Time's Convert

by Deborah Harkness

  “Vampires are nothing but desire, you see.” Françoise returned to the tray and poured some coffee. “Can you not scratch what itches yourself? Your mate cannot always be around, after all.”

  But Phoebe wanted Marcus’s deft fingers, his soft mouth sucking at her flesh, the nip of his teeth when he wanted her attention, the way he teased her until she was insane with longing and only then gave her the heart-shattering climax she craved. And what Marcus whispered as he brought her to that precipice, over and over, until she was mad and begging—Phoebe wanted those intimate, dark, seductive words most of all.

  “No,” Phoebe said shortly. She eyed the top of the wardrobe.

  “If you call him, it will make everything worse.” Françoise sighed.

  “Call him?” Phoebe tried to look innocent.

  “Yes. With one of the telephones in the bag on top of the armoire.” Françoise’s expression held disdain, understanding, and a touch of humor. She clapped her hands briskly. “Milady Freyja is dining out tonight, so I suggest you be quick about it.”

  “I don’t think I’m in the mood.” Phoebe had no intention of whispering sweet nothings to Marcus (which always turned into very sweet somethings) on someone else’s timetable.

  “Give it a few minutes,” Françoise said as she departed. “You’ll be in the mood again in no time.”

  Françoise was right. Her footsteps had barely faded before the throbbing between Phoebe’s legs returned. Before she was consciously aware of formulating a plan, Phoebe had gone to the armoire, leaped for the phone (a surprisingly easy feat, she discovered), and dialed Marcus’s number.

  “Phoebe?”

  The effect of Marcus’s voice on Phoebe’s raw nerves was electrifying. She pressed her legs tightly together.

  “You didn’t tell me everything.” Phoebe’s voice was breathy and rough.

  “Just a minute.” There was a conversation, muffled and indistinct, and then footsteps. Then Marcus’s voice came clearly through the speaker once more. “I take it your vampire hormones have kicked in.”

  “You should have warned me,” Phoebe said, irritation mounting along with her desire.

  “I told you, quite explicitly, about the pleasures and problems associated with a vampire’s sexual awakening,” Marcus said, lowering his voice.

  Phoebe racked her brains for the details of this conversation. Dimly, she recalled a few particulars. “You told me it was dangerous—not that I was going to feel an insatiable need to . . . you know . . .”

  “Tell me.”

  “I can’t.” Pillow talk was not her department.

  “Sure you can. What is it you want, Phoebe?” Marcus was teasing—but only in part. Most of him was deadly serious.

  “I need . . . want . . . to . . .” Phoebe’s words drifted into silence, replaced by startlingly clear images of just what she would do to Marcus if he were to walk through the door. One encounter took place in the shower, where Marcus slipped inside her while the water flowed over their bodies. Another involved pinning him to the wall, dropping to her knees, and taking him in her mouth. And then there was the stunning image of Marcus taking her from behind, fully clothed, while she was splayed, facedown, across the end of his dining room table, which had been set for a romantic meal complete with flowers and a Georgian silver candlestick.

  “I want you in every way imaginable,” Phoebe whispered, her cheeks red with honesty. There was nothing tender in her first wave of vampire fantasies—just pure, raw hunger.

  “And then what?” Marcus’s voice turned to gravel.

  “Then I want to make love, slowly, for hours, in a bed with white sheets, and curtains that blow in the breeze from the open windows.” Phoebe’s imagination was now captured by an altogether different image of their coupling, one driven not so much by lust as by longing. “Then I want to swim together, and make love in the ocean. And again, in a garden, under the stars with no moon.”

  “Summer or winter?” Marcus asked.

  She was pleased by his request for further details. It showed he was paying attention.

  “Winter,” Phoebe said promptly. “The snow melting underneath us as we move.”

  “I’ve never made love in the snow,” Marcus said, thoughtful.

  “Have you made love in the ocean?” Phoebe’s erotic dreams were carried away in an undertow of jealousy.

  “Yes. It’s fun. You’ll like it,” Marcus said.

  “I hate your previous lovers—all of them. And I hate you,” Phoebe hissed.

  “No, you don’t,” Marcus said. “Not really.”

  “Tell me their names,” she demanded.

  “Why? They’re all dead,” Marcus said.

  “Not Veronique!” Phoebe retorted.

  “You already know Veronique’s name, and her phone number, and her address,” Marcus said mildly.

  “I hate that you’re more experienced than I am,” Phoebe said. “You keep talking about our equality, but in this . . .”

  “I sure as hell hope you aren’t intending to level the playing field.” Marcus’s voice held a sharp edge.

  Phoebe was slightly mollified. She was not the only one in the relationship who experienced a pang of jealousy when other lovers, real or imagined, came up in conversation.

  “I feel like a teenager,” Phoebe confessed.

  “I remember that phase well,” Marcus replied. “I was hard for a solid week in November of 1781. And I was on a ship full of men, all of whom were jerking off at night when they thought the rest of us were asleep.”

  “It sounds dreadful,” Phoebe said with mock sympathy. “But being with your aunt and Miriam is no picnic, I assure you. Tell me what it will be like when we’re together.”

  “I’ve already told you,” Marcus replied with a laugh.

  “Tell me again,” Phoebe said.

  “It will be like a very long honeymoon,” Marcus said. “Once you’re sure it’s me you want, we’ll be allowed to go off together.”

  “Where will we go?” Phoebe asked.

  “Wherever you want.” Marcus’s response was swift.

  “India. No, an island. Somewhere we won’t be disturbed,” Phoebe said. “Somewhere there are no people to bother us.”

  “We could be in downtown Beijing, surrounded by millions, and we wouldn’t care.” Marcus sounded very sure. “It’s one of the reasons Ysabeau wanted us to wait a full ninety days.”

  “Because it’s easy for newborns to get lost in their mates.” Phoebe recalled the conversation that had taken place in Ysabeau’s apartments at Sept-Tours, on stiff-backed chairs. Marcus’s grandmother had recounted horrifying tales of young lovers who had starved to death in their houses, so intent on the pleasures of the flesh that they forgot to feed. There were tales of jealous rages, too, in which one mate killed the other over a sidelong look at another creature passing by the window, or the mention of a former lover. In such fraught emotional situations between newly mated vampires, even the simple word “no” could bring about death and destruction.

  “So they tell me,” Marcus replied. It was a reminder that he might have been in love before, but that was very different from what would happen between him and Phoebe, once they were together again.

  Just like that, her mood shifted.

  “I wish it were August,” Phoebe said wistfully, her heart kicking up a notch in excitement.

  “It will go by quickly,” Marcus promised, “far more so than your first two weeks. There will be so much to do, you won’t have a chance to think about me.”

  “Do?” Phoebe frowned. “Françoise says I will have to feed from a human. She hasn’t mentioned anything else.”

  “You’re growing up as a vampire,” Marcus said. “You’ll feed from a human, go hunting, meet other members of your new family, choose your names, even spend some time outside of the nest.
”

  So much time had been spent getting Phoebe ready for the first weeks of her life as a vampire, Miriam and Freyja had never ventured much beyond that point. It was as if—

  “Did they expect me to die?” Phoebe had never seriously considered this outcome.

  “No. Not really. But vampire children can be unpredictable, and sometimes there are . . . complications.” The slight pause Marcus took before his final words spoke volumes. “Remember how sick Becca was, after she was born and she refused any food other than Diana’s blood.”

  Rebecca had been a wan, frustrated creature. While Philip had thrived on breast milk, Diana’s daughter had needed richer food.

  “Bloodsickness is rare, but it can be fatal,” Marcus continued. “Most vampires develop a broader palate after a few weeks, but not all.”

  “So that’s why they put out so many different kinds of blood.” Phoebe had thought it was just Miriam being her usual, overzealous self, but now her thoroughness took on a new, more nurturing tone.

  “We all want this to be as smooth and painless a process as it can be, Phoebe.” Marcus sounded sober. “Not all of us had that kind of upbringing. But for you, I wanted it to be different.”

  Phoebe was curious about Marcus’s life as a warmblood in the eighteenth century, and his younger years as a vampire. But she also wanted to see them from a vampire’s perspective, through Marcus’s own memories. So Phoebe kept her lips pressed together, and only when she was sure she had the resolve not to ask any questions, she spoke.

  “It’s not long now,” Phoebe said, her tone brisk.

  “No. Not long,” Marcus repeated, but he sounded frustrated. “Just long enough to feel like forever.”

  They said their good-byes. Before the call ended, Phoebe dared to ask one final question.

  “What was your mother’s name, Marcus?”

  “My mother?” Marcus sounded surprised. “Catherine.”

  “Catherine.” Phoebe liked it. It was timeless, as common today as it had been when it was bestowed on a baby daughter in the first half of the eighteenth century. She repeated it, feeling how it sat on her tongue, imagining responding to it. “Catherine.”

  “It’s a Greek name, and it means pure,” Marcus explained.

  More importantly, it meant something to Marcus. That was all that mattered to Phoebe.

  After they hung up, Phoebe took a sheet of paper from the desk drawer.

  Phoebe Alice Catherine Taylor.

  She looked at the paper critically. Her mother had chosen Phoebe when she was born. Alice was her paternal grandmother’s name. Catherine belonged to Marcus. And she wanted to retain Taylor, in honor of her father.

  Satisfied with her choices, Phoebe returned the paper to the drawer for safekeeping.

  Then she returned to bed, to daydream further about her reunion with Marcus.

  19

  Twenty-One

  2 JUNE

  For Phoebe’s twenty-first birthday as a warmblood, her parents had given her a small key-shaped pendant encrusted with tiny diamonds, and a party for a hundred friends. The key was to unlock her future, her mother explained, and Phoebe had worn it every day since. The party, which included a sit-down dinner under a marquee and dancing in the garden, was to launch her into her adult life and give her a memorable day to look back on when she was older.

  For Phoebe’s twenty-first day as a vampire, she got another key and a much more intimate dinner celebration.

  “It’s a key to your room,” Freyja said when she gave the small brass item to Phoebe.

  Like many of the gifts Phoebe had received from vampires thus far, the key was symbolic, a sign of trust rather than a way of ensuring any real privacy in a household where any door could be broken down with a single push.

  “Thank you, Freyja,” Phoebe said, pocketing the key.

  “Now, when you lock your door, we will know that you wish some time alone and we will not disturb you,” Freyja said, “not even Françoise.”

  Françoise had walked in on Phoebe while she was in the bathtub thinking of Marcus and trying to satisfy one of her more persistent itches. Françoise had put down the clean laundry and disappeared from the room without saying a word. Phoebe would prefer to avoid more moments like that one if she could.

  “Miriam is waiting for you downstairs in the kitchen,” Freyja said. “Don’t worry. Everything will be completely fine.”

  Until that moment, Phoebe had been unconcerned about whatever her maker had planned for her twenty-first, but the combination of Freyja’s words and the location of their meeting suggested this was no ordinary present.

  Her first glimpse of Miriam’s gift confirmed Phoebe’s suspicions.

  Sitting by the chopping block, a glass of champagne before her, was a middle-aged Caucasian woman. Miriam was with her.

  They were talking about E. coli.

  “Vegetables. I wouldn’t have thought they were the culprit,” the woman said, reaching for a carrot.

  “I know. The cases in Bordeaux came from contaminated sprouts,” Miriam said.

  “Exciting times for epidemiologists,” the woman replied. “Shiga toxins in an EAEC strain. Who would have imagined it?”

  “Come in, Phoebe, and meet Sonia,” Miriam said, pouring another glass of champagne and offering it to her. “She’s a colleague at the World Health Organization. Sonia is joining you for dinner.”

  “Hello, Phoebe. I’ve heard so much about you.” Sonia smiled and took a sip of her champagne.

  Phoebe looked from Sonia to Miriam and back to Sonia again. Her mouth was as dry as dust.

  “Sonia and I have known each other for more than twenty years,” Miriam said.

  “Twenty-three, to be exact,” Sonia replied. “In Geneva, remember? Daniel introduced us.”

  Sonia was old enough to be Phoebe’s mother.

  “I’d forgotten you’ve been with him so long,” Miriam said. She turned to Phoebe. “Daniel Fischer is a Swiss vampire, and a very good chemist.”

  “He put me through graduate school,” Sonia said, “in exchange for feeding him.”

  “Oh.” Phoebe didn’t know where to look. Her wine? Sonia? Miriam? The floor?

  “There’s no need to feel awkward. This is all quite normal—at least for me,” Sonia said. “Miriam tells me I’m your first.”

  Phoebe nodded, unable to speak.

  “Well, I’m ready when you are.” Sonia put her glass down and rolled up her sleeve. “The anticipation is worse than the doing of it. Or so I’m told. Once you latch on and get your first taste, it will be instinctive.”

  “I’m not hungry.” Phoebe turned to go.

  “That’s no way to treat your guest.” Miriam barred her way. She gave Phoebe a stern look.

  Phoebe turned back to Sonia. She could smell the woman’s blood pulsing warmly through her veins, but it wasn’t the least bit appealing. Still, she would try. If she couldn’t manage it, she would try another time. She waited for Miriam to leave.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Miriam said. “You will not become one of those vampires who drinks alone, bolting down your food, ashamed to be seen. That’s how problems start.”

  “You’re not going to—watch?” Phoebe was horrified.

  “Not closely. There’s nothing much to see, is there? But I am going to stay here with Sonia until you’re finished having dinner,” Miriam said. “Feeding is a normal part of vampire life. Besides, you’ve never done this before. We don’t want there to be any accidents.”

  Phoebe had managed to feed off Persephone without any mishaps, but there was no telling what might happen once she was exposed to the richer blood of a human.

  “Fine.” Phoebe just wanted to get it over with.

  As soon as she got near Sonia, however, her composure dissolved. First, the scent and sound of Sonia
’s blood was distracting. Second, Phoebe could not imagine how the act could take place, logistically. Sonia was sitting on a tall stool. Phoebe would have to stoop to take the woman’s bared elbow into her mouth. Was Sonia supposed to stand? Or was Phoebe supposed to sit? Or was some other arrangement of limbs advantageous?

  “Reclining is easiest,” Miriam said, following her unspoken train of thought, “but not always desirable, nor practical. Traditionally, the vampire knelt. It was considered a sign of respect, as well as gratitude, to the one who gave them nourishment.”

  It wouldn’t be the first time Phoebe had knelt as a vampire. Something told her it wouldn’t be her last, either. Before her knees could hit the floor, however, Miriam had kicked a low, square stool out from underneath the counter. Françoise used it to reach items on high shelves. Apparently, that was not its only use in a vampire’s kitchen.

  Once she had knelt down, Phoebe was at the ideal height to take blood from the soft skin inside Sonia’s elbow. Blue veins were close to the surface. Phoebe’s mouth watered.

  Sonia rested one hand, palm up, on her knee. She picked up her champagne with the other.

  “Did you hear the latest about Christophe?” Sonia asked Miriam.

  The adults were going to continue their conversation while she ate. Feeling like a toddler on her low stool, Phoebe waited for some gesture of permission—an acknowledgment of what she was about to do.

  It didn’t come.

  “He’s taken up with Jette—again!” Sonia took a sip of her wine. “Can you imagine?”

  “No!” Miriam sounded shocked. “But she sold his house while he was away on business. That’s not the kind of thing a vampire forgets—or forgives.”

  Phoebe could hear Sonia’s maddening pulse and smell the tang of minerals in her blood. She could wait no longer.

  “Thank you,” she whispered before closing her eyes.

  She lowered her mouth and blindly bit down. Phoebe’s sharp teeth cut into Sonia’s skin, releasing the fluid of life into her mouth.

  Phoebe moaned, the taste intensely pleasurable. This was nothing like sipping blood and wine from a glass. Feeding straight from the vein was intoxicating. She sucked as gently as she could, but the pull was insistent. Someone would surely stop her before she’d had too much.