A silver moonbeam sliced across the wall, making its way through one of the tall, narrow windows. It captured Becca’s attention as we floated down the stairs.
“Pretty,” she crooned, reaching for the slash of light. “Pretty babies.”
For a moment the light bent toward her, defying the laws of physics as humans understood them. Gooseflesh rose on my arms, followed by letters that shone under the surface of my skin in red and gold. There was magic in the moonlight, but even though I was a witch and a weaver, I did not always see what my mixed-blood children were able to perceive.
Happy to leave the moonbeam behind, I let the air carry me down the rest of the stairs. Once we were on terra firma, my warmblood feet covered the remaining distance to the front door.
A brush of frost on my cheek, the indication of a vampire’s glance, told me that Matthew had spotted our arrival. He was standing in the open doorway with Ysabeau. The play of silver and shadow made his cheekbones stand out and his hair appear even darker while, through some strange alchemy, the same light made Ysabeau look more golden. There was dirt on her tawny-colored leggings, and her white shirt was torn where a tree branch had snagged it. She acknowledged me with a nod, her breath ragged. Ysabeau had been running—fast and hard.
The children sensed the strangeness of the moment. Instead of greeting their grandmother with their usual enthusiasm, they clung to me tightly, tucking their heads into the curves of my neck as if to hide from whatever mysterious darkness was impinging on the house.
“I was talking to Freyja. Before we finished, Marcus said he was going to the village,” Ysabeau explained, a splinter of panic in her tone. “But Alain was concerned, so we followed him. Marcus seemed fine, at first. But then he bolted.”
“Marcus ran away from Sept-Tours?” It didn’t seem possible. Marcus adored Ysabeau, and she had specifically requested he stay with her over the summer.
“He took a path west, and we assumed he was coming here, but something told me to stay with him.” Ysabeau drew another serrated breath. “Then Marcus turned north, toward Montluçon.”
“Toward Baldwin?” My brother-in-law had a house there, built long ago when the area was known simply as Lucius’s Mountain.
“No. Not toward Baldwin. Toward Paris.” Matthew’s eyes darkened.
Ysabeau nodded. “He was not running away. He was running back—to Phoebe.”
“Something went wrong,” I said, stunned. Everybody had assured me that Phoebe would make the transition from warmblooded human to vampire without a problem. So much care had been taken, so many arrangements made.
Sensing my rising concern, Philip began to squirm and asked to be put down.
“Freyja said it all went according to plan. Phoebe’s a vampire now.” Matthew lifted Philip from my arms and put him on the floor beside me. “Stay with Diana and the children, Maman. I’ll go after Marcus and find out what’s wrong.”
“Alain is outside,” Ysabeau said. “Take him with you. Your father believed in having a second pair of eyes in such a situation.”
Matthew kissed me. Like most of his farewells, it held a note of ferocity, as though to remind me to not let my guard down while he was gone. He smoothed Becca’s hair and pressed his lips far more gently to her forehead.
“Be careful,” I murmured, more out of habit than actual concern.
“Always,” Matthew replied, giving me one last, long look before he turned to go.
* * *
—
AFTER THE EXCITEMENT of their grandmother’s arrival, the children took nearly an hour to get settled back to sleep. Wide awake myself with nerves and unanswered questions, I went down to the kitchen. There, as expected, I found Marthe and Ysabeau.
Usually, the sprawling set of connected rooms was one of my favorite places. It was unfailingly warm and cozy, with the old enameled iron range fired up and ready to bake something delicious and bowls of fresh fruit and produce waiting for Marthe to transform them into a gourmet feast. This morning, however, the room felt dark and cold, in spite of the illuminated sconces and the colorful Dutch tiles that decorated the walls.
“Of all the things I dislike about being married and mated to a vampire, waiting at home for news has to be the worst.” I plunked myself onto one of the stools that surrounded the enormous, pitted wooden table that was the center of gravity in this domestic sphere. “Thank God for mobile phones. I can’t imagine what it was like with nothing but handwritten messages.”
“None of us liked it.” Marthe put a steaming mug of tea before me, along with a croissant filled with almond paste and dusted with powdered sugar.
“Heaven,” I said, sniffing the aroma of dark leaves and nutty sweetness that rose from the cup.
“I should have gone with them.” Ysabeau had made no effort to twist her hair back into place or remove the smudge of dirt from her cheek. It wasn’t like her to be anything less than impeccable.
“Matthew wanted you here,” Marthe said, dusting flour on the table with a practiced gesture. She removed a lump of dough from a nearby bowl and began to knead it with the heels of her hands.
“You cannot always get what you want,” Ysabeau said, with none of Mick Jagger’s irony.
“Can someone tell me exactly what happened to set Marcus off?” I sipped at my tea, still feeling I’d missed something crucial.
“Nothing.” Ysabeau, like her son, could be miserly with information.
“Something must have,” I said.
“Truly, nothing happened. There was a dinner party with Phoebe’s family,” said Ysabeau. “Freyja assured me it all went very well.”
“What did Charles make?” My mouth watered. “Something delicious, I’m sure.”
Marthe’s hands stilled and she scowled at me. Then she laughed.
“Why is that funny?” I demanded, taking a bite of the flaky croissant. There was so much butter in it that it melted on my tongue.
“Because Phoebe was just made into a vampire, and you want to know what she ate for her last supper. For a manjasang, this seems like an odd detail for such a momentous time,” Ysabeau explained.
“Of course it does. You’ve never had one of Charles’s roasted chickens,” I said. “All that garlic. And the lemon. Divine.”
“There was duck instead,” Marthe reported. “And salmon. And beef.”
“Did Charles make seigle d’Auvergne?” I asked, eyeing Marthe’s work. The dark bread was one of Charles’s specialties—and Phoebe’s favorite. “And for dessert, was there pompe aux pommes?”
Phoebe loved her sweets, and the only time I’d seen her waver in her determination to become a vampire was when Marcus took her to the bakery in Saint-Lucien and explained that the apple pastry in the window would taste revolting if she went through with her plan.
“Both,” Marthe replied.
“Phoebe must have been thrilled,” I said, impressed with the scope of the menu.
“According to Freyja, she has not been eating much lately.” Ysabeau caught her lower lip in her teeth.
“So that’s why Marcus left?” Given that Phoebe would never eat a proper human meal again as a vampire, this seemed like an overreaction.
“No. Marcus left because Phoebe called him to say one last good-bye.” Ysabeau shook her head. “They are both so impulsive.”
“They’re modern, that’s all,” I said.
It wasn’t surprising that Phoebe and Marcus had grown impatient with the Byzantine labyrinth of vampire rituals and dos and don’ts. First, Baldwin, the head of the de Clermont clan, had been asked to formally approve Marcus and Phoebe’s engagement and her wish to become a vampire. This was considered an essential step, given Marcus’s colorful past and Matthew’s scandalous decision to mate with me—a witch. Only with Baldwin’s full backing could their marriage and mating be considered legitimate.
Then, Marcus and Phoebe chose a maker from a very short list of possible candidates. It could not be a member of the family, for Philippe de Clermont had been strongly against any hint of incest among members of his clan. Children were to be cared for as children. Mates were to be sought outside the family. But there were other considerations, as well. Phoebe’s maker needed to be an ancient vampire, one with the genetic strength to make healthy vampire children. And because the vampire chosen would be forever linked to the de Clermont family, their reputation and background had to be above reproach.
Once Phoebe and Marcus had decided upon who would transform her into a vampire, Phoebe’s maker and Baldwin made the arrangements surrounding the precise timing, and Ysabeau oversaw the practicalities of housing, finances, and employment, with help from Matthew’s daemon friend Hamish Osborne. It was a complicated business to abandon your life as a warmblooded human. Deaths and disappearances had to be arranged, as well as leaves of absence from work for personal reasons that would turn into resignations six months later.
Now that Phoebe was a vampire, Baldwin would be among her first male visitors. Because of the strong connections between physical hunger and sexual desire, Phoebe’s contact with other males would be limited. And in order to forestall any possible hasty decisions made in the first flush of vampire hormones, Marcus would not be allowed to see Phoebe again until Baldwin felt she could make a prudent decision about their future together. Traditionally, vampires waited at least ninety days—the average time required for a vampire to develop from a newly reborn infant into a fledgling capable of some degree of independence—before reuniting with prospective mates.
To everyone’s shock, Marcus had gone along with all of Ysabeau’s intricate plans. He was the family’s revolutionary. I had expected him to protest, but he did not say a word.
“Two days ago everybody was completely confident about Phoebe’s change,” I said. “Why are you so worried about her now?”
“We are not concerned for Phoebe,” Ysabeau replied, “but Marcus. He has never been good at waiting, or obeying rules set down by others. He is too quick to follow his heart. It always gets him into trouble.”
Someone flung the kitchen door open, entering the house in a smudge of blue and white. I seldom saw vampires moving at unregulated speed, and it was startling when the inchoate blur resolved into a white T-shirt, faded jeans, blue eyes, and thick head of blond hair.
“I should be with her!” Marcus shouted. “I’ve spent most of my life wanting to feel like I belonged, wanting a family of my own. Now I have one, and I turned my back on her.”
Matthew followed Marcus like a shadow chasing the sun. Alain Le Merle, Philippe’s former squire, brought up the rear.
“Traditionally, as you know—” Matthew began.
“Since when have I cared about tradition!” Marcus exclaimed. The tension in the room rose another notch. As head of his family, Matthew expected obedience and respect from his son, not an argument.
“Everything all right?” In my life as a professor, I’d learned the usefulness of rhetorical questions that gave everyone a chance to stop and reflect. My question cleared the air, if for no other reason than that it was patently obvious that everything was not all right.
“We didn’t expect to find you still awake, mon coeur,” Matthew said, coming to my side and giving me a kiss. He smelled of fresh air, pine, and hay, as if he’d been running through open fields and thick woods. “Marcus is concerned about Phoebe’s well-being, that’s all.”
“Concerned?” Marcus’s eyebrows lowered into a scowl. “I’m out of my mind with worry. I can’t see her. I can’t help her—”
“You need to trust Miriam.” Matthew’s tone was mild, but a muscle ticked in his jaw.
“I should never have agreed to all of this medieval protocol.” Marcus’s agitation rose. “Now we’re separated, and she’s got no one to rely on except for Freyja—”
“You specifically asked for Freyja to be there,” Matthew observed calmly. “You might have had anyone from the family serve as Phoebe’s supporter during the change. She was your choice.”
“God, Matthew. Do you have to be so fucking reasonable all the time?” Marcus turned his back on his father.
“It’s infuriating, isn’t it?” I said sympathetically, putting a hand at my husband’s waist to keep him near me.
“Yes, Diana, it certainly is,” Marcus replied, stalking to the refrigerator and flinging open the heavy door. “And I’ve had to put up with it for far longer than you have. Jesus, Marthe. What have you been up to all day? There’s not a drop of blood in the house.”
It was impossible to say who was the most shocked by this criticism of the revered Marthe, who took care of every family member’s needs before we were even aware of them. It was clear who was the most furious, however: Alain. Marthe was his sire.
Matthew and Alain exchanged a look. Alain inclined his head an inch in recognition that Matthew’s need to discipline his son outweighed his own right to defend his mother. Gently, Matthew disentangled my hand.
In the next moment, Matthew was across the room and had Marcus pinned to the kitchen wall. The move would have been enough to break an ordinary creature’s ribs.
“That’s enough, Marcus. I expected Phoebe’s situation to bring back memories of your own rebirth,” Matthew said, holding his son in a firm grip, “but you need to exercise some restraint. Nothing will be gained by your flying around the countryside and storming into Freyja’s house.”
Matthew captured his son’s eyes, waited, and released them only when Marcus broke their mutual gaze. Marcus slid several inches down the wall, drew a shuddering breath, and finally seemed to recognize where he was and what he’d done.
“Sorry, Diana.” Marcus looked at me briefly in apology, and then went to Marthe. “God, Marthe. I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.” Marthe cuffed him on the ear—and not gently, either. “The blood is in the pantry, where it always is. Get it yourself.”
“Try not to worry, Marcus. No one could look after Phoebe better than Freyja.” Ysabeau put a reassuring hand on her grandson’s shoulder.
“I could.” Marcus shook off his grandmother’s hand and disappeared into the pantry.
Marthe cast her eyes heavenward as if seeking deliverance from vampires in love. Ysabeau held up a warning finger, which silenced any further comment from Matthew. As the only person present who was not fully inculcated into the de Clermont pack rules, however, I ignored my mother-in-law’s command.
“Actually, Marcus, I don’t think that’s true,” I called into the next room, pouring myself some more tea.
“What?” Marcus reappeared in a flash, holding a silver julep cup that I knew held neither bourbon, sugar, water, nor mint. His expression was indignant. “Of course I’m the best person to look after her. I love her. Phoebe’s my mate. I know what she needs better than anyone.”
“Better than Phoebe?” I asked.
“Sometimes.” Marcus’s chin was now jutting at a belligerent angle.
“Bullshit.” I sounded like Sarah—blunt and impatient—and attributed it to the early hour rather than to any genetic predisposition to forthrightness among Bishop women. “You vampires are all the same—thinking you know what we poor warmbloods really want—especially the females. In fact, this is what Phoebe wanted: to be made a vampire the old-fashioned way. It’s your job to make sure her decision is honored and that the plan works.”
“Phoebe didn’t understand what she was agreeing to. Not entirely,” Marcus said, unwilling to concede the point. “She could get bloodsick. She could have trouble making her first kill. I would be able to help her, support her.”
Bloodsick? I nearly choked on my tea. What on earth was that?
“I’ve never seen anyone so well prepared to become a manjasang as Phoebe,” Ysabeau reassured Marcus.
“Not in this life, my child.” Ysabeau’s expression was pained as she remembered when life still held the promise of a happy ending.
“It’s late. We’ll talk more after sunrise. You won’t sleep, Marcus, but try to rest.” Matthew touched his son’s shoulder as he passed by.
“I might take a run instead. Try to wear myself out that way. Nobody but the farmers will be awake at this hour.” Marcus looked at the brightening light beckoning through the windows.
“You shouldn’t attract any notice,” Matthew confirmed. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No need,” Marcus replied. “I’ll get changed and head out. Maybe take the route toward Saint-Priest-sous-Aixe. There are some good climbs along the way.”
“Should we expect you for breakfast?” Matthew’s tone was a touch too casual. “The children are early risers. They’ll want a chance to order their older brother around.”
“Don’t worry, Matthew.” A ghost of a smile touched Marcus’s lips. “Your legs are longer than mine. I’m not going to run away again. I just need to clear my head.”
* * *
—
WE LEFT THE DOOR of our room ajar in case Philip or Becca woke, and got back into bed. I crawled between the sheets, grateful on this warm May morning that my husband was a vampire, and tucked myself into his coolness. I knew when Marcus set out for his run because Matthew’s shoulders settled fully into the mattress. Until then, he had been slightly braced, ready to get up and go to his son’s aid.
“Do you want to go after him?” I asked. Matthew’s legs really were longer than Marcus’s, and he was fast. There was plenty of time for him to catch up to his son.
“Alain is following along, just in case,” Matthew said.
“Ysabeau said that she was more worried about Marcus than Phoebe.” I drew back to look at Matthew’s face in the dawn light. “Why?”
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