“The doctor is trying to reform medicine.” Marat’s voice echoed strangely in his contorted nasal cavities. “He has picked the oddest place to begin. Dr. Guillotin wants to give criminals a quicker, more humane death.”
Marcus parted the tails of his coat and sat on the bench. God, he needed a drink. The pleasant hours he’d had with Veronique faded into memory as he prepared to navigate the tricky waters of this conversation.
“Perhaps, Doctor, we could get rid of death altogether. The chevalier de Clermont could make us all immortal, if he wanted.” Marat, who was a daemon and should know better than to bait Matthew, pressed the matter further. “But true equality wouldn’t suit the vampires. Who would be their serviteurs de sang?”
“Oh, I think we would always keep a few daemons around—for amusement if not nourishment,” Matthew said quietly. “Like the fools and jesters of old.”
Marat flushed. He was sensitive about both his small stature and his appearance. Marat’s fingers scratched at his neck, where a rash bloomed red and pink.
“I oppose capital punishment, as you know, Monsieur Marat,” Guillotin said. “But if we must put criminals to death, let it be quick and painless. And let it be done in a regular, reliable fashion.”
“I’m not sure God means death to be painless,” Marcus said. He searched the room for someone who might bring him a drink. Veronique caught his eye, and her mouth dropped open in astonishment at the company he was keeping.
“Improvements need to be made to these mechanical executioners,” Guillotin continued, as if Marcus had not spoken. His real audience was Matthew, who was listening attentively. “They have engines of death in England and Scotland, but the axes are crude and crush the spine and tear the head from the body.”
Marat’s fingers dug deeper into his skin, vainly searching for relief from the itching. Matthew’s nostrils flared as blood rushed to the surface, and Marcus watched as his father pushed back the appetites that plagued all vampires. The chevalier de Clermont was famously self-controlled. Marcus envied him that. Even though Marat was his friend, and a daemon, the metallic tang of his blood still made Marcus’s mouth water.
“I need to speak to you.” Matthew was suddenly next to him, his lips close to Marcus’s ear.
Reluctantly, Marcus left Marat and Guillotin. It was not the conversation that made him want to stay, but the prospect of slaking his sudden thirst. Matthew led him to the stained wooden counter, where Veronique was watering down blood with wine. She handed a tall beaker to Marcus.
“Drink,” she said, looking worried. Marcus was still too young to be fully trustworthy in a crowd of warmbloods.
Matthew waited until Marcus had swallowed down half the liquid before he spoke.
“I think you should stay away from Marat. He’s trouble,” Matthew advised.
“Then so am I, for we share the same views,” Marcus retorted, his temper flaring. “You can order me around, make me study the law, restrict my funds, and forbid me from holding a job, but you cannot choose my friends.”
“If you persist, you’ll be summoned to an audience with Philippe.” Once again, Matthew had switched to English. It was a common de Clermont practice, moving from one language to another in an attempt to speak more privately.
“Grandfather doesn’t care what I do.” Marcus took another sip. “He has bigger fish to catch than Jean-Paul or me.”
“There is no such thing as a small fish during a revolution,” Matthew replied. “Any creature who causes a ripple, no matter how seemingly insignificant, can change the course of events. You know that, Marcus.”
Maybe, but Marcus had no intention of conceding to his father’s demands. This city was his home now. Marcus felt comfortable among the working poor of Paris in a way he never did perched on a silk-covered chair in Ysabeau’s salon or attending an aristocratic ball with Fanny.
“Go back to the ?le de la Cité where you belong,” Marcus told Matthew. “I’m sure Juliette is waiting for you.”
He did not like Matthew’s companion, whose soft, generous mouth said one thing and whose hard, dangerous eyes said something else.
Matthew’s eyes narrowed. Marcus felt a sense of satisfaction that his shot had reached its target.
“I can take care of myself,” Marcus insisted, turning his attention back to his drink.
“That’s what we all thought—once,” Matthew said softly. He slid a sealed letter across the counter. Embedded in the red-and-black marbled wax was an ancient coin. “You can’t say I didn’t try. I hope you enjoyed your liberty, equality, and brotherhood, Marcus. In the de Clermont family, it never lasts for very long.”
* * *
—
MARCUS WAS IN THE BACK room of La Ruche, dabbing at his wounds, wearing torn and filthy clothing. It was a frigid day in late January, and he had spent most of it running for his life.
“Have you forgotten what this means?” Philippe tossed the worn, ancient coin in the air and caught it as it dropped.
Marcus shook his head. The coin was a summons. He knew that. Every de Clermont knew that. Answer it, or face the consequences. Before, Marcus had always obeyed his grandfather’s commands. Now he was going to find out what happened when you ignored them for months.
“We are winning, Grandfather. We’ve taken over the old convent,” Marcus replied, hoping a diversionary tactic would work.
Philippe was a battle-hardened general, however, and unlikely to be impressed by something so minor as the conquest of a moldering old religious building in a seedy part of Paris. He wrapped one hand around Marcus’s neck, while the other still held the coin.
“Where is Marat?” Philippe demanded.
“I’m surprised you don’t already know.” Even now, Marcus couldn’t resist baiting his grandfather, even though he was stronger, older, quicker, and could flatten him in a moment.
“Then he is probably in the first place they will look for him.” Philippe swore. “The attic above Monsieur Boulanger’s bakery, where you and Veronique have lodgings.”
Marcus gulped. Philippe was correct, as usual.
“I am disappointed in you, Marcus. I would have credited you with more imagination.” Philippe turned and stalked out.
“Where are you going?” Marcus asked, hurrying after him.
Philippe didn’t reply.
“I’ll get Marat out of Paris—into the countryside,” Marcus assured his grandfather, struggling to keep up while remaining within the normal parameters of human locomotion. Philippe’s legs were longer than Marcus’s, however, which made this difficult.
Philippe still paid him no notice.
The assault of sound that met them on the rue de Cordeliers hit Marcus like a blow. Even though it was winter, the streets were filled with vendors and market stalls. Gulls cried overhead before they swooped down to search for food. People called out to one another, advertising what they had for sale, the latest news and gossip, and the price of their wares.
“I swear, Philippe. On my honor,” Marcus said, hurrying along in his grandfather’s wake.
“Your honor is not worth much these days.” Philippe whirled around. “You will do as I tell you and take Monsieur Marat to London. Gallowglass will meet you at Calais. He has been waiting there since Christmas, and will be glad to be rid of France.”
“London?” Marcus stopped. “I can’t go to London. I’m an American.”
“If a vampire were to abstain from traveling to places occupied by his former enemies, there would be nowhere on earth left to go,” Philippe replied, resuming his brisk walk to Boulanger’s bakery. “Monsieur Marat is familiar with the place. So is Veronique. You may take her with you, if you like.”
“Jean-Paul will not want to go,” Marcus said. “He has work to do here.”
“Monsieur Marat has done enough, I think,” Philippe replied. “No meddling in human politics or religion. Those are the rules.”