“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. Fran?oise 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 Gon?alves, 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.