Time's Convert

“His lordship is calling for more wine.” Marcus strode into the kitchen carrying an empty carafe, his blue eyes sparking with dislike. Normally, he and Baldwin got along, but the news from Paris had soured things. Vampires might be immune to all sorts of human illnesses, but they seemed to be plagued by other conditions, including blood rage and ennui, and being lightstruck.

“I’m working on it,” I said, wrestling with the corkscrew and the bottle.

“Here. Let me do it.” Marcus held out his hand.

“How is Jack?” I asked, dumping a tub of yellow cherry tomatoes on the platter of crudités. Agatha had designed it, and the thing was worthy of a wedding reception at the Ritz, adorned with curls of cabbage, kale, and mulberry leaves, which provided a colorful backdrop for trimmed carrots, bright yellow tomatoes, strips of pepper, radish rosettes, and cucumber sticks. A celery root in the middle of the tray sent up leafy stalks that resembled a tree.

“He’s sticking close to Matthew.” With one deft twist, Marcus freed the cork from the bottle.

“And Rebecca?” Fernando said, his sharp eyes belying his casual tone.

“She’s on Baldwin’s lap, perfectly contented.” Marcus shook his head in amazement. “He dotes on her.”

“And Apollo is still in the potting shed?” I wanted to break the news of Philip’s familiar to Baldwin in my own way and at a moment of my choosing.

“So far.” Marcus decanted the wine into a pitcher. “I’d bring out some blood, Marthe. Deer or human if you have it—just in case.”

On that cheerful note, Marcus returned to the garden. Marthe picked up the platter of vegetables and followed. I sighed.

“Maybe Matthew is right. Maybe these family birthdays aren’t a good idea,” I said.

“Vampires do not, as a rule, celebrate birthdays,” Fernando said.

“Not everybody in this family is a vampire,” I retorted, unable to keep the frustration from my tone. “Sorry, Fernando. Things have been unusually—”

“Challenging?” Fernando smiled. “When have they been anything else between de Clermonts?”

We got through the hors d’oeuvres and chitchat with flying colors. It was when we sat down for dinner that the seams of our togetherness began to fray. What started the unraveling was Phoebe.

“Thirty days is much too soon to be gadding about in Paris after dark,” Baldwin said disapprovingly. “Of course Phoebe got into trouble. Miriam’s laxity doesn’t surprise me, but Freyja knows better.”

“I wouldn’t say trouble, exactly,” Ysabeau said, her tone dagger-pointed.

“Miriam’s children have endured some terrible situations in the past. Do you remember Layla’s mating, Ysabeau? What a poor choice,” Baldwin said. “And Miriam let her make it.”

“Layla ignored her mother’s warnings,” Fernando said. “Not all children are as cowed by their makers as you were, Baldwin.”

“And just because you’re older than dirt doesn’t mean you know everything.” Jack was toying with the stem of his wineglass, which still contained the last of a strong mixture of blood and red wine.

“What was that, pup?” Baldwin’s eyes narrowed.

“You heard me,” Jack muttered. “Uncle.” His final word came a bit late to qualify as a title of respect.

“I’m sure Miriam considered Phoebe’s night out carefully and thought it was for the best,” I said, hoping to pour oil on the water before we were engulfed in waves.

Sarah, who was sitting next to Jack, took his hand. The gesture was not lost on Baldwin. My brother-in-law had reservations about letting Matthew establish his own recognized branch of the family—a branch that had not only witches in it, but blood-rage vampires, too. He had made me promise that I would do anything in my power to keep other creatures from realizing that the de Clermonts were harboring family members with the illness. I had even promised to spellbind Jack, if need be.

Jack poured himself another hefty measure of blood from the pitcher in front of him. Like Matthew, Jack found that ingesting blood helped to stabilize his mood when he was struggling with the disease’s symptoms.

“You’re hitting the blood rather hard tonight, Jack.” Baldwin’s remark got a strong reaction from the younger members of the family.

Marcus sat back in his chair, eyes rolling heavenward. Jack went on to pour so much blood into his glass that the contents reached the brim and sloshed over the side. Philip scented the rich blood and reached both hands toward Jack.

“Juice,” Philip said, tiny fingers flexing. “Pleeeease.”

“Here. Have some of this instead.” I quickly cut some nearly raw steak into small pieces and put them on the mat in front of my son, hoping to distract him.

“Want juice.” Philip scowled and pushed the meat away.

“Juicy juice.” Becca, who was sitting next to Baldwin, drummed her feet against her chair. As far as she knew, there were two marvelous elixirs in the world: juice (milk mixed with blood), and juicy juice (blood mixed with water). Becca preferred the latter.

“Aren’t they feeding you enough, cara?” Baldwin asked Becca.

Becca scowled at him, as if the idea that there was enough food in the world to satisfy her appetite was completely preposterous.

Baldwin laughed. It was a rich, warm—and entirely unfamiliar—sound. In nearly three years of knowing him, I had never heard him so much as chuckle, never mind laugh out loud.

“I’ll trap a pigeon for you tomorrow,” Baldwin promised his niece. “We’ll share it. I’ll even let you play with it first. Would you like that?”

Matthew looked a bit faint at the prospect of Baldwin and Becca going hunting together.

“Here, cara. Drink this,” Baldwin said, holding his blood and wine to her lips.

“There’s too much wine in it,” I protested. “It’s not good—”

“Nonsense,” Baldwin said with a snort. “I grew up drinking wine at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And that was before Philippe sired me. It won’t harm her.”

“Baldwin.” Matthew’s voice sliced through the rising tension in the air. “Diana doesn’t want Rebecca to drink it.”

Baldwin shrugged and put his cup down.

“I’ll mix her some blood and milk. She can have it before she goes to bed,” I said.

“That sounds revolting.” Baldwin shuddered.

“For God’s sake, leave it alone.” Marcus threw his hands in the air. “You’re always meddling. Just like Philippe.”

“Enough, both of you.” Ysabeau was in the unenviable position of sitting between the two feuding vampires. I had warned her in advance that she had drawn the short straw and would be placed between Marcus and Baldwin, but neither protocol nor prudence would permit any other arrangement.

“Nunkle!” Philip cried out at the top of his lungs, feeling left out.

“You don’t have to shout to get my attention, Philip,” Baldwin said with a frown. He clearly held his nephew to a different standard than his niece, who had spent most of the afternoon making noise. “You shall have pigeon tomorrow, too. Or is hunting forbidden as well as wine, sister?”

The room held their breath at Baldwin’s challenge to me. Jack shifted in his chair, unable to bear the weight of the tension in the room. His eyes were inky and huge.

“Agatha. Tell them about your plans in Provence,” Sarah suggested, still holding Jack’s hand. She shot me a look across the table as if to say, I’m doing my best to save this party, but no guarantees.

“Jack!” Philip now tried to get Jack’s attention by blaring out his name like a klaxon.

“I’m okay, flittermouse,” Jack said, trying to soothe Philip’s agitation by using his pet name for him. “May I be excused, Mum?”

“Of course, Jack.” I wanted him as far away from this brewing storm as possible.

“You need to keep him better regulated, Matthew.” Baldwin cast a critical eye over at Jack as he stood to go.

“I will not have my grandson declawed,” Ysabeau hissed. For a moment, I thought she might strangle Baldwin—which was not a bad idea.