"Paul - the Nephilim in New York - carried the same symbol on his arm," Deming said. "It looked like a birthmark instead of a tattoo. All the Nephilim carry it on their bodies."

"But they aren't born evil," Schuyler said. "These women and children are victims of a vicious crime; they're innocent."

"I don't know about innocent," Deming argued. "Paul Rayburn took two immortal lives. Who knows how many more vampires he's murdered over the years."

"So these Petruvians... these killing priests who believe they do God's work," Sam said. "I had never heard of them until Deming told us what that bastard said, and I'll bet no one in any Coven has either, which means they're not part of the official history. How can that be?" he asked his former commander.

"I don't know." Jack frowned. "I was not part of the Order of the Seven and not privy to decisions made at the time."

"Regardless, the Petruvians' cleansing goes against everything in the Code of the Vampires, which mandates the protection of human life," Schuyler maintained.

"The Nephilim are not human," Deming said. "I have the scars to prove it." She raised her sleeve to show the white marks she carried from battling their foes.

"Has anyone seen the Venator reports on this area?" Jack asked. "I tried to find the local conclave offices, but no one would tell me where they had relocated."

Sam shook his head. "The Coven here is barely hanging on. many of their members have been brutally murdered, burned - not just young ones but Elders. There was an attack at the Cairo Tower last month, their headquarters. That's why you couldn't find them. They're ready to go underground. It's like that everywhere. Our kind is retreating - they went back into the shadows."

"What's the latest in New York?" Jack wanted to know.

Deming and Sam exchanged glances. "The Regent's disappeared and supposedly she took the Repository keys with her, to keep the Coven from disbanding. No one knows where she went. But without your sister, New York is not going to last very long," Deming said.

So. Mimi was Regent. Oliver had told the truth. Schuyler watched Jack process this information. She thought she knew what he was thinking - that he should have been with Mimi; that without the twins, the Coven had no one.

"We thought Azrael had come after you," Ted said to Jack. "For the blood trial, when you didn't return to New York."

"We haven't seen Mimi," Schuyler said. "Not yet, anyway."

"What are you doing in Cairo?"

Schuyler was careful not to reveal the exact reason for their journey. "We're looking for someone. Catherine of Siena, a friend of my grandfather's. Jack heard of a holy woman named zani, who we thought might be her. One of her dis-ciples was supposed to meet us at the market and take us to her. You guys must have scared him off. Do you know where we can find her?"

"The name rings a bell - where have we heard it before?"

Sam asked.

"It's name of a priestess at the temple of Anubis," Deming said. "Where the girls have been disappearing."

Chapter Eleven

White Wedding

Where to next? Is there a map?" Oliver asked.

When he saw the look on Mimi's face, he felt chastened.

"Okay, I promise to stop asking stupid questions. I'm just making conversation."

"There'll be a second checkpoint or something," Mimi explained. They were still driving through the desert, but after a few miles, Oliver noticed the road was now along a seashore, and he could see the blue waves of an ocean, and a breeze blew. If they were descending deeper into Hell, it was getting nicer instead of worse. Mimi drove until they spotted an elegant hotel by the beach.

"Am I dreaming? It looks like martha's Vineyard," Oliver said. He recognized the hotel. It was a famous one on the island. He half expected a group of inebriated teenagers to walk out wearing Black Dog T-shirts.

Mimi pulled into the driveway and looked around expect-antly. When no one came to park the car, she sighed. "In Hell there's no valet?" she asked, driving into the parking lot.

Oliver chuckled. "Isn't that just like the Vineyard? What is this place?"

"We'll find out soon enough," Mimi said. They got out of the car and walked toward the resort entrance. There was music playing from a string quartet, and a waitress in a crisp white shirt and black pants appeared carrying a tray of champagne. "The party is in the back. Come join us."

Oliver took a glass. The champagne smelled delicious - buttery and bubbly, with a hint of apple and strawberries, along with a musky undertow of something earthy and delightful. He was not surprised to find he was wearing a khaki suit and a pressed white shirt, while Mimi was now wearing a plain linen dress and sandals, and she had a flower in her hair. "If this is what life is like in the underworld, it doesn't seem too bad," he said, clinking Mimi's glass.

"That's what you'd think, of course," Mimi said, rolling her eyes. "But wait till you've seen Paradise."

"What's that like?"

"It's been so long I don't even remember anymore. It was just - different. Peaceful," she said wistfully.

"Boring."

"No. It wasn't like that. Of course people think it would be boring, but it's not. It's like the best day of your life, for the rest of your life," Mimi said. "Anyway, it looks like we're here for some sort of wedding." They'd followed the crowd to the back of the hotel, by the beach, where white wooden folding chairs had been set up, and a sandy aisle led to a flowered trel-lis. The guests were a ruddy-cheeked New England bunch - the men in seersucker, the women in modest day dresses. Children ran round blowing bubbles. It was beautiful and festive, and not too hot.

Yet there was something about the scene that felt familiar, that felt too close to something that Oliver did not want to acknowledge, and he never took a sip from his glass. "Whose wedding is this?" he said, gritting his teeth, as the string quartet began to play "All Things Bright and Beautiful," his favorite hymn.

"Ours, of course." A girl appeared by his side. She looked exactly like Schuyler. She had Schuyler's long dark hair and bright blue eyes, and she was wearing her bonding dress, the one made of the palest blue silk that hung off her shoulders.

She had a spray of freckles on her cheeks that she always got during the summers, which they used to spend together right on this beach.

Oliver did not know what to do or where to look. His cheeks burned, and he felt as if his heart had been put on display only to be humiliated and broken.

"Ollie, what's wrong?" She looked and sounded exactly like Schuyler. What was this -  who was this? A true mirage.

What devilry had created this doppelganger, Oliver thought, trying to move away from her. Where was Mimi? He looked around wildly but could not find her. Not-Sky took his arm and linked it through hers, the way she used to, and rested her head against his shoulder.

"I missed you," she said.

"I did too," Oliver replied, without thinking.

"I'm so glad you're here," she whispered.

He took back his words. This was Hell. He knew exactly where he was now, and exactly what this was. This was his deepest desire, his deepest secret, which he had buried deep inside his heart so that he had been able to fully celebrate with his dearest friend on her special day. Now, to see his desire so cruelly made real, forced him to acknowledge that even if he was healed, even if he did not ache for her anymore, even if he was no longer her familiar nor her Conduit, and merely her friend, he still loved her, and would always love her.

How was it possible to feel love and desire but no pain?

Freya, the witch he had met in the East Village, had healed his blood of the familiar's mark, but his heart would always remember and would always yearn. As long as he lived, he knew he would love Schuyler Van Alen.

"Don't hate me, but I don't think I can go through with it.

I love Jack. I do. But seeing you today... Ollie... I'm so sorry."

The girl who wasn't Schuyler looked deep into his eyes, and it took his breath away.

"About what?" he asked, and it was then that he realized they were replaying the same conversation they'd had the night before her bonding - but it was going a different way, and he knew exactly what she would say before she said it, because they were the words he had wanted her to say.

"Making the biggest mistake of my life," she said huskily, tightening her grip on his arm. He could smell her perfume.

She had started wearing it only recently, she'd explained back then. A scent made for Catherine de medicis that she'd bought from the convent of Santa maria Novella.

"Don't," he said in a strangled voice, and he pulled at his collar, as he had found it suddenly hard to breathe. "Don't do this. You're not Sky. Leave me alone."

"No, you have to hear it," she said, and put her mouth right on his ear. He could feel her soft breath as she whispered the words he wished she'd said to him on that fair day in December, in Italy. "I should never have left. I love you. I love you more."

Then she was kissing him, and it was Schuyler's lips, and she smelled just like Schuyler, and her hair was silky and soft like Schuyler's, and he knew that when her back was turned, he would see a mole right between her shoulder blades that was just like Schuyler's. She was Schuyler, and she returned his love, and Oliver did not see why he had to pretend he did not want this, did not want her, did not want exactly what was happening right now.

Chapter Twelve

Blood Service

"Charles! You're back so soon," Allegra said, when she returned to the apartment. She hadn't expected to see him, and as she pulled off her coat and scarf, she hoped that he would not notice her hands were shaking.

"Everything finished up earlier than expected." His eyes lit up upon seeing her walk into the room. "Where've you been?"

"Looking at paintings," she said. Since they could read each other's thoughts - up to a certain point - it was easier to conceal lies with half-truths.

"Did you buy anything else?" He knew about the purchase she'd made the day before, but not who the artist was, or what the subject of the painting was.

"Not today."

"It's nice that you've taken an interest in art again," he said, smiling affectionately at her. Charles had come into his own the last few years, shooting up to his full height. He had finally lost the awkward formality and stiffness he'd had as a teenager. These days he moved with confidence and grace. At twenty-one he had gotten hold of the substantial Van Alen trusts that made up the bulk of their inheritance, and he talked about building a media company, making a difference in the world. Recently tapped as one of New York's most eligible bachelors in a popular society magazine, Charles Van Alen was handsome and striking, with his dark blue-black hair and strong Roman features. He did not have Bendix Chase's affable geniality, but instead displayed a kingly benevolence that had earned him respect and fear beyond the vampire community.

He patted the space on the couch next to him, and Allegra cuddled up beside him, his arm curled over her shoulder. They fit together - they always had - it had just taken her too long to see it in this lifetime. She began to relax, feeling the distress of the day's revelations beginning to fade in his presence. What happened with Ben had been a mistake from the beginning, a schoolgirl crush, unworthy of her attention. She felt bad for Ben, of course. A familiar's mark was hard to bear, but Ben would be all right. He had money and comfort, and in time he would forget about her. If only she hadn't walked into that gallery.

"Everything all right with the Elders?" she asked. "What did they want?"

A dark shadow passed over Charles's face, but it cleared without Allegra noticing. "Just the usual Transformation issues. I don't even know why they wanted me here. They're just wasting my time."

"Mr. Van Alen? Your car is here," the butler said, noise-lessly entering the room.

"You're going out?" Allegra asked, leaning away from him. Charles knew she had plans that evening with her old field hockey teammates, and it was only natural that he would make plans of his own. "Dede is it?"

Charles nodded. He had started taking familiars, and looked robust, flush with blood and life, power and invincibil-ity. As leader of the Coven, he was allowed certain privileges, and kept a retinue of familiars in every city, a girl in every port. He was good to them, showering gifts, attention, and the occasional bauble from Cartier or Buccellati. Allegra had seen the bills; she was the one who paid them: a rose-gold watch with a diamond bezel, its heavy weight like a comfort; sparkling bracelets finely wrought with sapphires and emeralds; delicate petal earrings from Van Cleef.