Free The Van Alen Legacy by Melissa de La Cruz Page A

been thorough in his

tutorials. In this at least, she would not fail her grandfather.
    I’m sorry, Jack. But I can’t

go back there.
    Never.
    Then she disappeared into the

night.

THIRTEEN

Bliss

    “Listen! I am not going away

until I see Bliss! I insist! You will have to call the police if you want me to

leave?”
    The voice was so strong, so

aggressive and braying, so full of itself, brimming with the complete and total assumption that

it was one hundred percent in the right, filled with the kind of New York arrogance that only a

jaded city dweller could muster. It was the kind of voice that yelled at bike messengers and

barked orders at scurrying underlings for half- caf no-foam ventis , so

loud and insistent that it pierced through the muffled gauze that kept Bliss from seeing and

hearing the outside world.
    The Visitor stirred. It was

like watching a coiled snake get ready to spring. Bliss held her breath.
    The voice continued its

tirade. “Can you at least tell her who’s here?” What is the meaning of this nonsense?
    Bliss jumped. It was the first

time the Visitor had spoken directly to her in a year.
    With a start, the lights came

on, and she found she could see and was looking out the window. There was a short bald man

standing at the front door, looking furious and harassing the maid.
    “It’s

Henri” , she said.
    “Who is he?”

    “My modeling

agent.”

    “Explain.”

    Bliss sent images and memories

to the Visitor: waiting outside the office at the Farnsworth Agency, her portfolio balanced on

her knees, breakfast meetings with Henri over cappuccinos at Balthazar before school, walking the

runway during New York fashion week, the photo shoots in the Starret -Lehigh lofts,

her ad campaigns for Stitched for Civilization, jetting off for shoots in the Caribbean, her

photographs on billboards, magazine spreads, plastered on the sides of buses and on top of taxis.  
    “Um, I’m

a model?” she reminded him.
    The cobra relaxed, coils

unfurling, forked tongue withdrawn. But a tense wariness remained. The Visitor was not

amused.
    A model. A

living mannequin.
    Quickly he reached a decision. “Get rid of him. I have been remiss to let this happen. We shall keep up

appearances. No one must suspect you are not you. Do not fail me.”
    “What do

you mean ?, what do you want me to do?” , Bliss asked, but before she could

finish, she was SMACK, back in her body, completely in control. This was nothing like last week’s

pathetic attempt to brush her bangs away from her forehead. She had realized how much of herself

he was keeping from her, a thought she tried to shelter from him.
    It was like coming back to

life after being trapped in a coffin. She wobbled like a newborn colt. It was as if the world was

coming into focus after years of watching a grainy, fuzzy movie version. She could smell the

hollyhocks outside her window, she could taste the salt in the sea air.
    Her hands, her hands were her

own. They felt light and strong, not weighed down and heavy. Her legs were moving; she was

walking! She tripped over the rug. Ouch! She pushed herself up and walked more carefully. But her

freedom came at a price, for she sensed him, a presence, in the space just behind (that rear

passenger seat), waiting, watching. This is a test, she thought. He wants to see what I’m going

to do. I need to pass. . . . Get rid of Henri. But Henri must not suspect anything odd has

happened to me.
    She opened her bedroom door,

savoring the feel of the cold bronze doorknob in her hand, and ran down the stairs.
    “Wait! Manuela! Let him in?”

she called, running to the foyer. It was a joy to hear her voice out in the world again ,   her wonderful throaty voice carrying in the air. It sounded different

inside her head. She felt like singing.
    “Bliss! Bliss?”

the bald man cried. Henri looked exactly the same: the same rimless eyeglasses, the