed her mother’s sword from its hidden sheath, grasping its jeweled handle tightly. She stood by the side of the door and waited. The footsteps stopped abruptly, and there was only silence. She sensed that whoever was outside that door knew that she was aware of the deception, and she slowed down her breathing and calmed her nerves.
When the door opened, its centuries-old hinges turned without creaking, and Schuyler realized her unwanted visitor had set a spell of silence around the room. No one would be able to hear her scream for help. Not that she needed any. She could defend herself. When the tip of a sword appeared at the opening, she held her breath and steadied her hand, ready to attack.
A black-clad Venator entered the room, stepping soundlessly toward her across the rough wood floors. The black-and-silver cross on his clothing marked him as one of the Countess’s men, and Schuyler felt absurdly thankful that he was not from the New York Coven.
She lifted her weapon. The Venators’ relentless pursuit had added misery upon misery to her life. She never felt safe anywhere, and the opportunity to finally face that fear and fight a hidden and unstoppable enemy came as a relief.
The man in black swung wide with his sword, and she managed to block his blow even as his reach exceeded hers by more than a foot. A simple swordfight would not end in her favor, and Schuyler circled the room for a moment, tracing a path just outside of his weapon’s reach. If she fought this battle on his terms, she would be his captive in mere moments.
The Venator attacked again; but instead of meeting his parry, Schuyler jumped up and landed on a wood truss that crossed the room’s high cathedral ceiling. Safe for a moment, she looked down at her foe. He crouched in preparation to leap; but before he could fly, Schuyler slashed fiercely at the wooden trusses holding her. The heavy timber split like soft twigs, sending the massive beams collapsing down on the Venator. She leapt from beam to beam, breaking the trusses, and the wooden shards rained down to the floor, splinters shattering in all directions.
The destruction would have raised a ruckus large enough to wake the entire city had it not been for the silentio. The roof heaved, but held. Meanwhile, the Venator had managed to climb on top of the woodpile and was closing in fast. Schuyler turned back quickly and cut the nearest post to its base, sending it flying toward her attacker.
The Venator looked up just as the first shards bit into his shoulder. With inhuman speed, he stopped it from crushing him by driving his blade into the heavy wood. Now was her chance. Schuyler leapt toward the Vena-tor, and the force of her left foot crashed on his clasped hands, pushing them against the hilt of his sword in the opposite direction until the weapon snapped in half. Schuyler drew her own sword and pressed it to his neck.
“Surrender!” she demanded, her voice echoing through the room. She had broken the spell when she had broken his blade.
The Venator only regarded her with contempt. “You can slay me, but doing so will doom your friend.” He lifted his hand and turned his palm to reveal a Venator stone, hanging on a chain—and inside the stone was an image.
The stone showed Oliver Hazard-Perry, blindfolded and bound.
Schuyler gasped. “This is a trick. Oliver is back in New York….” she said, keeping her sword at his neck.
“He arrived in Italy a half an hour ago. We caught him in the airport.”
