THREE

Beatrice

Allegra Van Alen had visited San Francisco many times in her past life cycles, yet had avoided the city in her current one, almost as if she were allergic to it. Whenever Conclave business had called for a trip out West, she’d always found a way to wriggle out of it, find someone to take her place, or a way to handle issues by conference calls.

But now that she was twenty-one years old, and, in the fall of 1989, newly awakened to her full memories and powers, she did not see the harm. She had graduated from college in the spring, standing tall and proud with her brother at the dais, clutching her alumni pin (diplomas would be given out later through the registrar). Amazing that she had accom-plished that much, considering her high school education had been cobbled together from a jumble of prep schools of vary-ing academic reputation. After abruptly leaving Endicott Academy her junior year, she had refused to return to Duchesne, and instead had aimlessly hopped around the Northeastern private-school corridor, sometimes switching midsemester on a whim.

Cordelia had been certain there was no way Allegra would gain admittance into the prestigious university that had just rolled out the red carpet for Charles. But her mother had somehow forgotten the power of a fancy name, or the pull of the family’s illustrious history (along with its generous dona-tions over the years), and an acceptance letter had been sent.

College had been a blur of parties and drama, and Allegra had thrown herself into campus life with gusto, showing an energy and motivation that had eluded her during her peripatetic high school years. It was as if she was finally getting over the terrible mistake she had made at Endicott—of falling in love with her human familiar and putting her bond at risk. Allegra had accepted her destiny and position in Blue Blood society, and Charles was pleased.

It would not be long before she would be bonded to her twin and claim her rightful heritage. Allegra was looking forward to another productive lifetime with Charles, the two of them leading the way, setting examples for the rest of their kind, as they had done since the beginning of time. They had had many names over the years—Junia and Cassius, Rose and myles—but they would always be Michael and Gabrielle, pro-tectors of the Garden, the Uncorrupted, Archangels of the Light.

She was in San Francisco because of Charles. The two of them were rarely apart these days, and when he’d asked her to come with him, she’d said yes. He’d left early that morning to meet with a group of local Elders about an emergency concerning their newest batch of vampires. Allegra had been worried, but Charles had assured her it was probably nothing but the usual issues that came with Transformation. There were always a few kinks here and there: some would awake to the memories too early, causing confusion or catatonia; others would have trouble controlling their bloodlust. The Elders were a jittery bunch.

Allegra and Charles were staying in Nob Hill, in one of the many luxurious apartments and residences around the globe that were now at their disposal as heads of the Coven. Since she had time alone, Allegra had decided to spend the afternoon wandering around the pretty neighborhood, reacquaint-ing herself with the hilly streets, doing a little shopping, paus-ing to admire the view. She’d crossed Union Square and wandered into a tiny jewel box of an alley called maiden Lane—a charming side street filled with small boutiques and art galleries. She walked inside the nearest one.

The gallery assistant, a chic dark-haired girl wearing red-rimmed spectacles and a spare black dress with an interesting neckline, greeted her upon arrival. “Hi there. We just put the show up. Feel free to look around.”

“Thanks,” Allegra said, thinking she would just have a quick peek around the place. Charles was the one who collected art; he’d started as a boy and had built an impressive collection over the years. His taste ran toward what was currently popular and expensive—he bid heavily on the trendy artists of the day. Their mansion back in New York was filled with Sch-nabels and Basquiats, paintings strewn with broken crockery and street-style graffiti. She could understand their value, but the pieces were not something she cared to live with for the rest of her life.

The Vespertine Gallery seemed to specialize in the new wave of realistic paintings, and Allegra examined several portraits before a particular one caught her eye. It was a tiny little canvas, five inches square, and the painting was of a teenage girl sitting on a hospital bed, with her head in a bandage. Allegra looked at it again, not quite believing what she was seeing.

It was all there—the plate of cookies, the wicker furniture. The girl had a bemused smile on her face, as if she couldn’t quite understand what she was doing in a hospital. The painting ref-erenced religious iconography—a golden halo surrounded the girl’s head, and the bright colors of the room were painted in a style similar to illustrations found in medieval prayer books, with delicate images of saints and angels. The painting was called Always Something There to Remind Me.

Allegra gasped and turned bright red, feeling as if someone were playing a cosmic joke on her, and she almost stumbled on her heels as she turned away from the piece. It couldn’t be… could it? But it had to be…. That song had been a secret joke between them….

“Do you know his work?” the pretty young gallery assistant asked, suddenly appearing at her elbow. The girl had an obsequious smile on her face, as if she instinctively knew when “looking” turned into “shopping.”

“I’m not sure I do,” Allegra said, her heart pounding underneath her thin cashmere sweater. Her face felt hot and her mouth had turned dry. “What’s his name?”

“Stephen Chase. He’s a local. Got a rave review from Art Forum on his show last season. Amazing work. Everyone is talking about it. He’s made quite a splash.”

Allegra nodded, unable to do more than that at the moment. Stephen Chase. Now, there was a name she would never forget, although when she’d known him he’d gone by his middle name, Bendix. It was Ben’s painting, of course. She knew it the minute she’d seen it. “How much?” she asked, before she could think it over. But there was no doubt. Once she saw the painting, she had to buy it.

The gallery assistant named a tidy sum, and murmured something about extra fees for framing and shipping services, should they be required.

“I’ll take it,” Allegra said, rooting around in her pocket-book for her credit card. “And I’d like to take it now. With me, I mean.”

“How wonderful! It’s an amazing piece. Congratulations.

But I’m afraid I can’t let you have it just yet. The show runs until next month, and we’ll be shipping everything to the buy-ers after. I hope that’s all right?”

Allegra nodded, even though she was disappointed. She had wanted to own it right then, tuck it into her suitcase and spirit it away so she could study it in private.

Everything from that fateful year came flooding back. Ben had not forgotten her after all. The painting was from the day they’d met—the day she’d been hit on the head with a field hockey ball and had been sent to the clinic. They had been roommates of a sort, sharing the same television. He had broken his leg, she remembered now, and had asked the field hockey team—her team—to sign his cast. It all returned to her in a flash as if it were yesterday.

“How long are you in town?” the assistant asked, as she ran Allegra’s credit card and checked her ID.

“We leave tomorrow.”

“Too bad. There’s a dinner party for him on Saturday night, and he loves meeting his patrons.”

Allegra’s mind raced. She could ask Charles if they could stay for a few more days. He had mentioned wanting to attend the opening of the new Olmec exhibit at the de Young. Of course he would want her to accompany him, but perhaps she could manufacture some sort of excuse and slip away to the party instead.

“My schedule is flexible,” she told the clerk. “And I would like to thank him for this piece….”

The gallery girl gave Allegra the address, writing it down on her receipt. “Wonderful! He’ll be thrilled.”

Allegra was not sure if “thrilled” was the right word. She remembered the last time she’d seen Ben: it was the first time she had marked him as her familiar, the first time she’d drunk his blood and taken him for her own. Then she’d disappeared off the face of the earth. She never thought she would see him again. Correction—she had hoped she would never see him again. Not after the terrible vision she’d seen of their future—a future she’d been running from for the last five years.

Every fiber of her immortal being, and all the knowledge she carried in her soul, told her to hop on the next plane out of the city. It was dangerous to see Ben again. She had fallen for him once, and her heart was in the right place now. She loved Charles, and they would renew their bond as they had since the beginning of time—since they had journeyed from Heaven’s kingdom to bring hope to the Fallen. Her heart was pledged to love her twin, as before, and yet it was this same stubborn heart that argued to stay, that would not let her leave.

She would see Ben on Saturday night, she was sure of it.

If there was such a thing as destiny, Allegra felt it pulling her in a new direction, one that would lead her far from the life she had planned, far from the Coven and the angel she had loved for eternity. Allegra thought she would feel tormented with anxiety and guilt, but instead, as she left the gallery, she felt a strange emotion—one she had not felt in a very long time: she felt happy.