—
IT WAS ALREADY DARK OUTSIDE when Marcus and Veronique emerged from their attic on the left bank of the Seine. Veronique’s red, curling hair tumbled freely about her shoulders, the patriotic ribbons on her white cap fluttering in the breeze. Her striped skirts were hitched up at the side, showing plain petticoats and a hint of ankle along with sturdy clogs that protected her feet from both the hard cobblestones and the deep Parisian muck. She was buttoning her blue coat under her breasts, which accentuated her curves in ways that had Marcus longing to return to the bedroom.
Veronique, however, was intent on getting to work. She owned a tavern, one that Marcus still frequented along with his friend and fellow physician Jean-Paul Marat. There, Marcus and Marat talked about politics and philosophy while Veronique served up wine, beer, and ale to the students of the nearby university. She had been doing so for centuries.
Veronique was that rarest of all creatures: a family-less vampire. Her maker had been a formidable woman named Ombeline who had struck out on her own when the family she was serving didn’t return from their crusade to the Holy Land. Ombeline made Veronique a vampire a century later during the chaos of the first plague epidemic in 1348, plucking her out of an infected hostelry near the Sacré Coeur. Paris’s vampire clans had seen the opportunity the disease presented to dramatically increase their numbers; humans desperate to survive were quick to take any hope of survival that was offered.
Ombeline had met her end in August 1572 when she was killed by a rampaging Catholic mob who mistook her for a Protestant during the melee that erupted when Paris celebrated the marriage of Princess Margaret to Henry of Navarre. Veronique was not, as a result, a great believer in religion. It was something she and Marat had in common.
Though many of the city’s vampire clans had attempted to fold Veronique into their ranks—first by persuasion, then by coercion—she had resisted all efforts at subjugation. Veronique was content with her tavern, her attic apartments high above the street, her loyal clientele, and her enjoyment of life itself, which, even after more than four centuries, still seemed precious and miraculous to her.
“Let’s stay in tonight,” Marcus said, catching her hand in his and pulling her back toward the door.
“Insatiable fledgling.” Veronique kissed him deeply. “I must make sure that all is well at work. I am not a de Clermont, and cannot stay abed all day.”
Marcus could not think of a single member of his family that did so, but had learned to steer conversation away from the sore subject of aristocratic privilege.
Sadly, it was the only topic of conversation in Paris, so it dogged them in overheard snatches all the way to the rue des Cordeliers, where the slump of Veronique’s tavern awaited them, its roofline bent with age and the windows listing this way and that. Light streamed out onto the street in sharp angles, refracted by the panes of glass as though they were involved in one of Dr. Franklin’s optical experiments. An ancient metal sign creaked on its pole overhead. The cutout shape of a beehive gave the place its name, La Ruche.
Inside, the conversation was deafening. Veronique’s arrival was greeted with cheers. These turned into catcalls when Marcus appeared behind her.
“Late to work, citizen?” her patrons teased. “Up at the crowing of the cock, Veronique?”
“What’s wrong with you, boy?” someone called out of the smoky gloom. “Why not keep her in bed, where she belongs?”
Veronique sailed through the room bestowing kisses on the cheeks of her favorites and accepting congratulations on the successful march on Versailles that she had helped to organize.
“Liberty!” a woman called from the counter where drinks were served.
“Fraternity!” the man next to her chimed in. This earned him a good-natured shove from his neighbor, which sent his coffee sloshing over the brim of the cup. Veronique served every kind of liquid refreshment a creature could desire—wine, coffee, tea, ale, chocolate, and even blood. The one thing she refused to serve was water.
Her customers began to bang their drinking vessels—dented tin and heavier pewter, fine glass and glowing copper, rough pottery and delicate porcelain—on tables, windowsills, the counter, walls, the backs of chairs, stools, and even on the skulls of nearby patrons.
Marcus grinned. He was not the only one drawn to Veronique’s fire and passion.
“Equality!” Veronique cried, holding her fist in the air.
Marcus watched the crowd swallow her up, everyone eager to hear what she had seen at the palace, and how the royal family had responded, and whether it was true that Veronique spoke to the queen.
Marcus no longer panicked when his skin prickled and his hackles rose to alert him that that there was another predator nearby. He had been a vampire for eight years and was now a fledgling, capable of feeding himself and moving like a warmblood. The sleepless hours no longer weighed on him. He spoke French like a native, could converse with his grandfather and Ysabeau in Greek, and debated philosophy with his father in Latin.
“Hello, Matthew.” Tonight, however, Marcus spoke in English, a language that he and his father shared but that was beyond the reach of the ordinary Parisians who filled La Ruche. He turned.
Matthew was sitting in a dark corner, as usual, sipping wine out of Veronique’s finest glass. His waistcoat was the color of soot and embroidered with paler gray and silver thread. The plain white shirt he wore underneath was immaculate, as were the silk hose that extended from knee to polished shoes. Marcus wondered how much the ensemble had cost, and reckoned it would be enough to feed a family of eight for a year or more in this part of town.
“You’re overdressed,” Marcus said mildly, approaching his father’s bench. “You should have donned your leather apron and brought a hammer and chisel if you wanted to blend in.”
The man next to Matthew turned, revealing a face that was strangely twisted, the angles of cheek and mouth set in a fleshy imitation of the tavern’s windows. Dark, deeply set eyes studied Marcus from under a thatch of black hair. Like Marcus, he wore no wig and his clothes were simple and made of thick, serviceable fabric.
“Jean-Paul!” Marcus was surprised to see Marat sharing a drink with his father. He wasn’t aware they knew each other.
“Marcus.” Marat moved along the bench, making room for him. “We are talking about death. Do you know Dr. Guillotin?”
The doctor inclined his head. He was dressed in somber black, though the material was expensive and the coat well cut. Guillotin’s dark eyebrows and the shadow at his jawline suggested there was dark hair under his powdered wig.
“Only by reputation.” Marcus wished he had ordered a drink first. “Dr. Franklin always spoke highly of you, sir.”
Guillotin extended his hand to Marcus. Marat eyed them both suspiciously and then buried his nose in his tin cup.
Marcus took the doctor’s hand and felt the shifting pressure in his grip that confirmed what Marat suspected: Guillotin was a Freemason, like Marcus. Like Matthew. Like Franklin. That meant that Guillotin knew about creatures, and about vampires in particular.
“Marcus often assisted Dr. Franklin in his laboratory,” Matthew said. “He is a surgeon, and interested in medical matters.”
“Like father, like son,” Guillotin said. “And you are a physician, too, Dr. Marat. How fortunate that I came upon my old friend the chevalier.”
No one came upon Matthew de Clermont by chance. Marcus wondered what constellation of influences had placed Matthew in Guillotin’s path.