The pigeons had taken over St. Mark's Square. Hundreds of them: fat, gray, squat, and silent, pecking at the pieces of sfogliatelle and pane uva bread crumbs that careless tourists had left behind. It was noon, but the sun was hidden behind clouds, and a gloomy pall had fallen over the city. The gondolas were lined up on the docks, empty, their striped-shirted gondoliers leaning on their oars, waiting for customers who had not arrived. The waters were in low tide, the dark stain of the higher levels visible on the building facades. Schuyler Van Alen rested her elbows on the rickety caf? table and put her head in her hands, so that the bottom of her chin was hidden underneath her oversize turtleneck. She was a Blue Blood vampire, the last of the Van Alens--a formerly prominent New York family whose influence and largesse had been instrumental in the founding of modern-day Manhattan. Once upon a time, the Van Alen name had been synonymous with power, privilege, and patronage. But that was a long time ago, and the family fortune had been dwindling for many years: Schuyler was more familiar with penny-pinching than shopping sprees. Her clothes--the black turtleneck that hung past her hips, cutoff leggings, an army flak jacket, and beaten-up motorcycle boots--were thrift- store castoffs. On any other girl, the ragged ensemble might look as though it had been thrown together by