“They’re modern, that’s all,” I said.
It wasn’t surprising that Phoebe and Marcus had grown impatient with the Byzantine labyrinth of vampire rituals and dos and don’ts. First, Baldwin, the head of the de Clermont clan, had been asked to formally approve Marcus and Phoebe’s engagement and her wish to become a vampire. This was considered an essential step, given Marcus’s colorful past and Matthew’s scandalous decision to mate with me—a witch. Only with Baldwin’s full backing could their marriage and mating be considered legitimate.
Then, Marcus and Phoebe chose a maker from a very short list of possible candidates. It could not be a member of the family, for Philippe de Clermont had been strongly against any hint of incest among members of his clan. Children were to be cared for as children. Mates were to be sought outside the family. But there were other considerations, as well. Phoebe’s maker needed to be an ancient vampire, one with the genetic strength to make healthy vampire children. And because the vampire chosen would be forever linked to the de Clermont family, their reputation and background had to be above reproach.
Once Phoebe and Marcus had decided upon who would transform her into a vampire, Phoebe’s maker and Baldwin made the arrangements surrounding the precise timing, and Ysabeau oversaw the practicalities of housing, finances, and employment, with help from Matthew’s daemon friend Hamish Osborne. It was a complicated business to abandon your life as a warmblooded human. Deaths and disappearances had to be arranged, as well as leaves of absence from work for personal reasons that would turn into resignations six months later.
Now that Phoebe was a vampire, Baldwin would be among her first male visitors. Because of the strong connections between physical hunger and sexual desire, Phoebe’s contact with other males would be limited. And in order to forestall any possible hasty decisions made in the first flush of vampire hormones, Marcus would not be allowed to see Phoebe again until Baldwin felt she could make a prudent decision about their future together. Traditionally, vampires waited at least ninety days—the average time required for a vampire to develop from a newly reborn infant into a fledgling capable of some degree of independence—before reuniting with prospective mates.
To everyone’s shock, Marcus had gone along with all of Ysabeau’s intricate plans. He was the family’s revolutionary. I had expected him to protest, but he did not say a word.
“Two days ago everybody was completely confident about Phoebe’s change,” I said. “Why are you so worried about her now?”
“We are not concerned for Phoebe,” Ysabeau replied, “but Marcus. He has never been good at waiting, or obeying rules set down by others. He is too quick to follow his heart. It always gets him into trouble.”
Someone flung the kitchen door open, entering the house in a smudge of blue and white. I seldom saw vampires moving at unregulated speed, and it was startling when the inchoate blur resolved into a white T-shirt, faded jeans, blue eyes, and thick head of blond hair.
“I should be with her!” Marcus shouted. “I’ve spent most of my life wanting to feel like I belonged, wanting a family of my own. Now I have one, and I turned my back on her.”
Matthew followed Marcus like a shadow chasing the sun. Alain Le Merle, Philippe’s former squire, brought up the rear.
“Traditionally, as you know—” Matthew began.
“Since when have I cared about tradition!” Marcus exclaimed. The tension in the room rose another notch. As head of his family, Matthew expected obedience and respect from his son, not an argument.
“Everything all right?” In my life as a professor, I’d learned the usefulness of rhetorical questions that gave everyone a chance to stop and reflect. My question cleared the air, if for no other reason than that it was patently obvious that everything was not all right.
“We didn’t expect to find you still awake, mon coeur,” Matthew said, coming to my side and giving me a kiss. He smelled of fresh air, pine, and hay, as if he’d been running through open fields and thick woods. “Marcus is concerned about Phoebe’s well-being, that’s all.”
“Concerned?” Marcus’s eyebrows lowered into a scowl. “I’m out of my mind with worry. I can’t see her. I can’t help her—”
“You need to trust Miriam.” Matthew’s tone was mild, but a muscle ticked in his jaw.
“I should never have agreed to all of this medieval protocol.” Marcus’s agitation rose. “Now we’re separated, and she’s got no one to rely on except for Freyja—”
“You specifically asked for Freyja to be there,” Matthew observed calmly. “You might have had anyone from the family serve as Phoebe’s supporter during the change. She was your choice.”
“God, Matthew. Do you have to be so fucking reasonable all the time?” Marcus turned his back on his father.
“It’s infuriating, isn’t it?” I said sympathetically, putting a hand at my husband’s waist to keep him near me.
“Yes, Diana, it certainly is,” Marcus replied, stalking to the refrigerator and flinging open the heavy door. “And I’ve had to put up with it for far longer than you have. Jesus, Marthe. What have you been up to all day? There’s not a drop of blood in the house.”
It was impossible to say who was the most shocked by this criticism of the revered Marthe, who took care of every family member’s needs before we were even aware of them. It was clear who was the most furious, however: Alain. Marthe was his sire.
Matthew and Alain exchanged a look. Alain inclined his head an inch in recognition that Matthew’s need to discipline his son outweighed his own right to defend his mother. Gently, Matthew disentangled my hand.
In the next moment, Matthew was across the room and had Marcus pinned to the kitchen wall. The move would have been enough to break an ordinary creature’s ribs.
“That’s enough, Marcus. I expected Phoebe’s situation to bring back memories of your own rebirth,” Matthew said, holding his son in a firm grip, “but you need to exercise some restraint. Nothing will be gained by your flying around the countryside and storming into Freyja’s house.”
Matthew captured his son’s eyes, waited, and released them only when Marcus broke their mutual gaze. Marcus slid several inches down the wall, drew a shuddering breath, and finally seemed to recognize where he was and what he’d done.
“Sorry, Diana.” Marcus looked at me briefly in apology, and then went to Marthe. “God, Marthe. I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.” Marthe cuffed him on the ear—and not gently, either. “The blood is in the pantry, where it always is. Get it yourself.”
“Try not to worry, Marcus. No one could look after Phoebe better than Freyja.” Ysabeau put a reassuring hand on her grandson’s shoulder.
“I could.” Marcus shook off his grandmother’s hand and disappeared into the pantry.
Marthe cast her eyes heavenward as if seeking deliverance from vampires in love. Ysabeau held up a warning finger, which silenced any further comment from Matthew. As the only person present who was not fully inculcated into the de Clermont pack rules, however, I ignored my mother-in-law’s command.
“Actually, Marcus, I don’t think that’s true,” I called into the next room, pouring myself some more tea.
“What?” Marcus reappeared in a flash, holding a silver julep cup that I knew held neither bourbon, sugar, water, nor mint. His expression was indignant. “Of course I’m the best person to look after her. I love her. Phoebe’s my mate. I know what she needs better than anyone.”
“Better than Phoebe?” I asked.