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  “I’ve never set a broken leg.” Marcus felt that honesty was the best policy with Mistress Bishop.

  “You’ve never killed a man, either. There is a first time for everything,” Mistress Bishop said tartly. “Besides, I’m not asking you to set it. You’re going to hold him down while I do it.”

  Marcus stood at the man’s head.

  “No, not there.” Bishop’s patience had been spent. “Hold his hip here and his thigh there.” She placed Marcus’s hands in the proper position.

  “You have anything to drink, Sarah?” the man croaked.

  Marcus thought a drink was a very good idea, based on the angle of the soldier’s ankle relative to his knee. It looked as though the tibia had snapped in two.

  She slapped her flask into Marcus’s palm. “You have a sip first, then give John a swig. You’ve gone all green again.”

  This time, Marcus accepted her offer. The liquid burned a path down his throat. He held the bottle to the soldier’s lips.

  “Thank you,” the man whispered. “You got anything else for the pain, Sarah? Anything stronger, I mean?”

  A long look passed between the soldier and the healer.

  Sarah shook her head. “Not here, John Proctor.”

  “It was worth asking.” Proctor sighed and laid back. “The rum will have to do.”

  “You ready, MacNeil?” Sarah clamped her pipe between her teeth.

  Before Marcus could respond, or indeed even fully understand the question, Sarah Bishop had pulled the bones back into place, the muscles in her arms rigid with effort.

  Proctor howled in agony, then passed out from the shock.

  “There, there. All done.” Sarah patted Proctor’s leg. “Not shy with their feelings, the Proctors.”

  Marcus thought the patient had been remarkably composed considering the seriousness of the injury, but he held his tongue.

  Sarah pointed to the rum. “Have some more of that. And the next time you set a bone, remember to do it just like I did: immobilize the limb, then put your back into one good tug. You’ll do less harm that way. There’s no point in being so timid with the bones that you shred the muscles to pieces.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” It had been difficult for Marcus to obey Woodbridge’s orders, but Sarah Bishop was another matter.

  “I’ve got more men to treat.” Sarah’s pipe had gone out, but she kept chewing on it anyway, as though it gave her comfort.

  “Should I stay and help?” Marcus wondered whether healing some other mother’s son would help him feel more at peace with the fact that he had taken a life.

  “No. Go back to Hadley,” Sarah replied.

  “But the fighting isn’t over.” Marcus looked around at the casualties. Men had been killed, maimed, fatally wounded. “They need every gun they can get. Freedom—”

  “There are ways to serve the cause of liberty that don’t involve bloodshed. The army is going to require surgeons far more than soldiers.” Mistress Bishop pointed the end of her pipe at him. Her eyes were dark, the pupils huge. Marcus shivered at the sight. It must have been the drink and the smoke that made her look so strange.

  “Your time has not yet come,” she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Until it does, go home where you belong, Marcus MacNeil. Be ready. When the future beckons, you’ll know it.”

  10

  Three

  15 MAY

  Miriam dropped off the cat early in the morning on Phoebe’s third day of being a vampire. It was black and substantial of build, with a white nose, four white feet, and a white-tipped tail.

  “It’s time you fed yourself,” Miriam said, putting the carrier next to the bed. Inside, the cat made plaintive mewling noises. “I need a break from this relentless motherhood. Freyja, Charles, and Françoise are here, but they won’t answer calls for food or drink.”

  Phoebe’s stomach growled at Miriam’s words, but it was more out of sympathetic habit than hunger. Where Phoebe now felt the gnawing sensation of want was in her veins and in her heart. Like her center of gravity, her appetite had moved up from her belly in a way that seemed impossible based on her study of biology.

  “Remember, Phoebe. It’s best not to talk to your food. Don’t dote on it. Leave it in the cage until you’re ready to feed,” Miriam instructed in the schoolmarm tone that sent Marcus and Matthew scurrying for their test tubes and computers when she was managing their Oxford biochemistry lab.

  Phoebe nodded.

  “And for God’s sake,” Miriam added as she went out the door, “don’t name it.”

  Phoebe released the door to the cage immediately after she heard the front door snick closed. The terrible twos were lingering, and her rebellious streak showed no signs of disappearing.

  “Come here, kitty,” Phoebe crooned. “I don’t want to harm you.”

  The cat, which knew better, plastered itself against the rear of the carrier and hissed, its back arched and its teeth—sharp, white, pointed—exposed.

  Impressed by the cat’s display of ferocity, Phoebe drew back to study her first proper meal. The cat, sensing an opportunity for escape, ran out from the carrier and wedged itself behind the wardrobe.

  Intrigued, Phoebe settled down on the floor and waited.

  * * *

  —

  TWO HOURS LATER, the cat decided Phoebe meant no immediate harm and ventured to the rug in front of the closed door to the hallway, as though planning to bolt at the first opportunity.

  Phoebe had grown bored waiting for the cat to make its next move and spent the intervening time examining her own teeth in the cracked windowpane. There were only a few hours when this was possible, Phoebe discovered, when the light hit the glass just right. Everything else that was shiny had been taken away last night for fear that Phoebe would become mesmerized by her own reflection and, Narcissus-like, find it impossible to break the fascination.

  Phoebe ached for a mirror again almost as much as she ached for Miriam’s blood. The window glass provided some reflection, but she wanted to study her teeth in detail. Could they really have become so sharp that they would be able to bite through fur, skin, fat, and sinew and reach the cat’s life source?

  What if my teeth aren’t up to it? Phoebe wondered.

  What if one breaks? Do vampire teeth regenerate?

  Phoebe’s active vampire mind skittered to life, hopping from question to question.

  Can vampires feed without teeth?

  Are they like infants, dependent on others for their sustenance?

  Is pulling teeth a death sentence as well as a mark of shame, like taking a thief’s hand so that he can’t steal again?

  “Stop.” Phoebe said it aloud. The cat looked up and blinked at her, unimpressed. It stretched, kneading the plush surface of the carpet before returning to a wary knot.

  “You still have claws.” Of course, Miriam had not stooped to providing her with a defenseless cat. Along with the sharp teeth that the cat had already displayed, the claws were proof that this cat needed to be taken seriously.

  “You’re a survivor. Like me.” The cat was missing the tip of one ear, no doubt lost in some alley fight. It was no great beauty, yet something in its eyes touched Phoebe’s heart—a weariness that spoke of struggle and a longing for home.

  Phoebe wondered whether, one day when Freyja and Miriam finally allowed her to have a mirror again, she would see the same look in her own eyes. Would her eyes have changed? Would they continue to do so, growing hard and haunted, looking older even though the rest of her did not?

  “Stop.” Phoebe said it loudly enough this time that the word echoed slightly in the sparsely furnished room. After two days of having people run to her aid whenever she so much as sighed in disappointment, Phoebe found the lack of response from the household both disconcerting and strangely liberating.

  Miriam a
nd Marcus had assured her, weeks ago, that her first attempt at feeding from a living creature would not be tidy. They had also warned that whatever unfortunate being Phoebe fed from the first time would not survive. There would be too much trauma—not necessarily physical, but certainly mental. The animal would struggle in her grip and probably frighten itself to death, its system flooded with so much adrenaline that the heart would explode.

  Phoebe studied the cat. Perhaps she was not as hungry as she thought.

  * * *

  —

  FOUR HOURS AFTER the cat arrived, Phoebe was able to scoop it into her lap when it was sleeping. She picked it up, all four limbs hanging as if they were boneless, and climbed onto the bed with it. Phoebe dropped into a cross-legged position and deposited the cat into the hollow between her thighs.

  Phoebe stroked the cat’s soft fur, keeping her touch featherlight. She didn’t want to break the spell and send the cat, hissing, to its former retreat behind the wardrobe. She was afraid her hunger might overwhelm her and that, in an effort to get to the beating heart of the cat, she might upend the wardrobe and crush the animal to death before she was able to drink from it.

  “How much do you weigh?” Phoebe murmured, her hand continuing to work along the cat’s spine. The cat started a low purring. “Not much, even though you’re being well fed.”

  The cat couldn’t have much blood, Phoebe realized, and her hunger was considerable—and growing. Her veins felt dry and flat, as though her body didn’t hold enough life-giving fluid to round them out to their normal circumference.

  The cat pushed slightly against Phoebe’s legs before forming itself into a slightly more relaxed loop. The cat sighed, contented and warm. These were instinctive gestures of nesting—of belonging.

  Phoebe reminded herself that the cat wouldn’t survive what she was about to do.

  And for God’s sake, don’t name it. Miriam’s warning echoed in Phoebe’s mind.

  * * *

  —

  PHOEBE HADN’T BEEN fed for twelve hours, sixteen minutes, and twenty-four seconds. She had done the math and knew that she was going to have to feed soon or risk becoming frenzied and cruel. Phoebe was determined not to be that kind of vampire; she had heard enough stories of Matthew’s early days, told with great gusto by Ysabeau, to want to avoid such unpleasant scenes.

  The cat was still sleeping in Phoebe’s lap. During the hours they’d spent together, Phoebe had learned a great deal about the animal—including her sex, which was female, her fondness for having her tail pulled slightly, and how much she disliked having her paws touched.

  The cat still didn’t trust her enough to let Phoebe stroke her belly. What predator would? When Phoebe tried, the cat scratched her in protest, but the scratches healed almost immediately, leaving no mark behind.

  Phoebe’s fingers still moved, repeatedly and rhythmically, through the cat’s fur, hoping for some further signs of yielding, of friendship. Of permission.

  But the contrapuntal sound of the cat’s heartbeat and the hollowness in Phoebe’s veins had gone from insistent, to alluring, to maddening. Together, they had become intertwined in a song of suppressed desire.

  Blood. Life.

  Blood. Life.

  The song pulsed through the cat’s body, one heartbeat at a time. Phoebe bit her lip in frustration, making it bleed for a fraction of a second before it healed. She had been gnawing at her own lips for the last hour, tasting the salt, knowing it would not satisfy her hunger but unable to stop herself.

  The cat opened her eyes slightly at the rich scent, her pink nose quivering. Once the cat determined it wasn’t fish, or a piece of meat, she fell back into slumber.

  Phoebe bit her lip again, harder and deeper this time. The taste of salt flooded her mouth, savory but empty of nutrients. It was a promise of nourishment, nothing more. Phoebe’s mouth watered at the prospect of a meal.

  Once again, the cat lifted her head, her green eyes fixed on Phoebe.

  “Want a taste?” Phoebe ran her finger over her lip, smearing it with a bead of blood. The skin knit together behind her fingertip. Already the blood on her finger had darkened to a rich violet. Moving quickly, before it dried to black, Phoebe offered it to the cat.

  Curious, the cat’s pink tongue lapped at Phoebe’s finger. Its sandy texture made Phoebe shiver with hunger and longing.

  Then something extraordinary happened.

  The cat’s eyes drifted closed, a tiny bit of pink tongue extended.

  Phoebe poked at it but the cat didn’t stir.

  She ran her fingers lightly over the cat’s belly.

  Nothing.

  “Oh, God, I’ve killed it!” Phoebe whispered.

  Phoebe poked it again, trying to rouse it, and felt a sense of panic. No one would come to save her—not for hours or days. Miriam—her maker, the woman who Phoebe had chosen to give her a new life—had made sure of that. Phoebe would pass out from hunger, the dead cat in her lap. She couldn’t feed from a dead thing. It was worse than necrophilia, an abhorrence to a vampire.

  Blood. Life. Blood. Life.

  The pulsing beat of the song continued, though its cadence was slower.

  Dimly, Phoebe recognized it.

  A heartbeat. Not hers.

  The cat wasn’t dead.

  It was asleep.

  No, Phoebe realized, the cat was drugged. She looked down at her finger, which still held traces of purple.

  Her vampire blood had put the cat into a state of suspended animation. Phoebe remembered Marcus and Miriam talking about this, and how some vampires abused the soporific effects of their blood, doing unspeakable things to warmbloods after they fed from them.

  Phoebe lifted the cat to her nose, the animal’s body feeling even more boneless and peltlike than it had before. The cat didn’t smell particularly appetizing. Its scent was musky and dry.

  Blood. Life. Blood. Life. The cat’s slow-beating heart sang into the quiet room. The sound was tempting, tormenting.

  Phoebe pressed her lips to the cat’s neck, instinctively seeking food. Surely the blood was closest to the skin’s surface there. Why else would so many human stories about vampires focus on the neck? Freyja and Miriam had gone over the circulatory system of mammals with her, but, in the hunger of the moment, Phoebe wasn’t able to recall a single relevant piece of information.

  The cat squirmed in Phoebe’s hands. Even under the influence of vampire blood, its instinct to survive hadn’t dimmed. The cat sensed a predator—one far more dangerous than she.

  Phoebe’s mouth moved across the cat’s shoulder, taking in the texture of the fur. She grasped a tiny fold of skin between her teeth and bit down a fraction of an inch—the tiniest amount possible—and waited for the blood to fill her mouth.

  Nothing.

  Don’t worry about the mess, Phoebe dear, Freyja had said last night when she checked on Phoebe, sounding almost cheerful at the prospect of a bloodbath. We will clean it up afterward.

  After you destroy this cat, Phoebe thought. After you feed. After you survive at some other creature’s expense.

  Phoebe’s civilized mind rebelled at the prospect, and her stomach followed, heaving and clenching in a futile effort to expel its contents—but it was empty.

  There had to be something to eat besides the cat, Phoebe thought. She had drained the carafe hours ago, and the two bottles of Pellegrino that Françoise had given her when Phoebe complained that the flat water tasted unpleasantly metallic. Phoebe hadn’t been able to stomach wine—not even wine from Burgundy, which had always been her favorite—so Freyja had taken it away.

  Phoebe had even downed the water in the vase on the windowsill. She eyed the flowers strewn on the carpet, wondering whether she could snack on the stems as she had once done on celery, but the thought of so much greenery made her stomach revolt.

  She g
ot to her feet, placing the cat on the bed, and searched through her purse. There had to be something in there to eat—chewing gum, a throat pastille, a piece of stale biscuit that had fallen out of the wrapper. She tipped the contents onto the bed around the slumbering cat.

  Tissues, crumpled.

  Receipts, folded in half.

  Driver’s license.

  Passport.

  Notebook for jotting down tasks.

  A single grubby Polo mint, some fluff and a curl of pencil shaving stuck to it.

  Phoebe’s hand moved like a snake and snagged the mint. She pried a one-cent euro off the back and popped the mint into her mouth. She closed her eyes in anticipation of the rush of peppermint and sugar.

  The mint in her mouth turned to paste. Phoebe spat it across the room, where it pinged as it hit the window.

  Another crack, Phoebe thought with sorrow.

  The cat stretched, sighed, and turned her belly and paws heavenward, filling the room with a musky scent. She no longer smelled dry and unappealing. Now, with Phoebe’s hunger mounting, she smelled glorious.

  Phoebe took the cat’s decision to expose her soft underbelly as the long-awaited sign of permission. Moving quickly, before she lost her nerve, Phoebe bent over the cat and bit decisively into her neck. Phoebe’s mouth filled with the coppery tang of blood. It was not as satisfying as Miriam’s, but it was fuel and would keep her from going mad.

  After three swallows the cat began to stir. Phoebe withdrew reluctantly from the animal, her fingers pressing into the spot in its neck where she had taken its blood, and waited for the cat to die.

  But the cat was a survivor. She studied Phoebe with glazed eyes. Deliberately, Phoebe brought her thumb to her teeth. She bit down. Hard.

  The cat lapped the blood with the same curiosity as before, and returned to dozing.

  Phoebe drank six more swallows of blood before the cat stirred again. The warm drink had taken the edge off her hunger, though Phoebe was far from satiated. She used a bit more of her blood to help the wound on the cat’s neck scab over so that a second set of sheets was not ruined. Phoebe could not afford to further annoy Françoise, bringer of Pellegrino and Hello! magazines.