Time's Convert

But Marcus was content to remain quiet. It allowed him to try to absorb his present situation, which was both dazzling and bewildering. He studied his surroundings, which were more lavish and elegant than anything he had seen through Philadelphia windows. Books lay on tables, thick carpets were underfoot, and the scent of coffee and tea hung in the air. The fire was a roaring blaze, and everywhere there were candles.

Philippe sat within arm’s reach of Ysabeau in the only chair in the room that was not upholstered. It was wooden, painted blue, and had the curved, spindled back and saddle-shaped seat that were common to Philadelphia furniture. Marcus felt a pang of homesickness. The foreign speech, which had seemed pleasant and musical, became loud and dissonant. Marcus struggled to draw a breath.

“I see you have noticed my chair,” Philippe said, claiming Marcus’s attention.

Marcus felt his panic drop a notch. Then another. He felt able to breathe again.

“Dr. Franklin gave it to me,” Philippe explained. “Does it remind you of all you left behind?”

Marcus nodded.

“With me it is scents,” Philippe observed softly. “When the sun falls on pine boughs, warming up the resin, it takes me immediately back to my childhood. Moments of dislocation—of feeling out of place and time—happen to all of us who have been reborn.”

Davy Hancock had nearly pummeled Marcus into the ground when he asked him about his youth and how long he had been a vampire. As a result, Marcus knew better than to ask any of the de Clermonts their age or their true name. Still, Marcus couldn’t help but wonder just how ancient Philippe and Ysabeau were.

The air grew heavy around him, and Marcus found that Ysabeau was studying him. The expression on her face suggested she knew exactly what he was thinking. Her power was so different from that of her husband. Philippe was all civilization, a keen-edged sword in an elegant scabbard. Ysabeau, however, had a wild, untamed edge that could not be completely cloaked in satin or softened with lace. There was something feral and dangerous about his grandmother, something that caught at Marcus’s throat and made his heart thud in warning.

“You are very quiet, Marcus,” Ysabeau said. “Is there something wrong?”

“No, madame,” Marcus replied.

“You will get used to us, I promise,” Ysabeau assured him. “And we will, in turn, get used to you. It is too much, I think, to meet your new family all at once. You must come again—alone.”

Philippe was watching his wife closely.

“You must do it soon,” Ysabeau continued. “And when you return, you can share your news of Matthew. Philippe and I would like that. Very much.”

“I would like that, too, madame.” Perhaps he and Ysabeau could organize a trade—a piece of information about Matthew and what was happening in the colonies in exchange for some intelligence on vampire customs and de Clermont history.

A family tree would be useful, for a start.

26

Babel

OCTOBER 1789–JANUARY 1790

Veronique tossed her white cap, festooned with the red, white, and blue ribbons of revolution, onto the table next to the bed. She flung herself onto the rumpled sheets, nearly upsetting the pot of coffee that was perched on a stack of books. Flushed with victory and triumph, she shared her news.

“The march on Versailles was a success. Thousands of women were there. King Louis and his brood are all in Paris now,” she said. “Marat is a genius.”

Marcus looked over his copy of L’ami du peuple. “Marat is a daemon.”

“That, too.” Veronique trailed a finger along the outline of Marcus’s leg. “It’s only right that creatures should have a voice. Even your Lafayette believes that.”

“You know that’s against the covenant.” Marcus put the newspaper aside. “My grandfather says—”

“I don’t want to talk about your family.” Veronique propped herself up on one shoulder. Her shift slid, exposing the soft curve of her breast.

Marcus moved the coffee and the books. His blood rallied at Veronique’s scent, that heady mixture of wine and woman that he could not seem to get enough of.

Veronique rolled over onto the scattered pages of Marat’s latest edition. Marcus lifted the hem of her shift, exposing shapely legs. Veronique sighed, her body opening to his touch.

“Lafayette brought the guards with him, though he waited long enough to do it,” she said as Marcus teased her breast with his mouth.

Marcus’s head lifted an inch. “I don’t want to talk about the marquis.”

“That will make a nice change,” Veronique replied, arching her body toward him with a giggle.

“Vixen,” Marcus said.

Veronique nipped him on the shoulder with sharp teeth, drawing beads of blood. Marcus pinned her to the bed with his body, entering her in a single thrust that brought a cry of pleasure. Marcus moved within her, slowly, deliberately, incrementally.

Veronique bared her teeth, ready to bite again. Marcus pressed soft lips to her throat.

“You’re always telling me to be gentle,” Marcus said, teasing her flesh with his teeth and tongue. Veronique was far more experienced than Marcus, and happy to guide him as he explored her body and discovered the best ways to please her.

“Not today,” she said, pressing his mouth closer. “Today, I want to be overthrown. Like the Bastille. Like the king and his ministers. Like—”

Marcus stopped her from sharing any more revolutionary sentiments with a fierce kiss and applied himself to meeting her every desire.

* * *

—

IT WAS ALREADY DARK OUTSIDE when Marcus and Veronique emerged from their attic on the left bank of the Seine. Veronique’s red, curling hair tumbled freely about her shoulders, the patriotic ribbons on her white cap fluttering in the breeze. Her striped skirts were hitched up at the side, showing plain petticoats and a hint of ankle along with sturdy clogs that protected her feet from both the hard cobblestones and the deep Parisian muck. She was buttoning her blue coat under her breasts, which accentuated her curves in ways that had Marcus longing to return to the bedroom.

Veronique, however, was intent on getting to work. She owned a tavern, one that Marcus still frequented along with his friend and fellow physician Jean-Paul Marat. There, Marcus and Marat talked about politics and philosophy while Veronique served up wine, beer, and ale to the students of the nearby university. She had been doing so for centuries.

Veronique was that rarest of all creatures: a family-less vampire. Her maker had been a formidable woman named Ombeline who had struck out on her own when the family she was serving didn’t return from their crusade to the Holy Land. Ombeline made Veronique a vampire a century later during the chaos of the first plague epidemic in 1348, plucking her out of an infected hostelry near the Sacré Coeur. Paris’s vampire clans had seen the opportunity the disease presented to dramatically increase their numbers; humans desperate to survive were quick to take any hope of survival that was offered.

Ombeline had met her end in August 1572 when she was killed by a rampaging Catholic mob who mistook her for a Protestant during the melee that erupted when Paris celebrated the marriage of Princess Margaret to Henry of Navarre. Veronique was not, as a result, a great believer in religion. It was something she and Marat had in common.

Though many of the city’s vampire clans had attempted to fold Veronique into their ranks—first by persuasion, then by coercion—she had resisted all efforts at subjugation. Veronique was content with her tavern, her attic apartments high above the street, her loyal clientele, and her enjoyment of life itself, which, even after more than four centuries, still seemed precious and miraculous to her.

“Let’s stay in tonight,” Marcus said, catching her hand in his and pulling her back toward the door.

“Insatiable fledgling.” Veronique kissed him deeply. “I must make sure that all is well at work. I am not a de Clermont, and cannot stay abed all day.”

Marcus could not think of a single member of his family that did so, but had learned to steer conversation away from the sore subject of aristocratic privilege.

Sadly, it was the only topic of conversation in Paris, so it dogged them in overheard snatches all the way to the rue des Cordeliers, where the slump of Veronique’s tavern awaited them, its roofline bent with age and the windows listing this way and that. Light streamed out onto the street in sharp angles, refracted by the panes of glass as though they were involved in one of Dr. Franklin’s optical experiments. An ancient metal sign creaked on its pole overhead. The cutout shape of a beehive gave the place its name, La Ruche.