“What about water?” Lucy asked. “My mom’s always dunking stuff in water to purify it or cleanse it or whatever. She chants naked in the woods too.”
Logan tilted his head, considering. I ignored him, grateful that vampires didn’t blush easily. “No, not water either,” I said coolly. “That would feed the emotion targeted by this spell: love.”
Solange swallowed hard. “Can we do something fast? Please?”
“I need salt,” I said, “two freezer bags, ice, and white thread.”
Logan vanished and returned within moments with my supplies.
“Are you sure you know what to do?” Connor asked doubtfully. “Maybe we should ask around, do some more research? I could go online.”
“I know what to do. This is what it means to be a Cwn Mamau handmaiden.”
“I thought it was all about kicking Host ass.”
“That too.” I half smiled. “We are magic as much as we are aberration and genetic mutation.” I dumped salt into both plastic freezer bags. “Surely, you’ve noticed as much?”
“I … guess.”
I felt bad for them, to have so much knowledge and so little instinct. Magda had told me enough times that magic and prayer weren’t relied upon in this century. It seemed a waste of tools to me. Anyone who had seen Kala work her magic would never think otherwise. I had nowhere near her experience but I knew I could handle a charm, even one bought by Montmartre. And there was no question he’d bought it off some witch—no one else would be able to make these bits of string and apple sing this way.
“Now what?” Logan asked.
The strand of Solange’s hair was long, wrapped, and knotted in red thread. I worked it out carefully, tugging gently, patiently unwrapping even when Quinn came to stand behind me and scowl. Logan nudged him back a step.
I freed the hair and placed it between two ice cubes. I tied them into place with the white thread. “This will protect you,” I murmured at Solange, concentrating on scenting the magic, as I’d been taught. I imagined the thread to be as impenetrable as a shield, as strong and sharp as a sword, as implacable as midwinter. “White represents protection and purification.”
Solange nodded. “Okay. Use the whole spool, would you?”
Quinn growled. “Hurry.”
I dropped the ice cubes in one of the bags and sealed it. I buried the apple seeds and the unraveled red thread and hummingbird heart in the salt of the second bag and added a layer of ice cubes to the top. I sealed that one as well.
“These need to be frozen.”
Several hands stretched toward me. Solange was faster, though pale and tight around the mouth. “I’ll do it,” she said, her tone hard, brooking no argument.
She left and we could hear muttering and the slamming of the refrigerator door. Hard.
“In three days put them both in a jar of salt and sour wine and bury it at a crossroads,” I advised her when she returned. “And don’t let anyone see you do it.”
“Can I spit on it?”
“By all means.”
“Thank you, Isabeau. This is the second time you’ve stood between me and that horse’s ass.”
“De rien.” I yawned.
We hadn’t noticed the dawn in our concentration. I’d been exhausted before working the charm; now I was beyond fatigue, though still pleased to have redeemed myself from my earlier mistake in the woods.
The others weren’t faring any better, young enough not to be able to fight the lethargy that came with the sunrise. I felt weak as water, crumpling to lie on the carpet. Charlemagne curled at my head to protect my sleep. I saw Logan yawn as well and stretch out on the rug beside me. Nicholas was propped up on the couch, Connor slumped uncomfortably in a nearby chair. Only Marcus managed to crawl upstairs, but I had no idea if he’d made it to his bedroom. I was conscious just long enough to hear Lucy mutter.
“Vampires. Sure are the life of the party.”
CHAPTER 8
Isabeau
I didn’t know if other vampires had nightmares, but mine always came in that hazy place between dead sleep and sudden wakefulness.
It was the same dream every time.
It had been a full week since I’d last had it, the longest I’d gone yet. I’d never told anyone though I was pretty sure Kala suspected. She found me once, stuck in the loop of fear, wide-eyed and clammy, a crowd of dogs licking my face and trying to get me to move. Now it was strong enough to pull me out of sleep, even before twilight did.
Even though I didn’t remember all that time trapped underground, the dream was always the same. I was inside the white satin-lined coffin, the fabric dirty and crawling with insects. Dirt crumbled through the cracks in the wood, and roots dangled like pale hair. I was wearing the silk gown I’d worn to my uncle’s Christmas party but not the choker I’d made from the length of my mother’s dress. That was as upsetting as being buried alive; I carried that indigo fleur-de-lys scrap with me everywhere, even in the alleys of Paris.
I scratched at the coffin and kicked my feet until my heels were bruised but I couldn’t find my way out. I didn’t even know if I was lying in a London cemetery or if I was in France. I couldn’t smell anything but mud and rain, and the darkness that should have been complete seemed less than it was. I couldn’t see clearly, of course, but I could catch the odd root, the pale white of parsnips, and the scuttle of blue-tinged beetles.
I screamed until I tasted blood in the back of my throat and still no one heard me.
And I wasn’t hungry, not once.
The thirst, however, was maddening. It clawed at me like a burning desperate beast, raked across my throat, scorching all the way down into my belly. My veins felt withered in my arms. I was beyond weak, beyond alive, beyond dead. In a moment of clarity, I felt the wound of sharp teeth on my neck, felt a mouth suckling there until I was limp as a rag doll. And then the merest taste of blood smeared on my lips, which made me gag, or would have, if I’d had the strength. And it tasted like the wine Greyhaven had given me.
Greyhaven.
He let them bury me, even though he knew I’d had enough of his blood to taint me beyond any normal human death.
Greyhaven.
I wasn’t strong enough to claw out of the earth, hadn’t even realized it was what I was meant to do. It all seemed like some horrible accident, something out of a gothic novel. Earth filled my mouth, worms circled my wrists like bracelets, ants crawled through my hair.
Greyhaven.
And dogs howling, snuffling, digging with their claws.
That’s when I woke up, every time.
The dogs were real enough; they’d been the ones who’d found me and pulled me out, even before Kala had pinpointed the right grave in Highgate Cemetery.
And Greyhaven’s name was my first thought, was still my first thought when I reared out of that nightmare.
Charlemagne’s nose lifted off my face when I stopped whimpering. I hated that sound, hated that it waited until I wasn’t conscious enough to control it.
I was in a bed; someone must have moved us all out of the living room. The wooden shutters were bolted tight across the windows. I fell out of the bed and crawled to the fridge, yanking the door open. The light hurt my eyes and I groped blindly for a glass bottle filled with blood. The thirst was sharper in the evening, so sharp that I’d trained Charlemagne to defend himself against me if I spoke a certain word. The hunger wasn’t easily leashed in our first nights. It still made me gulp the blood greedily, the way I’d eaten cake as a child, but I’d stopped actively worrying for Charlemagne’s safety. This would be the same reason Lucy had grumbled earlier about being moved to a guest room with a double deadbolt lock on the inside and an alarm button connected to Bruno, the head of the Drake security detail. Newly turned vampires had little control over themselves upon waking.
When I’d drunk enough blood to have it gurgling in my belly, I straightened my leather tunic dress and left the relative safety of my bedroom. Solange and her brothers
would sleep for another hour yet, so I made my way downstairs to let Charlemagne outside and check on the puppy.
“Isabeau.”
I halted at the unfamiliar voice. A woman stood in silhouette against a tall arched window in the library overlooking the garden. Rosy sunlight fell into the room. I’d forgotten the glass in the house was specially treated; the wooden shutters in the bedrooms must be for added security and the comfort of concerned vampire guests. I certainly wouldn’t have trusted a glass pane and lace curtains.
The woman turned, her face obscured behind a black veil attached to the velvet hat perched on her head. She wore an old-fashioned gown over a corset and fingerless lace gloves.
“Are you Hyacinth Drake?” I asked, courtesy pinning me in place. I’d heard Connor and Quinn talking about her. She was their aunt and had been injured by a Helios-Ra hunter. The holy water they used, charged with UV rays, had burned her face. It hadn’t healed yet and no one was certain it would. Scars were rare on a vampire, but they were certainly possible. My bare arms were proof enough of that.
“Yes, I am. Enchantee.” She flicked a glance at the scars on my arms, then turned back to the window. That’s when I realized she‘d been watching Lucy running through the garden with the puppy, who was barking with hysterical glee. Lucy’s laughter was nearly as loud. Charlemagne left eager nose prints on the glass door, then looked at me pathetically.
“Go on,” I murmured, letting him out to join the melee. The puppy rolled over in the air in his excitement. Lucy laughed harder.
“Your scars don’t bother you,” she said. It wasn’t a question, it was more of a flat statement. I shrugged.
“Not really.” The half-moons and disjointed circles left by sharp teeth had faded to shiny pale skin, like mother-of-pearl. “I wear these proudly.” I touched the puncture scars on my throat. “These I would burn off if I could.” Since burning wouldn’t help, Kala had tattooed that side of my neck with a fleur-de-lys.
“I was beautiful for so long,” she murmured.
“Then you’re still beautiful,” I said bluntly.
“No pity from you, Isabeau,” she said, and I could hear the faint smile in her voice. “I find that very refreshing.”
“My people measure beauty by how quietly you can hunt,” I explained. “And by how well you train a dog or how fast you run. We have tests to prove ourselves worthy and none of them have anything to do with the color of our hair or the shape of our nose.”
“Then perhaps I should run away to live in the caves after all.” Her tone changed, irony washing over the grief. “But I do so love my creature comforts.”
Lucy was panting in the yard, wiping sweat off her face. The dogs raced around her like a merry-go-round. When she came toward the house, Hyacinth stepped back immediately.
“It was a pleasure meeting you,” she said to me before disappearing into the depths of the house.
“Isabeau, you’re up already,” Lucy exclaimed, startled. The garden door shut behind her. She brought in the scents of summer rain, leaves, and fresh blood pumping under skin. I ground my back teeth together. “It’s not even fully dark yet,” she continued on heedlessly. The dogs milled at her feet.
“Sometimes, I wake early,” I said. I had no intention of sharing my weaknesses and the violence of my nightmares. Like Hyacinth, I couldn’t stomach pity.
Charlemagne blocked me suddenly at the sound of the front door opening and closing. I tensed. Lucy leaned back. “Wow, you’re scary when you do that to your face.”
“Get behind me.”
“The other dogs aren’t barking,” she said quietly. “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.” A tattooed bald man in a leather vest marched into the room, jaw set grimly. I felt her stance soften immediately. “Bruno.”
“Lassie.” He met my eyes. “I want to talk to you.”
“Bruno is the head of security,” Lucy explained.
“But you’re … human.”
“Aye. Hunters like the daytime with most of the vamps lying around waiting to be staked. It evens up the fight.” Though it was at odds with his expression, his Scottish accent put me at ease; the French and the Scots had often been allies. And I understood his bewildered frustration. His heart was practically pounding with aggravation. “We have the best security this side of presidents and kings, I want to know why in one bloody week a vampire faction and a Helios-Ra rogue unit have both managed to break through. It’s bloody ridiculous.”
“Montmartre doesn’t care if his Host die. It’s considered an honor, proof of loyalty,” I told him. “I gather you would take it amiss if your people died.”
“Yes.”
“Montmartre just makes more Host. And last night they sent four with the purpose of only one making it to the front door. If they’d attacked outright, I don’t know that they could have taken you by surprise.”
He sighed. “You’re right there, lassie. I was expecting a great deal of violence, not some ijit present.” He shook his head. “Still, no excuses.” He unrolled blue drawings of the farmhouse and the Drake thousand-acre compound with other assorted buildings. “Show me the weak point, would you?”
I went through the drawings, matching them with what I knew of the surrounding topography. “They would have moved from treetop to treetop. It’s slower but stealthier.”
“They came from above,” he breathed out.
Bruno was smug by the time Solange and her brothers began to stir and trail downstairs.
“Are you ready?” Logan asked me. I nodded. Lucy scowled at Nicholas. He held up his hands defensively.
“Not my fault,” he insisted. “Mom and Dad think you should stay out of the courts until after the coronation.”
“That is so not fair,” Lucy said. “It’s not like I haven’t already been there.”
“Yeah, you were kidnapped by an evil vampire queen. Hello? Not exactly a point in your favor.”
“When my parents come home next week I’m getting my dad to teach me how to ride his motorcycle and then I won’t need a lift on your stinkin’ bike anymore.”
Nicholas grinned. “You think your dad’s going to let you ride through the woods to hang out with a bunch of vampires in a cave?”
“He lets me hang out with you.”
“Because I’m not the bad influence in this relationship.”
She seemed to soften a little at the word “relationship.” Then she immediately straightened her spine.
“I’m still annoyed,” Lucy grumbled at him.
“You’re cute too,” he answered, unfazed. He leaned in and kissed her until she was nearly cross-eyed. Connor coughed.
“Dude, get a room.”
Nicholas pulled away, grinning.
“Are they always like that?” I asked Logan as we left the farmhouse.
“You should have seen them before they decided they liked each other.”
•
It was considerably easier to gain access to the royal courts this time around. The presence of five of the Drake brothers smoothed the way, even if it didn’t completely erase the curious glances or suspicious, disgusted glares. It didn’t bother me, but I noticed Logan was glaring back at every single vampire who dared even to blink my way. It was kind of sweet, if unnecessary. He was close enough that his arm brushed mine.
“Isabeau!” Magda darted out from behind a cluster of bare birch trees in gold pots. She was wearing pink petticoats under an antique cream-colored skirt. She tucked her arm in mine, elbowing Logan away from me with a hiss. Magda did not share well. Logan didn’t hiss back, he was too well brought up for that, but he did look as if he was considering it.
“Are you all right?” Magda asked, glaring at each of the brothers. Quinn smirked at her. She glowered more ferociously. “They didn’t dose you with Hypnos again, did they?”
“No, of course not.”
The courtiers drifted out of our way as we passed through the main hall, where they’d been hard at work. Since
last night, the broken raven throne that belonged to the last queen had been carted out. There were fewer mirrors as well so that it didn’t feel as if the crowd was twice its actual size. I felt better already.
“How was it here?” I asked her quietly.
“Fine, I guess. Finn is in his glory. He actually said three full sentences back to back.”
I had to smile at that. Finn’s long silences were legendary. “That’s practically a monologue.”
“I know.” She scowled at a staring young vampire who didn’t get out of her way fast enough. “I feel like we’re some kind of circus show. Some guy asked to see my fangs. Can you believe that? And he asked me if we painted ourselves in mud.”
Quinn chuckled from behind us. “That’s called flirting.”
She ignored him, even though it was bad form to ignore your host’s children when on a diplomatic visit. It was worse form to attack their daughter’s boyfriend, so I was in no position to criticize. I wondered yet again why Kala had sent me.
Everyone but Logan and Magda drifted away on their own errands. We went through several rooms, each more decadent than the last. One was decorated in red silk and velvet with gilded framed paintings on the wall. Logan made a face.
“Lady Natasha’s tastes weren’t exactly subtle,” he said. “But we’re keeping the paintings and we’ve started adding more. They’re a lineage of ancient kings and queens and whatever.”
There were dozens of portraits, framed and unframed, mostly oil but some watercolors and ink drawings. There were a few photographs near the end of the line. It was like being in a museum. I recognized some of the faces from legend and stories Kala had told us: the Amrita family, the Joiik family, Sebastian Cowan, who’d loved a hunter in the nineteenth century.
“That one’s Veronique DuBois, our matriarch.” Logan pointed to a small painting of a very dignified-looking woman in a medieval dress and wimple.
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