Phoebe had crossed her. In Freyja’s dining room.

“Uh-oh. Your heart rate just spiked,” Jason observed. “What did you do?”

“Challenged her.”

“Did you end up wishing you’d never been born?” Jason’s expression was sympathetic.

“Miriam hasn’t mentioned it since.” Phoebe bit her lip. “Do you think she’s forgiven me?”

“No chance.” Jason smiled cheerfully. “Miriam has the memory of an elephant. Don’t worry. She’ll make you atone. One day.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Phoebe said.

“Miriam will wait until your guard is down. It won’t be pleasant. But at least then it will be over.” Jason turned to face her. “If there’s one thing everybody knows about Miriam, it’s that she doesn’t hold grudges. Not like Marcus’s father.”

“I still don’t feel I understand Matthew,” Phoebe confessed. “Ysabeau, Baldwin, Freyja—even Verin—I feel somehow connected to all of them, but not to Matthew.”

“I doubt Matthew understands himself,” Jason said quietly.

Phoebe was chewing on that tidbit of information when they turned off the Avenue George V and onto the banks of the Seine. The Palais Bourbon across the river was brightly illuminated, as were the bridges that spanned the river. Beyond the Pont Alexandre III, the spokes of the Roue de Paris glowed blue and white.

Phoebe moved toward the bright colors, mesmerized.

“Hang on, Phoebe.” Jason’s hand was on her elbow, his weight an anchor holding her back.

Phoebe tried to shake him off, dazzled by the prospect of all that light. Jason’s hand tightened, his fingers exerting a painful pressure.

“Too fast, Phoebe. People are watching.”

That stopped her in her tracks. Phoebe’s breath was ragged.

“My mother used to say that.” Phoebe’s past and present collided. “When we were out at the ballet. Or the theater. Or playing in the park. ‘People are watching.’”

Jason said something, his voice sounding far away and muffled by the loud drumming of hearts and made inconsequential by the brilliant hues that surrounded them. He spun Phoebe around. She snarled as the lights and color fused into a dizzying whorl.

“You’re lightstruck.” Jason’s eyes were pinwheels of green and gold. He swore.

Phoebe’s knees crumpled and she sagged toward the pavement.

“Too much champagne, darling?” A woman laughed. White. Middle-aged. American, based on the accent. A tourist.

Phoebe lunged.

The tourist’s eyes widened in sudden terror. She screamed.

Passersby—those strolling lovers, seemingly lost in their mutual adoration—stopped and turned.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” A National Police officer, fully kitted out in navy and white, was on patrol alone. She planted her feet wide and put her hands to the belt that held her communications device and weapons.

But the question came too late. Phoebe was already at the tourist’s throat, her hands grabbing at her thin sweater.

A flashlight shone directly into Phoebe’s eyes. She winced and let the struggling woman go.

“Are you all right, madame?” the officer asked the tourist.

“Yes. I think so,” the American said, her voice shaking.

“This is outrageous. We were walking back to our hotel when that woman attacked us,” the tourist’s companion said. Now that the danger had passed, he was full of bluff and swagger.

A wave of contempt flooded Phoebe. Pathetic warmbloods.

“She’s high on something,” the woman said. “Or drunk.”

“Probably both,” her friend said, a nasty edge to his voice.

“You wish to file a report?” the police officer asked.

There was a long pause while the tourists weighed their umbrage against the inconvenience of spending the rest of their night and most of tomorrow filling out paperwork and answering routine questions.

“Or, you could leave this with me.” The officer’s voice dropped. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t trouble anyone else. Give her time to sober up.”

The flashlight was no longer moving across Phoebe’s eyes. Instead, it was a steady beacon. Phoebe’s attention remained fixed on it, unwavering.

“Lock her up,” the man recommended. “A night in a cell will sort her out.”

“Leave it to me, monsieur,” the police officer replied with a chuckle. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“I’m sorry,” Jason said to the couple. He pressed something into the man’s hand. “For the sweater.”

“Keep your girlfriend on a tighter leash.” The man pocketed the money. “I find it does wonders for their disposition.”

Phoebe snarled at the insult, the light keeping her where she was. Had the flashlight not been there, Phoebe would have ripped the man’s tongue out so that he could never say something so demeaning again.

“I’m her brother,” Jason explained. “She’s visiting. From London.”

“Come on, Bill,” the woman said, her feet shuffling against the stones. “The police will take it from here.”

The officer didn’t switch off her flashlight until the couple’s footsteps and conversation had faded into silence.

“That was close,” Jason said.

“Too close. And too soon. Thirty is too young to be out at night,” the officer said.

“Freyja?” Phoebe blinked, bringing her eyes into better focus. There, standing in front of her, was Freyja de Clermont in a navy all-weather jacket, her tactical trousers tucked into heavy black boots, and a cap set on her head at an angle. Her hair was scraped back into a tight ponytail.

“I promised Marcus I would take care of you.” Freyja slid the flashlight into a loop on her belt, anchoring it near a formidable-looking gun.

“Where did you get the costume?” Phoebe was intrigued by the possibilities for freedom and adventure this implied.

“Oh, it’s no costume,” Freyja said. “I’ve been in uniform since they first let women serve on the National Police force as assistants in 1904.”

“How do you explain why you never . . .” Phoebe was distracted by a passing ambulance’s blaring siren and flashing red lights.

“I don’t explain. I’m a de Clermont. Everybody in Paris who is in a position to question me knows exactly what that means,” Freyja said.

“But we’re supposed to be a secret. I don’t understand.” Phoebe was tired and hungry, and her eyes stung. If she weren’t a vampire, she would swear she was getting a migraine.

“We are, Phoebe dear.” Freyja put a hand on Phoebe’s shoulder. “It just happens to be a secret that many people share. Come. Let’s get you home. You’ve had enough excitement for one night.”

Back at Freyja’s house, Phoebe was given a pair of oversize Chanel sunglasses, a cup of warm blood, and a pair of slippers. Françoise steered her to a seat in front of the fire, unlit on this June evening.

Miriam was reading her e-mail. She looked up from her phone when Phoebe and her entourage entered the room.

“Well?” Miriam smiled like a cat. “How was your first taste of independence?”

24

The Hidden Hand

15 JUNE

“Remind me never to host another birthday party.” It was late afternoon and I was in the kitchen, decanting a bottle of red wine. The family was in the garden, where the tables were set and the candles were waiting to be lit, sitting in deep wooden chairs or reclining on chaise longues under bright umbrellas. Matthew’s brother-in-law, Fernando Gonçalves, had joined us. Even the head of the de Clermont family, Matthew’s brother Baldwin, was in attendance.

Fernando was in the kitchen with me, helping Marthe to arrange trays of food. He was, as usual, barefoot. His jeans and open-necked shirt emphasized his casual approach to most things in life, one that was strikingly different from that of Baldwin, whose only concessions to a family celebration had been to take off his jacket and loosen his tie.