Time's Convert

“If anybody is looking for a blond boy, they’ll look straight past you. Wait until you reach Albany before you brush it out,” Zeb said. “And nobody has seen your pockmarks. You only have a few small ones on one cheek, but even so the justices will be looking for someone smooth faced.”

Zeb had run away before, and knew a thing or two about how to hide your real identity.

“Stick to the highways for speed, then take less-traveled routes out of Albany until you reach New Jersey and Washington’s troops,” Joshua added. “That’s where the army is now. Once you’re that far south, if you haven’t read about yourself in the newspaper or been caught, I reckon you’re safe.”

“What name will you answer to?” Zeb asked.

“Name?” Marcus frowned.

“You can’t tell people you’re Marcus MacNeil,” Joshua said. “You’ll be caught for sure if you do.”

“My middle name is Galen,” Marcus said slowly. “I’ll use that. And Chauncey. Ma always said I was more Chauncey than MacNeil.”

Joshua placed his own hat on Marcus’s powdered head. “Keep your head down and your wits about you, Galen Chauncey. And don’t look back.”

13

Nine

21 MAY

Dozens of drinking vessels covered Freyja’s expansive mahogany dining room table: shot glasses inscribed with the names of bars around the world; heavy crystal wineglasses favored at the end of the nineteenth century with faceted stems that cast rainbows on the walls; a tiny jam jar from Christine Ferber; a silver julep cup; a Renaissance covered cup more than a foot tall with a horn bowl and gilt stem.

Each was filled with a mouthful of dark red liquid.

Françoise pulled aside the pale blue draperies to let in more light, revealing fine scrims of silk that filtered the sunshine. Even with that veil of protection, Phoebe blinked. The brightness was as mesmerizing as Freyja and Miriam had warned her it would be, and she was momentarily lost among the dancing dust motes.

“Here. Try this one.” Freyja, who was serving as vampire mixologist, gave a chased Tiffany cocktail shaker a final jiggle and poured the contents into a waiting silver beaker. A bottle of red wine stood nearby, the cork pulled, along with a ewer of water to dilute the blood if required. Long-handled spoons of silver, horn, and even gold littered the area by her elbow. Françoise scooped these up, deposited fresh ones, and disappeared into the nether reaches of the house.

Miriam had a clipboard and was, as usual, collating information. For Phoebe’s maker, life was a collection of data points waiting to be gathered, organized, assessed, analyzed, and regularly augmented with still more data. The development of Phoebe’s vampire taste was Miriam’s latest project.

Phoebe couldn’t help wondering whether this was how Miriam had stayed sane through the centuries without Ori. She had seen in Miriam’s blood that her maker had been prioress in Jerusalem. The priory had an extensive ossuary, and Miriam had spent much of her time there counting and recounting bones, arranging and rearranging them in new groups according to type. One year Miriam sorted them by date of burial. The next, she arranged them by size. After that, Miriam assembled whole skeletons out of the constituent parts, only to take them to pieces again and start over with another sorting scheme.

“Number thirty-two. What’s in it?” Miriam asked, scribbling a fresh entry into her notes.

“Let’s wait until Phoebe decides if she likes it or not,” Freyja said, handing Phoebe the small cup. “We don’t want her natural taste to be altered by preconceived notions of right and wrong. Phoebe must feel free to experiment and try new things.”

Phoebe had vomited up the dog’s blood after she’d been told what it was, and even though Freyja had tried to sneak some more past her, much adulterated with Châteauneuf-du-Pape and cold water, the mere thought of consuming it had nauseated her.

“I’m not hungry.” Phoebe just wanted to close her eyes and sleep. She didn’t want new foods. She was happy with Persephone’s blood.

“You have to eat.” Miriam’s tone brooked no refusal.

“I did.” Phoebe had sipped from the cat that morning.

Persephone was curled up in her basket at Phoebe’s feet, lost in slumber, the faint paddling of her paws suggesting that she was happily dreaming of chasing mice. Phoebe, on the other hand, was so mentally exhausted that she could hardly string a sentence together. A sharp pang of jealous rage that the cat could be sleeping so peacefully, when she could not, rose in her gorge with startling swiftness. She lunged.

Freyja had the cat by the scruff of the neck in a flash, while Miriam had hold of Phoebe.

“Let me go.” Phoebe’s words came out in a snarl, the reverberations in the depths of her throat nearly choking her.

“You do not shed blood in someone else’s house,” Miriam said, her grip tightening.

“I’ve already shed blood here,” Phoebe said, her gaze locking with Miriam’s. “Persephone—”

“The cat,” Miriam interrupted, still refusing to call it by name, “entered this house for your use and with Freyja’s permission—for consumption in your own room, not anywhere you felt like eating. It was certainly not provided for you to kill out of envy or for sport.”

For a moment, Miriam and Phoebe faced off. Then, Phoebe looked away. It was a sign of submission. This much she had learned in her four days as a vampire: Don’t challenge your elders—and certainly not your maker—with a direct stare.

“Apologize to Freyja.” Miriam dropped Phoebe and returned to her clipboard. “She’s gone to a great deal of trouble on your behalf. Most infants aren’t given this kind of consideration. They feed off what they’re given, without complaint.”

“Sorry.” Phoebe plopped back into her chair with ill grace and such force that the legs cracked ominously.

“It’s f—” Freyja began.

“It certainly is not.” Miriam’s glacial gaze returned to Phoebe. “Stand up, Phoebe. Do so without breaking anything. Once you have, go to Freyja and kneel. Then you will apologize. Properly.”

It was hard to know who was more shocked by this set of instructions—Phoebe or Freyja.

“I will not!” The whole idea of making obeisance to Freyja was appalling, even if she was Marcus’s aunt.

“It’s not necessary, Miriam,” Freyja protested, her expression alarmed. She deposited Persephone in her basket.

“I disagree,” Miriam said. “Better Phoebe learn here that incivility has consequences rather than on the streets of Paris, where the mere fact that she is to marry a de Clermont will have fledglings lining up to see if they can best her.”

“Marcus would never forgive me if his mate took to her knees before me.” Freyja shook her head.

“I’m not a great believer in modern parenting.” Miriam was quiet, but the warning in her voice was unmistakable. “Marcus knew that when he asked me to sire Phoebe. So did you. If my way of child rearing is a problem, I’ll move Phoebe to my own house.”

Freyja drew herself to her full height and lifted her chin. Phoebe didn’t have much information on Freyja’s origins, but the gesture confirmed what little she did know—that Marcus’s aunt had royal blood and had murdered her three young brothers rather than allow them to inherit the family lands.

“I promised dear Marcus I would not leave Phoebe’s side until she was reunited with him,” Freyja said coldly. “He must have had a good reason to ask for such an assurance.”

Before war could break out in the 8th arrondissement, Phoebe rose gingerly from her chair, careful not to put any pressure on the finely carved arms as she did so, and walked to Freyja as slowly as she was able to at this stage of her development. It took only two blinks, in spite of Phoebe’s best efforts to curb her speed. Gracefully, she knelt.

Actually, it started out gracefully but ended rather abruptly, her knees gouging shallow dents in the wooden floor.

Phoebe would have to work on that.

It was something about the sight of Freyja’s knees, bare and sculpted underneath the edge of her bright turquoise linen dress, freckled slightly from exposure to the sun while in the garden tending her beloved roses, that caused Phoebe to lose her senses. Like the rest of her, Freyja’s knees were perfect, elegant, and powerful. Freyja’s knees would never be forced to bend before another creature.