So much time had been spent getting Phoebe ready for the first weeks of her life as a vampire, Miriam and Freyja had never ventured much beyond that point. It was as if—

“Did they expect me to die?” Phoebe had never seriously considered this outcome.

“No. Not really. But vampire children can be unpredictable, and sometimes there are . . . complications.” The slight pause Marcus took before his final words spoke volumes. “Remember how sick Becca was, after she was born and she refused any food other than Diana’s blood.”

Rebecca had been a wan, frustrated creature. While Philip had thrived on breast milk, Diana’s daughter had needed richer food.

“Bloodsickness is rare, but it can be fatal,” Marcus continued. “Most vampires develop a broader palate after a few weeks, but not all.”

“So that’s why they put out so many different kinds of blood.” Phoebe had thought it was just Miriam being her usual, overzealous self, but now her thoroughness took on a new, more nurturing tone.

“We all want this to be as smooth and painless a process as it can be, Phoebe.” Marcus sounded sober. “Not all of us had that kind of upbringing. But for you, I wanted it to be different.”

Phoebe was curious about Marcus’s life as a warmblood in the eighteenth century, and his younger years as a vampire. But she also wanted to see them from a vampire’s perspective, through Marcus’s own memories. So Phoebe kept her lips pressed together, and only when she was sure she had the resolve not to ask any questions, she spoke.

“It’s not long now,” Phoebe said, her tone brisk.

“No. Not long,” Marcus repeated, but he sounded frustrated. “Just long enough to feel like forever.”

They said their good-byes. Before the call ended, Phoebe dared to ask one final question.

“What was your mother’s name, Marcus?”

“My mother?” Marcus sounded surprised. “Catherine.”

“Catherine.” Phoebe liked it. It was timeless, as common today as it had been when it was bestowed on a baby daughter in the first half of the eighteenth century. She repeated it, feeling how it sat on her tongue, imagining responding to it. “Catherine.”

“It’s a Greek name, and it means pure,” Marcus explained.

More importantly, it meant something to Marcus. That was all that mattered to Phoebe.

After they hung up, Phoebe took a sheet of paper from the desk drawer.

Phoebe Alice Catherine Taylor.

She looked at the paper critically. Her mother had chosen Phoebe when she was born. Alice was her paternal grandmother’s name. Catherine belonged to Marcus. And she wanted to retain Taylor, in honor of her father.

Satisfied with her choices, Phoebe returned the paper to the drawer for safekeeping.

Then she returned to bed, to daydream further about her reunion with Marcus.

19

Twenty-One

2 JUNE

For Phoebe’s twenty-first birthday as a warmblood, her parents had given her a small key-shaped pendant encrusted with tiny diamonds, and a party for a hundred friends. The key was to unlock her future, her mother explained, and Phoebe had worn it every day since. The party, which included a sit-down dinner under a marquee and dancing in the garden, was to launch her into her adult life and give her a memorable day to look back on when she was older.

For Phoebe’s twenty-first day as a vampire, she got another key and a much more intimate dinner celebration.

“It’s a key to your room,” Freyja said when she gave the small brass item to Phoebe.

Like many of the gifts Phoebe had received from vampires thus far, the key was symbolic, a sign of trust rather than a way of ensuring any real privacy in a household where any door could be broken down with a single push.

“Thank you, Freyja,” Phoebe said, pocketing the key.

“Now, when you lock your door, we will know that you wish some time alone and we will not disturb you,” Freyja said, “not even Françoise.”

Françoise had walked in on Phoebe while she was in the bathtub thinking of Marcus and trying to satisfy one of her more persistent itches. Françoise had put down the clean laundry and disappeared from the room without saying a word. Phoebe would prefer to avoid more moments like that one if she could.

“Miriam is waiting for you downstairs in the kitchen,” Freyja said. “Don’t worry. Everything will be completely fine.”

Until that moment, Phoebe had been unconcerned about whatever her maker had planned for her twenty-first, but the combination of Freyja’s words and the location of their meeting suggested this was no ordinary present.

Her first glimpse of Miriam’s gift confirmed Phoebe’s suspicions.

Sitting by the chopping block, a glass of champagne before her, was a middle-aged Caucasian woman. Miriam was with her.

They were talking about E. coli.

“Vegetables. I wouldn’t have thought they were the culprit,” the woman said, reaching for a carrot.

“I know. The cases in Bordeaux came from contaminated sprouts,” Miriam said.

“Exciting times for epidemiologists,” the woman replied. “Shiga toxins in an EAEC strain. Who would have imagined it?”

“Come in, Phoebe, and meet Sonia,” Miriam said, pouring another glass of champagne and offering it to her. “She’s a colleague at the World Health Organization. Sonia is joining you for dinner.”

“Hello, Phoebe. I’ve heard so much about you.” Sonia smiled and took a sip of her champagne.

Phoebe looked from Sonia to Miriam and back to Sonia again. Her mouth was as dry as dust.

“Sonia and I have known each other for more than twenty years,” Miriam said.

“Twenty-three, to be exact,” Sonia replied. “In Geneva, remember? Daniel introduced us.”

Sonia was old enough to be Phoebe’s mother.

“I’d forgotten you’ve been with him so long,” Miriam said. She turned to Phoebe. “Daniel Fischer is a Swiss vampire, and a very good chemist.”

“He put me through graduate school,” Sonia said, “in exchange for feeding him.”

“Oh.” Phoebe didn’t know where to look. Her wine? Sonia? Miriam? The floor?

“There’s no need to feel awkward. This is all quite normal—at least for me,” Sonia said. “Miriam tells me I’m your first.”

Phoebe nodded, unable to speak.

“Well, I’m ready when you are.” Sonia put her glass down and rolled up her sleeve. “The anticipation is worse than the doing of it. Or so I’m told. Once you latch on and get your first taste, it will be instinctive.”

“I’m not hungry.” Phoebe turned to go.

“That’s no way to treat your guest.” Miriam barred her way. She gave Phoebe a stern look.

Phoebe turned back to Sonia. She could smell the woman’s blood pulsing warmly through her veins, but it wasn’t the least bit appealing. Still, she would try. If she couldn’t manage it, she would try another time. She waited for Miriam to leave.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Miriam said. “You will not become one of those vampires who drinks alone, bolting down your food, ashamed to be seen. That’s how problems start.”

“You’re not going to—watch?” Phoebe was horrified.

“Not closely. There’s nothing much to see, is there? But I am going to stay here with Sonia until you’re finished having dinner,” Miriam said. “Feeding is a normal part of vampire life. Besides, you’ve never done this before. We don’t want there to be any accidents.”

Phoebe had managed to feed off Persephone without any mishaps, but there was no telling what might happen once she was exposed to the richer blood of a human.

“Fine.” Phoebe just wanted to get it over with.

As soon as she got near Sonia, however, her composure dissolved. First, the scent and sound of Sonia’s blood was distracting. Second, Phoebe could not imagine how the act could take place, logistically. Sonia was sitting on a tall stool. Phoebe would have to stoop to take the woman’s bared elbow into her mouth. Was Sonia supposed to stand? Or was Phoebe supposed to sit? Or was some other arrangement of limbs advantageous?