Time's Convert

Inside, the conversation was deafening. Veronique’s arrival was greeted with cheers. These turned into catcalls when Marcus appeared behind her.

“Late to work, citizen?” her patrons teased. “Up at the crowing of the cock, Veronique?”

“What’s wrong with you, boy?” someone called out of the smoky gloom. “Why not keep her in bed, where she belongs?”

Veronique sailed through the room bestowing kisses on the cheeks of her favorites and accepting congratulations on the successful march on Versailles that she had helped to organize.

“Liberty!” a woman called from the counter where drinks were served.

“Fraternity!” the man next to her chimed in. This earned him a good-natured shove from his neighbor, which sent his coffee sloshing over the brim of the cup. Veronique served every kind of liquid refreshment a creature could desire—wine, coffee, tea, ale, chocolate, and even blood. The one thing she refused to serve was water.

Her customers began to bang their drinking vessels—dented tin and heavier pewter, fine glass and glowing copper, rough pottery and delicate porcelain—on tables, windowsills, the counter, walls, the backs of chairs, stools, and even on the skulls of nearby patrons.

Marcus grinned. He was not the only one drawn to Veronique’s fire and passion.

“Equality!” Veronique cried, holding her fist in the air.

Marcus watched the crowd swallow her up, everyone eager to hear what she had seen at the palace, and how the royal family had responded, and whether it was true that Veronique spoke to the queen.

Marcus no longer panicked when his skin prickled and his hackles rose to alert him that that there was another predator nearby. He had been a vampire for eight years and was now a fledgling, capable of feeding himself and moving like a warmblood. The sleepless hours no longer weighed on him. He spoke French like a native, could converse with his grandfather and Ysabeau in Greek, and debated philosophy with his father in Latin.

“Hello, Matthew.” Tonight, however, Marcus spoke in English, a language that he and his father shared but that was beyond the reach of the ordinary Parisians who filled La Ruche. He turned.

Matthew was sitting in a dark corner, as usual, sipping wine out of Veronique’s finest glass. His waistcoat was the color of soot and embroidered with paler gray and silver thread. The plain white shirt he wore underneath was immaculate, as were the silk hose that extended from knee to polished shoes. Marcus wondered how much the ensemble had cost, and reckoned it would be enough to feed a family of eight for a year or more in this part of town.

“You’re overdressed,” Marcus said mildly, approaching his father’s bench. “You should have donned your leather apron and brought a hammer and chisel if you wanted to blend in.”

The man next to Matthew turned, revealing a face that was strangely twisted, the angles of cheek and mouth set in a fleshy imitation of the tavern’s windows. Dark, deeply set eyes studied Marcus from under a thatch of black hair. Like Marcus, he wore no wig and his clothes were simple and made of thick, serviceable fabric.

“Jean-Paul!” Marcus was surprised to see Marat sharing a drink with his father. He wasn’t aware they knew each other.

“Marcus.” Marat moved along the bench, making room for him. “We are talking about death. Do you know Dr. Guillotin?”

The doctor inclined his head. He was dressed in somber black, though the material was expensive and the coat well cut. Guillotin’s dark eyebrows and the shadow at his jawline suggested there was dark hair under his powdered wig.

“Only by reputation.” Marcus wished he had ordered a drink first. “Dr. Franklin always spoke highly of you, sir.”

Guillotin extended his hand to Marcus. Marat eyed them both suspiciously and then buried his nose in his tin cup.

Marcus took the doctor’s hand and felt the shifting pressure in his grip that confirmed what Marat suspected: Guillotin was a Freemason, like Marcus. Like Matthew. Like Franklin. That meant that Guillotin knew about creatures, and about vampires in particular.

“Marcus often assisted Dr. Franklin in his laboratory,” Matthew said. “He is a surgeon, and interested in medical matters.”

“Like father, like son,” Guillotin said. “And you are a physician, too, Dr. Marat. How fortunate that I came upon my old friend the chevalier.”

No one came upon Matthew de Clermont by chance. Marcus wondered what constellation of influences had placed Matthew in Guillotin’s path.

“The doctor is trying to reform medicine.” Marat’s voice echoed strangely in his contorted nasal cavities. “He has picked the oddest place to begin. Dr. Guillotin wants to give criminals a quicker, more humane death.”

Marcus parted the tails of his coat and sat on the bench. God, he needed a drink. The pleasant hours he’d had with Veronique faded into memory as he prepared to navigate the tricky waters of this conversation.

“Perhaps, Doctor, we could get rid of death altogether. The chevalier de Clermont could make us all immortal, if he wanted.” Marat, who was a daemon and should know better than to bait Matthew, pressed the matter further. “But true equality wouldn’t suit the vampires. Who would be their serviteurs de sang?”

“Oh, I think we would always keep a few daemons around—for amusement if not nourishment,” Matthew said quietly. “Like the fools and jesters of old.”

Marat flushed. He was sensitive about both his small stature and his appearance. Marat’s fingers scratched at his neck, where a rash bloomed red and pink.

“I oppose capital punishment, as you know, Monsieur Marat,” Guillotin said. “But if we must put criminals to death, let it be quick and painless. And let it be done in a regular, reliable fashion.”

“I’m not sure God means death to be painless,” Marcus said. He searched the room for someone who might bring him a drink. Veronique caught his eye, and her mouth dropped open in astonishment at the company he was keeping.

“Improvements need to be made to these mechanical executioners,” Guillotin continued, as if Marcus had not spoken. His real audience was Matthew, who was listening attentively. “They have engines of death in England and Scotland, but the axes are crude and crush the spine and tear the head from the body.”

Marat’s fingers dug deeper into his skin, vainly searching for relief from the itching. Matthew’s nostrils flared as blood rushed to the surface, and Marcus watched as his father pushed back the appetites that plagued all vampires. The chevalier de Clermont was famously self-controlled. Marcus envied him that. Even though Marat was his friend, and a daemon, the metallic tang of his blood still made Marcus’s mouth water.

“I need to speak to you.” Matthew was suddenly next to him, his lips close to Marcus’s ear.

Reluctantly, Marcus left Marat and Guillotin. It was not the conversation that made him want to stay, but the prospect of slaking his sudden thirst. Matthew led him to the stained wooden counter, where Veronique was watering down blood with wine. She handed a tall beaker to Marcus.

“Drink,” she said, looking worried. Marcus was still too young to be fully trustworthy in a crowd of warmbloods.

Matthew waited until Marcus had swallowed down half the liquid before he spoke.

“I think you should stay away from Marat. He’s trouble,” Matthew advised.

“Then so am I, for we share the same views,” Marcus retorted, his temper flaring. “You can order me around, make me study the law, restrict my funds, and forbid me from holding a job, but you cannot choose my friends.”

“If you persist, you’ll be summoned to an audience with Philippe.” Once again, Matthew had switched to English. It was a common de Clermont practice, moving from one language to another in an attempt to speak more privately.

“Grandfather doesn’t care what I do.” Marcus took another sip. “He has bigger fish to catch than Jean-Paul or me.”

“There is no such thing as a small fish during a revolution,” Matthew replied. “Any creature who causes a ripple, no matter how seemingly insignificant, can change the course of events. You know that, Marcus.”

Maybe, but Marcus had no intention of conceding to his father’s demands. This city was his home now. Marcus felt comfortable among the working poor of Paris in a way he never did perched on a silk-covered chair in Ysabeau’s salon or attending an aristocratic ball with Fanny.