Melissa De La Cruz - Misguided Angel

Copyright (c) 2010 by Melissa de la Cruz

Al rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. no part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011-5690.

First edition 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

V567-9638-5-10227

printed in the United States of America

Designed by Elizabeth H. Clark

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file.

ISBN 978-1-4231-4772-5

"Misguided Angel"

Words and music by Michael Timmins and Margo Timmins Copyright (c) 1988 by Universal Music--Z Tunes LLC and Paz Junk Music Al Rights Administered by Universal Music--Z Tunes LLC International Copyright secured Al Rights Reserved Reprinted by permission of Hal Leonard Corporation

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Table of Contents

Journal Entry

A Chase

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

The Man From Citadel

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

The Artist's Studio

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

The Changeling

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

The Cardinal

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Thirty-seven

Thirty-eight

Thirty-nine

Forty

The Mistress

Forty-two

Forty-three

Acknowledgments

For Pop,

Alberto B. de la Cruz,

September 7, 1949-October 25, 2009 ,

who thought Dedications and Acknowledgments

were the best part of my books because he was always in them

Misguided angel hanging over me,

Heart like a Gabriel, pure and white as ivory

Soul like a Lucifer, black and cold like a piece of lead.

Misguided angel, love you till I'm dead.

--Cowboy Junkies, "Misguided Angel"

All things change, nothing perishes.

--Ovid

From the Personal Journal

of Lawrence Van Alen

November 11, 2005

There were seven of us at the inception of the order. A conclave was called to address the growing threat posed by the Paths of the Dead. Along with myself, present at the gathering were the Emperor's cousin Gemellus, a weakling; Octilla and Halcyon from the vestal virgins; General Alexandrus, head of the Imperial Army; Pantaelum, a trusted senator; and Onbasius, a healer.

In my prodigious research I have determined that Halcyon was most likely the keeper of the Gate of Promise, the third known Gate of Hell. I have come to the conclusion that this gate is instrumental in uncovering the truth behind the continued existence of our supposedly vanquished enemies. This is the gate we must focus on, the most important one in the lot.

From what I can deduce, Halcyon settled in Florence, and it is my belief that her latest recorded incarnation was as Catherine of Siena, a famous Italian mystic "born" in 1347. However, after Catherine's "death," there is no other record of a prominent female presence in the city. It appears she had no heirs to her name, and her line simply disappears after the end of Giovanni de Medici's rule in 1429.

From the fifteenth century onward, the city becomes the center of the growing power of the Petruvian Order, founded by the ambitious priest Father Benedictus Linardi. The Petruvian school and monastery are currently under the leadership of one Father Roberto Baldessarre. I have written to Father Baldessarre and leave for Florence tomorrow.

A Chase

Florence, 1452

The sound of footsteps on cobblestone echoed throughout the empty streets of the city. Tomasia kept the pace, her kidskin slippers hardly making asound, while behind her came the slap of Andreas's heavy boots and Giovanni's lighter step. They ran in a single file, a tight unit, used to this kind ofdiscipline, used to blending in with the dark. When they arrived at the middle of the square, they separated.

Tomi flew up the nearest cornerstone and perched on a cornice looking over the broad panorama of the city: the half-built dome of the Basilicato the Ponte Vecchio and beyond the river. She sensed the creature was near and prepared to strike. Their target still did not know he was beingfollowed, and her blow would be immediate and invisible, every trace of the Silver Blood eradicated and extinguished--almost as if the beast--

disguised as a palace guard--never existed. Even the creature's last gasp must be silent. Tomasia kept her position, waiting for the creature to cometo her, to walk into the trap they had laid.

She heard Dre grunting, a bit out of breath, and then next to him, Gio, his sword already unsheathed, as they followed the vampire into the alley.

This was her chance. She flew down from her hiding place, holding her dagger with her teeth.

But when she landed, the creature was nowhere to be found.

"Where--?" she asked, but Gio put a finger to his mouth and motioned to the alleyway.

Tomi raised her eyebrows. This was unusual. The Silver Blood had stopped to converse with a hooded stranger. Strange: the Croatan despisedthe Red Bloods and avoided them unless they were torturing them for sport.

"Should we?" she asked, moving toward the alley.

"Wait," Andreas ordered. He was nineteen, tall and broad, with sculpted muscles and a ferocious brow--handsome and ruthless. He was theirleader, and had always been.

Next to him, Gio looked elfin, almost fey, with a beauty that could not be denied or hidden under his scraggly beard and long, unkempt hair. Hekept his hand on his weapon, tense and ready to spring.

Tomi did the same, and caressed the sharp edge of her dagger. It made her feel better to know it was there.

"Let's watch what happens," Dre decided.

THE GATE OF PROMISE

Off the Italian Coast

The Present

ONE

The Cinque Terre

Schuyler Van Alen walked as quickly as she could up the polished brass spiral stairs leading to the upper deck. Jack Force was standing at the edge of the bow when she caught his eye. She nodded to him, shielding her eyes from the hot Mediterranean sun. It's done.

Good, he sent, and went back to setting the anchor. He was sunburned and shaggy, his skin a deep nut brown, his hair the color of flax. Her own dark hair was wild and unkempt from a month of salty sea air. She wore an old shirt of Jack's that had once been white and pristine and was now gray and ragged at the hems. They both displayed that laconic, relaxed air affected by those on perpetual vacation: a lazy, weathered aimlessness that belied their true desperation. A month was long enough. They had to act now. They had to act today.