Marcus stared at his former patient’s wife. She did not look old enough to have a husband, but then again, Lafayette hadn’t seemed mature enough to be a husband, either.
“I came to thank my husband’s savior.” Adrienne rushed at Marcus, her lips pursed to bestow kisses on him.
“Please, madame. There is no need—” Marcus’s protests were cut off by an enthusiastic embrace.
“How will I ever repay your kindness?” Adrienne wept into his coat, clinging to him for dear life. “Your skill as a physician? Your—”
“I have come to see my grandson,” the veiled woman interrupted, clearly out of patience with Adrienne’s effusiveness. She lifted the scrap of fabric, revealing her face. It was perfectly formed and exquisitely beautiful, but there was a ferocity to her features that would warn any prudent warmblood to stay away.
“Grandmother?” Marcus whispered, taking a step in her direction.
“Marcus is not yet ready—” Fanny began.
A cold glance stopped her.
“If you insist,” Fanny said smoothly, though Marcus could hear that her heart was beating more quickly than usual. “Marcus, this is Ysabeau de Clermont, Matthew’s maker—and your grandmother.”
His grandmother. Marcus’s blood beat out a staccato tattoo of pride and respect. He took one step toward her, then another.
Marcus studied his grandmother as he did, intrigued by the affinity he felt for this stranger. He was struck by the beauty of her face and features, the sharp delicacy of her bones, and the blue-tinged porcelain quality of her skin. Her eyes were the color of jade, and so penetrating that they seemed to flay Marcus to the bone. Her dress was a froth of creamy silk, but the layers of fabric wrapped and puffed around her slender frame did nothing to diminish the woman’s presence. Ysabeau de Clermont was powerful—and powerfully intelligent.
Marcus couldn’t stop himself. He bowed. His grandmother was the finest lady he had ever encountered. Adrienne cooed and clapped in approval, wiping a tear from her eye at the touching domestic scene unfolding in Fanny’s front hall.
Cold, delicate hands touched him on the shoulders, a quiet command to rise.
“Yes. You are Matthew’s son,” Ysabeau said, her eyes holding his. “I hear his bloodsong in your veins. This will fade in time, as you become your own creature. But you are still too young for such independence. It is important that vampires understand who you are until you can protect yourself.”
“Vampire?” Marcus looked to Fanny in confusion.
“We do not use that old-fashioned word ‘wearh’ anymore,” Fanny explained. “Vampire is fresh—modern.”
“It matters little what you are called,” Ysabeau said, her voice dismissive. “All that is important is who you are: Matthew’s son—and a de Clermont.”
23
Thirty
12 JUNE
“Do you have your phone?”
“Yes, Miriam.” Phoebe waited by the window, impatient for her first glimpse of their visitor.
“And some money?”
“In my pocket.” Phoebe patted the hip of her jeans, where a mixture of small bills (for taxis) and large bills (for bribes) was neatly folded.
“And no ID?” Miriam said.
The need to go out hunting without any identification, in case the unimaginable happened and someone was killed, had been drummed into Phoebe.
“Nothing.” Phoebe had even taken off the diamond key her parents had given her on her twenty-first birthday in case the stones were registered and could somehow be traced back to her. The emerald ring that Marcus had slipped on her finger when they were engaged remained where he had put it, however.
“Stop gawping at the window,” Miriam said, sounding peevish.
Phoebe tore herself away from the view of the street. She would be out there soon enough.
She was going for a walk.
In Paris.
At night.
With Jason.
He was a member of Miriam’s family—now Phoebe’s family—a male, and the son of Miriam’s former mate.
Tonight marked Phoebe’s next step in becoming an independent vampire. The significance of this rite of passage had been impressed upon her by every member of the household, including Freyja’s driver, who had taken Phoebe for a ride along the same streets she would be traveling tonight on foot. Miriam told her that if all went as planned, Phoebe might be allowed to hunt with Jason, though not to feed. She was not yet mature enough for that.
Given that incentive, Phoebe was determined to succeed. She’d pored over the arrangements, rehearsed every moment of going out into the city in the privacy of her room, and felt ready for any eventuality.
A knock sounded at the door.
Phoebe practically leaped into the air with excitement. She was about to meet a member of her new family. Fran?oise gave her a stern look when it seemed as though Phoebe herself might rush to the door and fling it open. Phoebe stilled her feet, folded her hands before her, and waited in Freyja’s salon.
This act of self-control earned her a slightly approving glance from Miriam, and a small smile from Fran?oise as she left to see to their visitor.
“Milord Jason,” Fran?oise said. A wave of unfamiliar scent washed over Phoebe: fir and the dark scent of mulberries. “Serena Miriam is in the salon.”
“Thank you, Fran?oise.” Jason’s voice was low and pleasing, accented in a way that Phoebe—traveled as she was—had not heard before.
When he entered the room, Jason pinned his hazel eyes on Miriam. He ignored Phoebe completely, walking past her without a second glance. Jason was about Marcus’s height—perhaps an inch shorter—and of a similarly compact, muscular build.
“Miriam.” Jason kissed Phoebe’s maker on both cheeks. The greeting was respectful and affectionate, but by no means warm.
“Jason.” Miriam studied her mate’s son. “You look well.”
“As do you. Motherhood suits you,” Jason replied drily.
“I’d forgotten how hard it is to raise a vampire,” Miriam said with a sigh. “Phoebe, this is Bertrand’s son Jason.”
Jason turned toward Phoebe as if noticing her presence for the first time. Phoebe stared at him with open curiosity even though she knew this was the height of rudeness. She took in his open, honest expression, the slight bump on the bridge of his nose, the streaks of gold in his brown hair.
“Forgive her. She’s still a child,” Miriam said disapprovingly.
Phoebe remembered that she was supposed to be good and bit back a defensive retort. Instead, she extended her hand. Phoebe had been imagining this moment for days. She knew it would not be possible to walk toward him—she might run him over in her excitement. Even so, could she behave like a human, and simply shake hands without crushing Jason’s fingers?
Jason stood before her, eyes slightly narrowed in appraisal. Then he whistled.
“For once in his life, Marcus didn’t exaggerate,” he said softly. “You are as beautiful as he promised.”
Phoebe smiled. Her hand was still extended. She lifted it slightly. “Pleased to meet you.”
Jason took her hand, raised it to his lips, and pressed a kiss upon her fingers.
Phoebe withdrew her hand as if she’d been slapped.
“You’re supposed to shake it, not kiss it.” Phoebe’s voice trembled with fury, though she didn’t know why the innocent gesture angered her so.
Jason stepped back, a grin on his face and both hands raised in a gesture of surrender.
Once the tension in the hall subsided, Jason spoke.
“Well, Miriam, she didn’t accept my overture, nor did she strike me, bite me, or run out the open door.” Jason nodded with approval. “You’ve done well.”
“Phoebe has done well,” Miriam said, her voice tinged with something Phoebe had not heard in it before. Pride.
“I just provided the blood,” Miriam continued. “Freyja and Fran?oise 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.”