Time's Convert

by Deborah Harkness

  “I just provided the blood,” Miriam continued. “Freyja and Françoise have done the rest. And Phoebe herself, of course.”

  “That’s not true.” Phoebe was startled to hear herself contradicting Miriam. “Not just blood but history. Lineage. An understanding of my duty as a vampire.”

  “Very well done indeed, Miriam,” Jason said softly. “Are you sure she’s only thirty-one days old?”

  “Maybe Freyja’s modern parenting ideas aren’t as ridiculous as they seem,” Miriam mused. She shooed Phoebe and Jason in the direction of the front door. “Go. Get out of my sight. Come back in an hour. Maybe two.”

  “Thank you, Miriam,” Phoebe said, already headed out of the room.

  “And for God’s sake, stay out of trouble,” Miriam called after them.

  * * *

  —

  THE STREETS OF THE 8TH arrondissement were by no means empty at this late hour. Couples were returning from their suppers at favorite restaurants. Pairs of lovers strolled arm in arm along the wide boulevards. Through illuminated windows, Phoebe could see night owls watching television, the canned laughter and gloomy newscasters forming a strange chorus. Snatches of conversation traveled through open bedroom windows as warmbloods took advantage of the June air.

  And everywhere there was a low, constant drumming.

  Heartbeats.

  The sound was so mesmerizing that Phoebe barely registered when Jason stopped, hands tucked into his pockets. He had been speaking to her.

  “Sorry?” Phoebe said, focusing her attention back on her stepbrother.

  “Are you okay?” Jason’s eyes were more green than brown, Phoebe noticed on closer inspection. There were faint creases at the corners of his eyes, too, even though he looked no older than she did. Phoebe had seen lines like these before, on friends who sailed and spent lots of time on the water.

  “Where are you from?” Phoebe asked.

  “You shouldn’t ask,” Jason said, his feet moving forward. “Never ask a vampire their birthplace, age, or real name.”

  “But you’re not any vampire. You’re family.” Phoebe caught up with him easily.

  “So I am.” Jason laughed. “Still, you need to be careful. The last creature who asked Miriam her age is buried on the bottom of the Bosporus. Your maker’s fierce. Don’t cross her.”

  Phoebe had crossed her. In Freyja’s dining room.

  “Uh-oh. Your heart rate just spiked,” Jason observed. “What did you do?”

  “Challenged her.”

  “Did you end up wishing you’d never been born?” Jason’s expression was sympathetic.

  “Miriam hasn’t mentioned it since.” Phoebe bit her lip. “Do you think she’s forgiven me?”

  “No chance.” Jason smiled cheerfully. “Miriam has the memory of an elephant. Don’t worry. She’ll make you atone. One day.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Phoebe said.

  “Miriam will wait until your guard is down. It won’t be pleasant. But at least then it will be over.” Jason turned to face her. “If there’s one thing everybody knows about Miriam, it’s that she doesn’t hold grudges. Not like Marcus’s father.”

  “I still don’t feel I understand Matthew,” Phoebe confessed. “Ysabeau, Baldwin, Freyja—even Verin—I feel somehow connected to all of them, but not to Matthew.”

  “I doubt Matthew understands himself,” Jason said quietly.

  Phoebe was chewing on that tidbit of information when they turned off the Avenue George V and onto the banks of the Seine. The Palais Bourbon across the river was brightly illuminated, as were the bridges that spanned the river. Beyond the Pont Alexandre III, the spokes of the Roue de Paris glowed blue and white.

  Phoebe moved toward the bright colors, mesmerized.

  “Hang on, Phoebe.” Jason’s hand was on her elbow, his weight an anchor holding her back.

  Phoebe tried to shake him off, dazzled by the prospect of all that light. Jason’s hand tightened, his fingers exerting a painful pressure.

  “Too fast, Phoebe. People are watching.”

  That stopped her in her tracks. Phoebe’s breath was ragged.

  “My mother used to say that.” Phoebe’s past and present collided. “When we were out at the ballet. Or the theater. Or playing in the park. ‘People are watching.’”

  Jason said something, his voice sounding far away and muffled by the loud drumming of hearts and made inconsequential by the brilliant hues that surrounded them. He spun Phoebe around. She snarled as the lights and color fused into a dizzying whorl.

  “You’re lightstruck.” Jason’s eyes were pinwheels of green and gold. He swore.

  Phoebe’s knees crumpled and she sagged toward the pavement.

  “Too much champagne, darling?” A woman laughed. White. Middle-aged. American, based on the accent. A tourist.

  Phoebe lunged.

  The tourist’s eyes widened in sudden terror. She screamed.

  Passersby—those strolling lovers, seemingly lost in their mutual adoration—stopped and turned.

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” A National Police officer, fully kitted out in navy and white, was on patrol alone. She planted her feet wide and put her hands to the belt that held her communications device and weapons.

  But the question came too late. Phoebe was already at the tourist’s throat, her hands grabbing at her thin sweater.

  A flashlight shone directly into Phoebe’s eyes. She winced and let the struggling woman go.

  “Are you all right, madame?” the officer asked the tourist.

  “Yes. I think so,” the American said, her voice shaking.

  “This is outrageous. We were walking back to our hotel when that woman attacked us,” the tourist’s companion said. Now that the danger had passed, he was full of bluff and swagger.

  A wave of contempt flooded Phoebe. Pathetic warmbloods.

  “She’s high on something,” the woman said. “Or drunk.”

  “Probably both,” her friend said, a nasty edge to his voice.

  “You wish to file a report?” the police officer asked.

  There was a long pause while the tourists weighed their umbrage against the inconvenience of spending the rest of their night and most of tomorrow filling out paperwork and answering routine questions.

  “Or, you could leave this with me.” The officer’s voice dropped. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t trouble anyone else. Give her time to sober up.”

  The flashlight was no longer moving across Phoebe’s eyes. Instead, it was a steady beacon. Phoebe’s attention remained fixed on it, unwavering.

  “Lock her up,” the man recommended. “A night in a cell will sort her out.”

  “Leave it to me, monsieur,” the police officer replied with a chuckle. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jason said to the couple. He pressed something into the man’s hand. “For the sweater.”

  “Keep your girlfriend on a tighter leash.” The man pocketed the money. “I find it does wonders for their disposition.”

  Phoebe snarled at the insult, the light keeping her where she was. Had the flashlight not been there, Phoebe would have ripped the man’s tongue out so that he could never say something so demeaning again.

  “I’m her brother,” Jason explained. “She’s visiting. From London.”

  “Come on, Bill,” the woman said, her feet shuffling against the stones. “The police will take it from here.”

  The officer didn’t switch off her flashlight until the couple’s footsteps and conversation had faded into silence.

  “That was close,” Jason said.

  “Too close. And too soon. Thirty is too young to be out at night,” the officer said.

  “Freyja?” Phoebe blinked, bringing her eyes into better focus. There, standing in front
of her, was Freyja de Clermont in a navy all-weather jacket, her tactical trousers tucked into heavy black boots, and a cap set on her head at an angle. Her hair was scraped back into a tight ponytail.

  “I promised Marcus I would take care of you.” Freyja slid the flashlight into a loop on her belt, anchoring it near a formidable-looking gun.

  “Where did you get the costume?” Phoebe was intrigued by the possibilities for freedom and adventure this implied.

  “Oh, it’s no costume,” Freyja said. “I’ve been in uniform since they first let women serve on the National Police force as assistants in 1904.”

  “How do you explain why you never . . .” Phoebe was distracted by a passing ambulance’s blaring siren and flashing red lights.

  “I don’t explain. I’m a de Clermont. Everybody in Paris who is in a position to question me knows exactly what that means,” Freyja said.

  “But we’re supposed to be a secret. I don’t understand.” Phoebe was tired and hungry, and her eyes stung. If she weren’t a vampire, she would swear she was getting a migraine.

  “We are, Phoebe dear.” Freyja put a hand on Phoebe’s shoulder. “It just happens to be a secret that many people share. Come. Let’s get you home. You’ve had enough excitement for one night.”

  Back at Freyja’s house, Phoebe was given a pair of oversize Chanel sunglasses, a cup of warm blood, and a pair of slippers. Françoise steered her to a seat in front of the fire, unlit on this June evening.

  Miriam was reading her e-mail. She looked up from her phone when Phoebe and her entourage entered the room.

  “Well?” Miriam smiled like a cat. “How was your first taste of independence?”

  24

  The Hidden Hand

  15 JUNE

  “Remind me never to host another birthday party.” It was late afternoon and I was in the kitchen, decanting a bottle of red wine. The family was in the garden, where the tables were set and the candles were waiting to be lit, sitting in deep wooden chairs or reclining on chaise longues under bright umbrellas. Matthew’s brother-in-law, Fernando Gonçalves, had joined us. Even the head of the de Clermont family, Matthew’s brother Baldwin, was in attendance.

  Fernando was in the kitchen with me, helping Marthe to arrange trays of food. He was, as usual, barefoot. His jeans and open-necked shirt emphasized his casual approach to most things in life, one that was strikingly different from that of Baldwin, whose only concessions to a family celebration had been to take off his jacket and loosen his tie.

  “His lordship is calling for more wine.” Marcus strode into the kitchen carrying an empty carafe, his blue eyes sparking with dislike. Normally, he and Baldwin got along, but the news from Paris had soured things. Vampires might be immune to all sorts of human illnesses, but they seemed to be plagued by other conditions, including blood rage and ennui, and being lightstruck.

  “I’m working on it,” I said, wrestling with the corkscrew and the bottle.

  “Here. Let me do it.” Marcus held out his hand.

  “How is Jack?” I asked, dumping a tub of yellow cherry tomatoes on the platter of crudités. Agatha had designed it, and the thing was worthy of a wedding reception at the Ritz, adorned with curls of cabbage, kale, and mulberry leaves, which provided a colorful backdrop for trimmed carrots, bright yellow tomatoes, strips of pepper, radish rosettes, and cucumber sticks. A celery root in the middle of the tray sent up leafy stalks that resembled a tree.

  “He’s sticking close to Matthew.” With one deft twist, Marcus freed the cork from the bottle.

  “And Rebecca?” Fernando said, his sharp eyes belying his casual tone.

  “She’s on Baldwin’s lap, perfectly contented.” Marcus shook his head in amazement. “He dotes on her.”

  “And Apollo is still in the potting shed?” I wanted to break the news of Philip’s familiar to Baldwin in my own way and at a moment of my choosing.

  “So far.” Marcus decanted the wine into a pitcher. “I’d bring out some blood, Marthe. Deer or human if you have it—just in case.”

  On that cheerful note, Marcus returned to the garden. Marthe picked up the platter of vegetables and followed. I sighed.

  “Maybe Matthew is right. Maybe these family birthdays aren’t a good idea,” I said.

  “Vampires do not, as a rule, celebrate birthdays,” Fernando said.

  “Not everybody in this family is a vampire,” I retorted, unable to keep the frustration from my tone. “Sorry, Fernando. Things have been unusually—”

  “Challenging?” Fernando smiled. “When have they been anything else between de Clermonts?”

  We got through the hors d’oeuvres and chitchat with flying colors. It was when we sat down for dinner that the seams of our togetherness began to fray. What started the unraveling was Phoebe.

  “Thirty days is much too soon to be gadding about in Paris after dark,” Baldwin said disapprovingly. “Of course Phoebe got into trouble. Miriam’s laxity doesn’t surprise me, but Freyja knows better.”

  “I wouldn’t say trouble, exactly,” Ysabeau said, her tone dagger-pointed.

  “Miriam’s children have endured some terrible situations in the past. Do you remember Layla’s mating, Ysabeau? What a poor choice,” Baldwin said. “And Miriam let her make it.”

  “Layla ignored her mother’s warnings,” Fernando said. “Not all children are as cowed by their makers as you were, Baldwin.”

  “And just because you’re older than dirt doesn’t mean you know everything.” Jack was toying with the stem of his wineglass, which still contained the last of a strong mixture of blood and red wine.

  “What was that, pup?” Baldwin’s eyes narrowed.

  “You heard me,” Jack muttered. “Uncle.” His final word came a bit late to qualify as a title of respect.

  “I’m sure Miriam considered Phoebe’s night out carefully and thought it was for the best,” I said, hoping to pour oil on the water before we were engulfed in waves.

  Sarah, who was sitting next to Jack, took his hand. The gesture was not lost on Baldwin. My brother-in-law had reservations about letting Matthew establish his own recognized branch of the family—a branch that had not only witches in it, but blood-rage vampires, too. He had made me promise that I would do anything in my power to keep other creatures from realizing that the de Clermonts were harboring family members with the illness. I had even promised to spellbind Jack, if need be.

  Jack poured himself another hefty measure of blood from the pitcher in front of him. Like Matthew, Jack found that ingesting blood helped to stabilize his mood when he was struggling with the disease’s symptoms.

  “You’re hitting the blood rather hard tonight, Jack.” Baldwin’s remark got a strong reaction from the younger members of the family.

  Marcus sat back in his chair, eyes rolling heavenward. Jack went on to pour so much blood into his glass that the contents reached the brim and sloshed over the side. Philip scented the rich blood and reached both hands toward Jack.

  “Juice,” Philip said, tiny fingers flexing. “Pleeeease.”

  “Here. Have some of this instead.” I quickly cut some nearly raw steak into small pieces and put them on the mat in front of my son, hoping to distract him.

  “Want juice.” Philip scowled and pushed the meat away.

  “Juicy juice.” Becca, who was sitting next to Baldwin, drummed her feet against her chair. As far as she knew, there were two marvelous elixirs in the world: juice (milk mixed with blood), and juicy juice (blood mixed with water). Becca preferred the latter.

  “Aren’t they feeding you enough, cara?” Baldwin asked Becca.

  Becca scowled at him, as if the idea that there was enough food in the world to satisfy her appetite was completely preposterous.

  Baldwin laughed. It was a rich, warm—and entirely unfamiliar—sound. In nearly three years of knowing him, I had
never heard him so much as chuckle, never mind laugh out loud.

  “I’ll trap a pigeon for you tomorrow,” Baldwin promised his niece. “We’ll share it. I’ll even let you play with it first. Would you like that?”

  Matthew looked a bit faint at the prospect of Baldwin and Becca going hunting together.

  “Here, cara. Drink this,” Baldwin said, holding his blood and wine to her lips.

  “There’s too much wine in it,” I protested. “It’s not good—”

  “Nonsense,” Baldwin said with a snort. “I grew up drinking wine at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And that was before Philippe sired me. It won’t harm her.”

  “Baldwin.” Matthew’s voice sliced through the rising tension in the air. “Diana doesn’t want Rebecca to drink it.”

  Baldwin shrugged and put his cup down.

  “I’ll mix her some blood and milk. She can have it before she goes to bed,” I said.

  “That sounds revolting.” Baldwin shuddered.

  “For God’s sake, leave it alone.” Marcus threw his hands in the air. “You’re always meddling. Just like Philippe.”

  “Enough, both of you.” Ysabeau was in the unenviable position of sitting between the two feuding vampires. I had warned her in advance that she had drawn the short straw and would be placed between Marcus and Baldwin, but neither protocol nor prudence would permit any other arrangement.

  “Nunkle!” Philip cried out at the top of his lungs, feeling left out.

  “You don’t have to shout to get my attention, Philip,” Baldwin said with a frown. He clearly held his nephew to a different standard than his niece, who had spent most of the afternoon making noise. “You shall have pigeon tomorrow, too. Or is hunting forbidden as well as wine, sister?”

  The room held their breath at Baldwin’s challenge to me. Jack shifted in his chair, unable to bear the weight of the tension in the room. His eyes were inky and huge.

  “Agatha. Tell them about your plans in Provence,” Sarah suggested, still holding Jack’s hand. She shot me a look across the table as if to say, I’m doing my best to save this party, but no guarantees.