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  “Jack!” Philip now tried to get Jack’s attention by blaring out his name like a klaxon.

  “I’m okay, flittermouse,” Jack said, trying to soothe Philip’s agitation by using his pet name for him. “May I be excused, Mum?”

  “Of course, Jack.” I wanted him as far away from this brewing storm as possible.

  “You need to keep him better regulated, Matthew.” Baldwin cast a critical eye over at Jack as he stood to go.

  “I will not have my grandson declawed,” Ysabeau hissed. For a moment, I thought she might strangle Baldwin—which was not a bad idea.

  “Thirsty.” Philip’s voice was high, piercing, and very, very loud. “Help!”

  “For God’s sake, can someone give him a drink!” Jack snarled. “I can’t bear to hear him beg for food.”

  Marcus was not the only one struggling with his past. Jack was, too, his memories of starvation on the streets of London returning with Philip’s cries.

  “Calm down, Jack.” Matthew had Jack by the collar in a blink.

  But Jack was not the only creature to be distressed by Philip’s call for help. A tawny animal bounded in our direction wearing the frame from the potting shed window around its throat like a necklace.

  “Oh, no.” Agatha tugged on Sarah’s sleeve. “Look.”

  Apollo felt the tension that surrounded his small charge. He shrieked before launching himself at Philip so that he could protect him from harm.

  Sarah flung a handful of seeds into the air, which rained down on the griffin, stopping him in his tracks. She then removed a long chain from around her neck. Hanging from it was a golden stone that nearly matched the color of Apollo’s fur and feathers.

  Apollo shook his head in confusion, scenting the air with caraway. Sarah slipped the chain around his neck. The stone rested on the griffin’s breast. He quieted down straightaway.

  “Amber,” Sarah explained. “It’s supposed to tame tigers. Caraway seeds keep my chickens from straying. I thought it was worth a try—and I thought Peace Water might leave spots on the table.”

  “Good thinking, Sarah.” I was impressed by her creativity.

  Baldwin, alas, was not.

  “When did my nephew acquire a griffin?” Baldwin asked Matthew.

  “Apollo came when my son uttered his first spell,” Matthew said, emphasizing his greater claim to Philip.

  “So he takes after his mother.” Baldwin sighed. “I had hoped he would be more vampire than witch, like Rebecca. We can still hope, I suppose, that time will change him.”

  Becca, who knew a good opportunity to make mischief when she saw it, took advantage of the distracted adults by reaching for Baldwin’s cup of blood.

  “No,” Baldwin said, moving it out of her reach.

  Becca pouted, her lower lip quivering. But tears would not dissuade her uncle.

  “I said no, and I meant no,” Baldwin said, shaking his finger. “And you can blame your mother if you’re still hungry.”

  Even at the best of times—which this was decidedly not—Becca was not interested in complicated assignments of responsibility and blame. As far as she was concerned, Baldwin had betrayed her trust and he deserved to be punished for it.

  Becca’s eyes narrowed.

  “Rebecca,” I warned, expecting a tantrum.

  Instead, Becca lunged, embedding her sharp teeth in Baldwin’s finger.

  The finger of her uncle. The man who was the head of her vampire clan. The creature who expected her complete obedience and respect.

  Baldwin looked down at his niece, astonished. She responded with a growl.

  “Still sorry Philip takes after his mother’s side of the family?” Sarah asked Baldwin sweetly.

  * * *

  —

  “BECCA DIDN’T MEAN to do it,” I assured Baldwin.

  “Oh, she most certainly did,” Ysabeau murmured, sounding impressed and a trifle envious.

  We had withdrawn to the parlor. The children were asleep, both of them exhausted from the day’s excitement and the copious tears that had been shed in the wake of Rebecca’s behavior. The adults were drinking whatever they required in order to stabilize their nerves, be it blood, wine, bourbon, or coffee.

  “There.” Sarah finished placing a superhero bandage over Baldwin’s already-healed wound. “I know you don’t need it, but it will help Becca connect actions with consequences when she sees it on you.”

  “This is what I feared might happen when the two of you announced your wish to strike out on your own, Matthew,” Baldwin said. “Thank God I’m the first creature Rebecca bit.”

  I looked away. And, just like that, Baldwin knew.

  “I’m not the first.” Baldwin looked at Matthew. “Did the tests I ordered show blood rage?”

  “Tests?” I stared at my husband. Surely he wouldn’t have tested the children’s blood for genetic anomalies—not without telling me.

  “I don’t take orders from anyone when it comes to my children.” Matthew’s voice was cold, his face impassive. “They’re too young to be poked and prodded and labeled.”

  “We need to know if she inherited your mother’s disease, Matthew, as you did,” Baldwin replied. “If she has, the consequences could be deadly. In the meantime, I want her kept away from Jack in case his symptoms make hers worse.”

  I glanced at Ysabeau, who looked dangerously calm, and at Jack, who looked devastated.

  “Is it my fault she’s behaving badly?” Jack asked.

  “I’m not talking to you, Jack.” Baldwin turned to me. “Need I remind you of your promise, sister?”

  “No. Brother.” I was trapped in a web of my own weaving. I had promised him that I would spellbind any member of our family whose blood rage threatened the well-being and reputation of the de Clermont clan. It had never occurred to me that I might be forced to do so to my own daughter.

  “I want both Jack and Rebecca spellbound,” Baldwin announced, “until their behavior stabilizes.”

  “She’s only a baby,” I said, numb with the implications this might have for her. “And Jack—”

  “I forbid it.” Matthew’s voice was low, but there was no mistaking the warning in it.

  “Not on my watch, Baldwin.” Marcus crossed his arms. “The Knights of Lazarus won’t allow it.”

  “Here we go again.” Baldwin jumped to his feet. “The Knights of Lazarus are nothing—nothing—without the support of the de Clermont family.”

  “Do you want to test that theory?” Marcus’s question was quietly challenging.

  Doubt flickered in Baldwin’s eyes.

  “You could, of course, say the same about the de Clermonts: They would be nothing without the brotherhood,” Marcus continued.

  “You cannot raise a vampire without discipline and structure,” Baldwin said.

  “The way we were raised won’t work for Rebecca or Philip.” Matthew, in the unlikely role of peacemaker, stood between his son and his brother. “It’s a different world now, Baldwin.”

  “Have you forgotten how modern methods of child rearing failed Marcus?” Baldwin said, striking back. “I cannot believe you would want them to suffer as Marcus did in New Orleans. When young vampires determine the course of their own lives, they leave death and chaos in their wake.”

  “I was wondering when you’d bring up New Orleans,” Marcus said.

  “Philippe would not have allowed you to compromise Rebecca’s future—nor will I,” Baldwin continued, his attention focused on Matthew.

  “You’re no Philippe, Baldwin,” Marcus said softly. “Not by a long shot.”

  Every creature in the room held their breath. Baldwin’s only reaction was to twist his lips into a smile that promised retribution. Philippe’s son had not survived the Roman army, the Crusades, two world wars, and the ups and downs on Wall Street by being h
asty when it came to revenge.

  “I’m going back to Berlin. You have two weeks to run the tests, Matthew. If you don’t, I’m going to hold Diana to her promise,” Baldwin said. “Sort your family out—or I will.”

  * * *

  —

  “WHY ON EARTH DID PHILIPPE choose him for a son?” Sarah asked when Baldwin was gone.

  “I’ve never understood the attraction,” Ysabeau admitted. Marthe gave her a sympathetic smile.

  “What will you do, Matthew?” Fernando asked quietly. Tabitha sat in his lap, purring like a motorboat while he scratched her ears.

  “I’m not sure,” Matthew said. “I wish Philippe were here. He would know how to manage Baldwin—and Rebecca.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Marcus exclaimed. “When is this family going to stop holding Philippe up as the perfect father?”

  Sarah gasped. I, too, was surprised by the outburst. It was difficult to think of Philippe as anything but a hero.

  “Marcus.” Matthew looked at his son in warning, then slid his eyes in Ysabeau’s direction. But Marcus would not be silenced.

  “If Philippe were here, he would have determined the course of Becca’s entire future by now, and to hell with what you, or Diana, or even his own granddaughter might have wanted,” Marcus said. “And he would be doing the same with Phoebe, interfering in every decision we made and managing every aspect of her life.”

  Philippe materialized in the corner, his outlines hazy. He was substantive enough, however, that I could see the proud expression on his face, and the respect with which he regarded his grandson.

  He always was unfailingly honest, Philippe said, giving Marcus an approving nod.

  “Philippe was a meddling old busybody who tried to control everything and everyone,” Marcus continued, his voice rising along with his anger. “The hidden hand. Isn’t that what Rousseau called it? Lord, Grandfather loved Emile. He would quote passages from it all day if you let him.”

  “Your grandfather was the same way when it came to Musonius Rufus’s notions of how to raise virtuous children,” Fernando said, taking a sip of his wine. “All you had to do was mention the fellow’s name, and Hugh would groan and leave the room.”

  “I thought I was trading a life of powerlessness for one of freedom when I became a vampire,” Marcus continued. “But I was wrong. I simply exchanged one patriarch for another.”

  25

  Depend

  JANUARY 1782

  “Swords at the ready!” Master Arrigo stepped away from Marcus and Fanny. “En garde!”

  Fanny flourished her rapier, cutting the air so cleanly that the blade sang. Marcus tried to imitate her but only succeeded in nearly impaling the Italian swordsman and slashing his own sleeve from elbow to wrist.

  It was an unseasonably warm January afternoon on the rue de Saint-Antoine, and Fanny had relocated Marcus’s fencing lesson from the house’s grand ballroom, with its slippery parquet floor, to the wobbly-cobbled courtyard. Madame de Genlis was seated out of harm’s way in an upholstered chair carried down from the dining room, basking in the watery winter sunshine.

  “Pret!” Master Arrigo said.

  Marcus tightened his hold on his rapier and held it at the ready.

  “No, no, no,” Master Arrigo said, stopping the proceedings with a frantic wave. “Remember, Monsieur Marcus. Do not grip the hilt like a club. You must hold it lightly but firmly—like your cock. Show it who is master, but do not squeeze the life out of it.”

  Marcus shot a horrified look at Madame de Genlis. She was nodding enthusiastically at the vivid analogy.

  “Exactement.” Madame de Genlis rose from her chair. “Shall I demonstrate, Maître?”

  “Good Lord, madame,” Marcus protested, waving his rapier in hopes of persuading her to come no closer. The tip wiggled and quivered. “Stay where you are, I beg you.”

  “Stéphanie is not troubled by your puritan morals, Marcus,” Fanny said. “Unlike you and Matthew, she has no fear of flesh.”

  Marcus took a deep breath and readied himself once again to attack his aunt with a lethal blade.

  “Pret!” Master Arrigo barked, adding, “With care, monsieur, with care.”

  Marcus tried with all his might to imagine his sword into a cock, and to handle it with just the right blend of discipline and gentleness.

  A niggle of awareness ran along his spine, distracting Marcus from his fencing lesson. Someone was watching him. His eyes swept the windows that overlooked the courtyard. A shadow moved past the glass in an upstairs room.

  “Allez!” Master Arrigo said.

  Someone twitched at the drapes. Marcus strained to see who was there. He felt a small prick on his shoulder, no more annoying than a bee’s sting. Marcus waved it away.

  “Touché, Mademoiselle Fanny!” Arrigo St. Angelo clapped his hands.

  “Zut. He barely noticed.” Fanny pulled the rapier’s point free from Marcus’s shoulder, disgusted. “What’s the point of fighting blade to blade if you don’t even wince when I pierce your flesh, Marcus? You’re taking all the joy out of combat.”

  “Let us try again,” Master Arrigo said, gathering his patience once more. “En garde!”

  But Marcus was across the courtyard and up the stairs, already in search of his quarry. When he reached the upper stories of the house, there was a faint scent of pepper and wax, but nothing else to indicate anyone had been there at all. Could he be seeing things?

  But the uncanny feeling Marcus experienced in the courtyard didn’t leave him over the next few days. It accompanied him to the opera when Marcus escorted Madame de Genlis to a performance of Colinette à la cour. He borrowed her opera glasses and peered through them at the members of the audience, all of whom were similarly more interested in the other attendees than they were in Monsieur Grétry’s latest masterpiece.

  “Of course you are being examined!” Madame de Genlis retorted when Marcus complained of feeling scrutinized during a burst of applause. “You are a de Clermont. Besides, why else does one go to the opera, except to see and be seen?”

  Marcus’s survival instinct, which had been honed to a fine edge during the years he’d lived under Obadiah’s tyrannical rule, had grown even sharper since he’d become a vampire. He would have liked to ask his grandmother about the prickling sensation that washed over him in the market when he was studying the types of waterfowl that might tempt his appetite with Charles, or outside the Hôtel-Dieu, which he didn’t dare enter again in case the scent of blood drove him insane, or in the bookstores where he read snatches from the newspapers while waiting for Fanny to make her purchases of the latest novel and imported copies of the Royal Society of London’s Transactions.

  “Perhaps music is too passionate for such a young vampire,” Madame de Genlis mused the morning after their disastrous second trip to the opera, her feet crossed on a low, padded stool and a cup of chocolate in her hand. Marcus had been so uncomfortable, and so convinced someone was spying on them, that they left after the first act.

  “Nonsense,” Fanny protested. “I was on the battlefield, ax in hand, within seven hours of my transformation. It was a baptism by blood and fire, let me tell you.”

  Marcus leaned forward in his chair, more eager to hear Fanny’s story than he was to retreat to the library and conjugate more Latin verbs, which was his assignment that day.

  Before Fanny could begin her tale, however, Ulf arrived, ashen faced and bearing a silver salver. On it was a letter. Ulf had arranged it so that its wax seal was on top—a distinctive swirl of red and black. Nestled in the pool of color was a small, worn, silver coin.

  “Merde.” Fanny took the letter.

  “It is not for you, Mademoiselle Fanny,” Ulf said in a sepulchral whisper, his long face grim. “It is for Le Bébé.”

  “Ah.” Fanny waved Ulf toward Marcus. “Put it in your
pocket.”

  “But I don’t know what it says.” Marcus studied the address on the outside. It was penned in dark, distinctive strokes. “To Monsieur Marcus L’Américain, of the Hôtel-Dieu and Monsieur Neveu’s shop, who now resides at Mademoiselle de Clermont’s house, a reader of newspapers and a student of Signore Arrigo.”

  Whoever had written the letter seemed to know a great deal about Marcus’s business, not to mention his daily routine.

  “I do.” Fanny sighed. “It says ‘attend on me at once.’”

  “It was only a matter of time, ma cherie,” Madame de Genlis said, trying to comfort her friend.

  Marcus cracked the seal and freed the coin. It dropped toward the ground. Fanny caught it in midair and deposited it on the table next to him.

  “Don’t lose this. He’ll want it back,” she warned.

  “Who will?” Marcus unfolded the paper. As Fanny had divined, the letter contained only a single line—brief, and exactly as she had predicted.

  “My father.” Fanny rose. “Come, Marcus. We are going to Auteuil. It’s time to meet your farfar.”

  * * *

  —

  FANNY AND MADAME DE GENLIS packed Marcus, protesting all the way, into a carriage. This one was equipped with better springs than the one that had brought him from Bordeaux to Paris, but the rough city streets were not conducive to a smooth ride. Then they reached the rutted dirt path that stretched out into the countryside to the west of Paris, and Marcus knew he was going to be violently ill if the bouncing and swaying didn’t stop. He’d crossed the Atlantic with nothing more than a touch of seasickness, but carriages, it seemed, utterly defeated him.

  “Please just let me walk,” Marcus begged, feeling as green as the wool hunting jacket they’d found in an upstairs cupboard, discarded by one of Fanny’s lovers after he discovered she was a vampire and fled the house in the middle of the night. The coat almost fit him, though it was too snug in the shoulders and too long in the arms, which made Marcus feel both pinched and drowning. Marcus had ruined the only coat that fit him properly at the hospital and was forced to make do with this secondhand garment.