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Blue Bloods by Melissa de La Cruz

Blue Bloods by Melissa de La Cruz

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Published by 3146b93ed

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Published by: 3146b93ed on May 10, 2012
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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ONEThe Bank was a decrepit stone building at the tail end of Houston Street,on the last divide between the gritty East Village and the wilds of the LowerEast Side. Once the headquarters of the venerable Van Alen investmentand brokerage house, it was an imposing, squat presence, a paradigm ofthe beaux-arts style, with a classic six-column fa?ade and an intimidatingrow of "dentals"razor-sharp serrations on the pediment's surface. For manyyears it stood on the corner of Houston and Essex, desolate, empty, andabandoned, until one winter evening when an eye-patchwearing nightclubpromoter chanced upon it after polishing off a hot dog at Katz's Deli. Hewas looking for a venue to showcase the new music his DJs werespinninga dark, haunted sound they were calling "Trance. The pulsingmusic spilled out to the sidewalk, where Schuyler Van Alen, a small,dark-haired fifteen-year-old girl, whose bright blue eyes were ringed withdark kohl eye shadow, stood nervously at the back of the line in front of theclub. She picked at her chipping black nail polish. "Do you really think we'llget in?" she asked. "No sweat, " her best friend, Oliver Hazard-Perryreplied, cocking an eyebrow "Dylan guaranteed a cakewalk. Besides, wecan always point to the plaque over there. Your family built this place,remember?" He grinned. "So what else is new?" Schuyler smirked, rollingher eyes. The island of Manhattan was linked inexorably to her familyhistory, and as far as she could tell, she was related to the Frick Museum,the Van Wyck Expressway, and the Hayden Planetarium, give or take aninstitution (or major thoroughfare) or two. Not that it made any difference inher life. She barely had enough to cover the twenty-five dollar charge at thedoor. Oliver affectionately swung an arm around her shoulders. "Stopworrying! You worry too much. This'll be fun, I promise. "I wish Dylan hadwaited for us, " Schuyler fretted, shivering in her long black cardigan withholes in each elbow. She'd found the sweater in a Manhattan Valley thriftstore last week. It smelled like decay and stale rosewater perfume, and herskinny frame was lost in its voluminous folds. Schuyler always looked likeshe was drowning in fabric. The black sweater reached almost to hercalves, and underneath she wore a sheer black T-shirt over a worn gray

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