Time's Convert

by Deborah Harkness

  “Liberté! Égalité! Fraternité!”

  The chant of the Cordeliers Club echoed through the room. It had started in the back corner, where Marcus had agreed to meet Marat.

  The crowds parted and Jean-Paul emerged from them, the soft tip of his red cap falling over one eye, holding a fist of paper in his hand. Georges Danton was behind him, ready to escort the daemon to whatever underground lair he would occupy tonight. With them was Veronique.

  “Marcus!” Veronique’s cheeks were flushed. She was wearing the authentic revolutionary dress on which Fanny’s fashionable version was modeled. “We expected you hours ago.”

  “I was delayed,” Marcus apologized. He moved to kiss her.

  Veronique sniffed his coat.

  “You’ve been with Ysabeau,” she said. “You promised—”

  “Ysabeau was visiting Lafayette,” Marcus said, interrupting Veronique in his haste to reassure her that he had not broken his word. “I had no idea that she would be there.”

  “Lafayette! You see, I told you he cannot be trusted,” Marat muttered to Danton. “He is a de Clermont, and like all aristocrats, he would rather slit the belly of your wife and rip out the heart of your infant son than give up one of his privileges.”

  “You know that isn’t true, Jean-Paul.” Marcus couldn’t believe what his friend was saying.

  “Come away,” Fanny murmured, tugging on his sleeve. “There’s no point in arguing with him.”

  A knot of spectators was gathering around them, roughly dressed and well into their third or fourth drinks. Most of them were filthy, rags tied around their necks to absorb the sweat and grime as though they had come straight from doing menial labor at the Champs de Mars.

  “Wake up, Marcus,” Marat said, his tone vicious. “Those people are not your true family. Lafayette is not your friend. They want only to use you for their own purposes, to further their own designs. You are a de Clermont puppet, jerking every time one of them pulls your strings.”

  Marcus looked mutely at Veronique, waiting for her to defend him. But Veronique did not jump to his rescue, and Fanny did.

  “You’re very brave, Marat, so long as you’re hiding in the sewers, or behind your newspaper, or surrounded by your friends,” Fanny said calmly, linking her arm through Marcus’s elbow. “When you’re on your own, though, I bet you piss yourself when a bug farts.”

  There were laughs from some of their audience. Not from Marat, though. Nor Veronique.

  “You’re all traitors,” Marat hissed, his eyes wild. He was every inch a daemon now, and the human patrons began to draw away from him as if they could sense his strangeness. “Soon you’ll all be forced to flee, like rats.”

  “Maybe, Jean-Paul.” Fanny shrugged. “But like the rats, Marcus and I will survive long after you are nothing but bones and dust. Remember that, before you insult my family again.”

  * * *

  —

  WEEKS AFTER THE ARGUMENT at Café Procope, Marcus trudged home from the Marquis de Lafayette’s grand anniversary ceremony covered in mud, his clothes soaked through to the skin. A positively biblical deluge had rained on the parades, the military exercises, the royal family, and the Parisians who flocked to the Champs de Mars.

  In spite of the weather, it had been a triumph. No one had been accidentally shot. The king had behaved. More importantly, the outspoken queen Marie Antoinette had played her role to perfection, holding the dauphin and promising to honor the ideals of the Revolution. Lafayette had sworn an oath to defend the constitution. All of Paris cheered, even though the only creatures in attendance who could hear everything that was said were vampires like Marcus.

  Most in Paris would have agreed that Lafayette’s celebration convinced the nation that the worst was behind them and that progress had been made. Unfortunately for Marcus, Veronique and Marat were not among them. They had refused to attend the events.

  “I am on strike,” Veronique pronounced. These were words that struck terror in a Parisian heart, for they suggested a disruption of normal routines that would go on for some time.

  “Go away! I have a newspaper to print,” Marat shouted when Marcus came to urge him to go and celebrate a revolution that he had helped to create. “You are an overgrown child, Marcus, playing with toys instead of occupying your time with serious work. It will be all over for us, if we let creatures like you take charge. Now leave me be.”

  Marcus had decided not to press matters with Jean-Paul. It never worked—not when he was in this kind of mood. So he went alone to the celebrations, and enjoyed eavesdropping on conversations between Paine and the king about what constituted freedom and what was instead a sign of anarchy.

  When Marcus pushed open their apartment door—dry and cracked on one side, and swollen with moisture from a dripping balcony on the other so that it was difficult to budge—he discovered that Veronique was waiting for him.

  So was his grandfather.

  “Philippe.” Marcus stood, frozen, in the entry.

  The presence of the de Clermont patriarch in their small flat only served to emphasize its shabbiness and discomfort. Philippe dwarfed most people, and his size made it seem as though he occupied more space in the room than one person should. At the moment, he was perched on the edge of a low stool, his legs stretched out and his ankles crossed. Instead of his usual fine clothes, Philippe was wearing brown linen, and if not for his size he might have been mistaken for a sans-culotte. His hands were clasped behind his head, and he was staring into the flames that were burning in the fireplace as though he was waiting for an oracle.

  Veronique moved to the window, and stood biting at her nails and fuming.

  She whirled around to face him. “Where have you been?”

  “The Champs de Mars,” Marcus said, stating the obvious. “Is something wrong with Ysabeau?” He could think of nothing else that might make Philippe show up here, unannounced, alone.

  “You must choose, Marcus.” Veronique put her hands on her hips and adopted a challenging posture. “Them, or me.”

  “Can we have that argument later?” Marcus was tired, and sodden, and he wanted something to eat. “Tell me what you want, Philippe, then go. You’re upsetting Veronique.”

  “Madame Veronique summed it up quite nicely, I think.” Philippe’s hands dropped to his lap. He pulled a clutch of paper from his pocket. “Your friend Marat is violating the covenant by fomenting rebellion among the people of Paris. This would be reason enough for concern. Now, however, he plans to print this call to murder hundreds of aristocrats in order to purge the nation of potential traitors. Marat will place this call to arms on every wall and door in Paris.”

  Marcus snatched the papers from his grandfather. His eyes raced over the lines, which were in Marat’s unmistakable, spidery script, complete with thickly ruled-out corrections and changes made between the lines and in the margins.

  “How did you get this?” he asked Philippe, dazed.

  “And you call yourself a defender of liberty and freedom,” Philippe said softly. “You just read Marat’s demand that we decapitate five or six hundred aristocrats in the name of peace and happiness, and your only reaction is to ask me where I got it. At least you did not insult me by pretending it was a forgery.”

  Marcus, like Philippe and Veronique, knew it was genuine.

  “Marat would have your friend Lafayette—a man of honor, who fought and shed blood for the freedom of your native land—executed. He would execute the king, and the dauphin, though he is only a child. He would kill me, and your grandmother, and Fanny.” Philippe let his words sink in before continuing. “Have you no loyalty, no pride? How can you defend such a person? Either of you?”

  “You are not my father, and I owe you no allegiance, sieur.” Veronique used the ancient term for the head of a vampire family. It was a sign of the seriousness of the situation—and its potential
deadliness—that she would rely on such a courtesy now. “You have no right to come into my home and question me.”

  “Ah, but I do, madame.” Philippe smiled at her amiably. “You forget, I am the Congregation. I have every right to question you, if I feel that you pose a danger to our people.”

  “You mean you are one of the representatives on the Congregation,” Veronique said, though she sounded unsure.

  “Of course.” Philippe grinned, his teeth showing white in the dimming light. “My mistake.”

  But Philippe de Clermont did not make mistakes. It was one of the insights into his grandfather that Fanny had been at pains to share with Marcus, back when he was younger and still getting to know the family and how it operated.

  “I think you are ready to attend the university in Edinburgh, Marcus. The anatomy lectures there cannot possibly be more bloodthirsty than the company you are keeping in Paris.” Philippe handed Marcus a key. “Matthew is in London, and will be expecting you.”

  Marcus stared suspiciously at the ornate metal object.

  “The key to your house. It is near St. James’s Palace. Outside the city walls, where the air is less polluted and where you can have more privacy than you do here. There is a park nearby for hunting,” Philippe continued, still holding out the key. “Mrs. Graham and her husband have a house nearby. She is not well, and you will be a comfort to William when she dies. When classes resume, you will travel north to Scotland. You will be useful to me there.”

  Marcus still didn’t take the key. There were, he felt sure, more strings attached to it than assisting William in the hour of Catharine’s death.

  Philippe tossed the key in the air, caught it, and placed it on the corner of a nearby crate that was serving as a chair or a table, as the occasion warranted.

  “I trust you are old enough to find your own way to London. Take Fanny with you, and make sure that she stays away. Paris is no longer safe.” Philippe stood. His hair brushed the low ceiling. “Don’t neglect to write to your grandmother. She will worry if she doesn’t hear of you. Thank you for your hospitality, Madame Veronique.”

  Having laid out the terms of Marcus’s surrender, Philippe vanished in a flash of brown and gold.

  “Did you know about this, Veronique?” Marcus held up the papers.

  His lover’s silence said more than words could.

  “Jean-Paul is calling for a massacre!” Marcus cried. This was not his idea of liberty.

  “They are enemies of the Revolution.” There was something fanatical in Veronique’s flat tone and fevered eyes.

  “How can you say that? You don’t even know whom he plans to kill,” Marcus retorted.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Veronique shot back. “They are aristocrats. One is much like another.”

  “Lafayette was right,” Marcus said. “Marat only wants to stir up trouble. There will never be enough equality to satisfy him. His revolution cannot be won.”

  “Marat was right,” Veronique said angrily. “You’re a traitor, just like the rest. I can’t believe I let you inside me—that I trusted you.”

  Something dark and terrible had been unleashed in Veronique with all this talk of death and revolution. Marcus had to get her out of Paris, too.

  “Gather your things,” Marcus said, thrusting Marat’s manuscript into the fire. “You’re coming to London with me and Fanny.”

  “No!” Veronique dug into the flames with her bare hands to retrieve the pages. They were curling and blackened, but not yet totally destroyed.

  Her hands, however—her beautiful, slender, agile fingers and soft palms—were a blistered, charred mess. Horrified, Marcus went to her.

  “Let me see,” he said, reaching for them.

  “No.” Veronique snatched them away. “No matter where I say it—in my bed, or in my tavern, or in my house, or in my city—you respect it as my final word, Marcus.”

  “Veronique. Please.” Marcus held out his hand.

  “I will not be told what to do by you, or your grandfather, or any man.” Veronique was shaking, her body consumed with shock and anger. Marcus could see her hands beginning to heal as her powerful blood repaired the damage the fire had wrought. “Go, Marcus. Just go.”

  “Not without you,” Marcus said. He couldn’t leave her here, where she might fall further under Marat’s spell. “We belong together, Veronique.”

  “You chose the de Clermonts,” Veronique said bitterly. “You belong to Philippe now.”

  28

  Forty-Five

  26 JUNE

  A plump woman in her midfifties walked along the path by the Seine. She wore stout walking shoes, a flowing cardigan, and a brightly colored scarf knotted around her neck. A heavy bag was slung over one shoulder. Every few steps, she took out a sheet of paper and held it at arm’s length to make out the words on it, then looked at the nearby landmarks and took a few more steps.

  “She needs glasses,” Phoebe observed.

  “It’s not important that she spots you,” Jason replied. “You’re here to spot her.”

  “How could I miss her, with that scarf?” The lengthy June twilight provided sufficient illumination for Phoebe’s vampire senses to take in every detail of the woman’s appearance—the long silver earrings with turquoise stones, the oversize watch, the black leggings and crisp white shirt.

  “The scarf was part of the agreement, remember,” Jason said, trying to be patient.

  Phoebe bit her lip. The agreement had been more than a week in the making. Freyja had conducted interviews in the salon, and half a dozen middle-aged white women trooped through the house, cooing over the decor and asking questions about the gardens.

  In the end, Freyja had selected the woman who asked the fewest questions and seemed least interested in the house. Curiosity, Freyja noted, was not an important quality in one’s food.

  “Take note of her habits,” Jason said. “How fast does the woman walk? Is she on the phone? Is she distracted with a map, or a shopping list? Is she carrying bags, and therefore an easy target? Is she smoking?”

  “Do smokers taste bad?” Phoebe asked him.

  “Not necessarily. It depends on your palate. But smokers are often looking for a light—or are willing to share one with you. Always carry cigarettes,” Jason advised. “It makes approaching complete strangers perfectly acceptable.”

  Phoebe added that to her mental list of all the things she should carry—moist towelettes, bribe money, a list of nearby hospitals—and all those things she shouldn’t—credit cards, a cell phone, and any type of identification.

  For a few minutes, Phoebe and Jason watched the woman in silence. Every time the woman looked at her notes and then squinted up to orient herself, she either bumped into someone or tripped on an uneven stone. Once, she did both and narrowly avoided a dunking.

  “She’s terribly clumsy,” Phoebe said.

  “I know. Freyja really knows how to pick them,” Jason said, sounding pleased. “But remember, she may know you will be hunting her, but she still doesn’t know where, how, or when you will strike. Margot will be surprised and afraid—you’ll hear it in her heartbeat, and smell it in her blood. Fight or flight kicks in no matter what. It’s instinctive.”

  The woman stopped again, seemingly to study the fading light on the water and stones.

  “Okay, this is the moment,” Jason said, nudging Phoebe with his elbow. “She’ll be right in front of us in another sixty seconds. Hop down and get to it.”

  Phoebe remained glued to the stone wall that was providing an impromptu seat.

  Jason sighed. “Phoebe. It’s time you started feeding yourself. You’re ready, I promise. And this woman knows exactly what she’s doing. Freyja already fed from her, and her résumé is really quite impressive.”

  The woman—her name was Margot and she was an Aries, Phoebe recalled—had
fed half the vampires in Paris, according to the references she’d provided during her interview. Margot’s unassuming appearance masked the fact that she lived in a lavish apartment in the 5th and had extensive real estate investments throughout the city.

  “Can you do it?” Phoebe asked. “I’d like to watch, and make sure I have all the moves worked out in my head.”

  The only way to approach feeding from a human, Phoebe discovered, was to treat it as though it were a ballet. There were specific steps, foot positions, facial expressions, and even costuming considerations.

  “No. You’ve watched me hunt three humans already,” Jason replied.

  She and Jason had ventured forth several times since the disastrous night she attacked a tourist. Miriam went with them the first time, keeping watch over Phoebe while Jason took down a fit, attractive jogger in the Jardin du Luxembourg. It had piqued her appetite, not to mention her startling desire to run and chase things down. At that early hour of the morning, the only creatures available save joggers were squirrels and pigeons, but Miriam let Phoebe entertain herself with them until the sun rose. Jason dared her to snack on a squirrel, which was just as revolting as she had imagined it would be.

  Since Phoebe comported herself without embarrassing her maker on that occasion, she and Jason were allowed to go out on their own. Dawns and twilights were designated as safe times for hunting, as the shadows were lengthening but the bright lights of the Parisian night were not yet likely to dazzle Phoebe’s lightstruck eyes.

  “Phoebe.” Jason gave her a shove this time.

  Had Phoebe still been a warmblood, she would have tumbled fifteen feet onto the path below. Because she was a vampire, she was merely irritated and gave him a shove back.

  “Margot is walking past,” Jason said, urgent.

  “Maybe I’ll wait and then bite her from behind,” Phoebe prevaricated.

  “No. That’s not safe. Not when you’re this young. Were she to run, and you gave chase—which you wouldn’t be able to resist doing—humans would notice.” Jason watched Margot disappear around the bend in the river. “Damn.”