“Go back to the Île de la Cité where you belong,” Marcus told Matthew. “I’m sure Juliette is waiting for you.”

He did not like Matthew’s companion, whose soft, generous mouth said one thing and whose hard, dangerous eyes said something else.

Matthew’s eyes narrowed. Marcus felt a sense of satisfaction that his shot had reached its target.

“I can take care of myself,” Marcus insisted, turning his attention back to his drink.

“That’s what we all thought—once,” Matthew said softly. He slid a sealed letter across the counter. Embedded in the red-and-black marbled wax was an ancient coin. “You can’t say I didn’t try. I hope you enjoyed your liberty, equality, and brotherhood, Marcus. In the de Clermont family, it never lasts for very long.”

* * *

—

MARCUS WAS IN THE BACK room of La Ruche, dabbing at his wounds, wearing torn and filthy clothing. It was a frigid day in late January, and he had spent most of it running for his life.

“Have you forgotten what this means?” Philippe tossed the worn, ancient coin in the air and caught it as it dropped.

Marcus shook his head. The coin was a summons. He knew that. Every de Clermont knew that. Answer it, or face the consequences. Before, Marcus had always obeyed his grandfather’s commands. Now he was going to find out what happened when you ignored them for months.

“We are winning, Grandfather. We’ve taken over the old convent,” Marcus replied, hoping a diversionary tactic would work.

Philippe was a battle-hardened general, however, and unlikely to be impressed by something so minor as the conquest of a moldering old religious building in a seedy part of Paris. He wrapped one hand around Marcus’s neck, while the other still held the coin.

“Where is Marat?” Philippe demanded.

“I’m surprised you don’t already know.” Even now, Marcus couldn’t resist baiting his grandfather, even though he was stronger, older, quicker, and could flatten him in a moment.

“Then he is probably in the first place they will look for him.” Philippe swore. “The attic above Monsieur Boulanger’s bakery, where you and Veronique have lodgings.”

Marcus gulped. Philippe was correct, as usual.

“I am disappointed in you, Marcus. I would have credited you with more imagination.” Philippe turned and stalked out.

“Where are you going?” Marcus asked, hurrying after him.

Philippe didn’t reply.

“I’ll get Marat out of Paris—into the countryside,” Marcus assured his grandfather, struggling to keep up while remaining within the normal parameters of human locomotion. Philippe’s legs were longer than Marcus’s, however, which made this difficult.

Philippe still paid him no notice.

The assault of sound that met them on the rue de Cordeliers hit Marcus like a blow. Even though it was winter, the streets were filled with vendors and market stalls. Gulls cried overhead before they swooped down to search for food. People called out to one another, advertising what they had for sale, the latest news and gossip, and the price of their wares.

“I swear, Philippe. On my honor,” Marcus said, hurrying along in his grandfather’s wake.

“Your honor is not worth much these days.” Philippe whirled around. “You will do as I tell you and take Monsieur Marat to London. Gallowglass will meet you at Calais. He has been waiting there since Christmas, and will be glad to be rid of France.”

“London?” Marcus stopped. “I can’t go to London. I’m an American.”

“If a vampire were to abstain from traveling to places occupied by his former enemies, there would be nowhere on earth left to go,” Philippe replied, resuming his brisk walk to Boulanger’s bakery. “Monsieur Marat is familiar with the place. So is Veronique. You may take her with you, if you like.”

“Jean-Paul will not want to go,” Marcus said. “He has work to do here.”

“Monsieur Marat has done enough, I think,” Philippe replied. “No meddling in human politics or religion. Those are the rules.”

“But not for you, it seems,” Marcus retorted, furious. His grandfather conducted French affairs as though they were an orchestra, and had a spy stationed on every corner in Paris.

Philippe didn’t deign to respond. Nevertheless, he and Marcus were beginning to attract sidelong glances from the humans who filled the streets and alleys. Marcus wanted to believe that it was the presence of an aristocrat in this revolutionary neighborhood that drew the attention, but feared it was because they were both vampires.

“The comte de Clermont,” one woman whispered to her friend. The comment was carried on the wind, from mouth to ear.

“Inside,” Philippe said, pushing Marcus through the door to Monsieur Boulanger’s shop. He nodded to the bakers as they passed through, most of whom had heavily muscled torsos and bandy-legs from shoveling massive loaves into the ovens.

“There you are,” Veronique said in greeting, flinging open the door. She sounded relieved. The draft drew the scent of yeast and sugar up the staircase.

Then Veronique saw Philippe.

“Merde,” she whispered.”

“Indeed, madame,” Philippe replied. “I am here to see your houseguest.”

“Marat’s not—oh, very well.” Veronique stood aside to let them pass. She glared at Marcus. This is your fault, her expression said.

Marat, who was huddled in a chair by the window, leaped to his feet. He was not suited to the life of a fugitive, and was nothing but skin and bones. Worry and the need to keep moving from bolt-hole to bolt-hole had taken their toll on his health. Marcus, who still remembered what it was like to be on the run, always looking over your shoulder and never able to close your eyes for fear of discovery, was overcome by a wave of sympathetic fury at his friend’s plight.”

“Monsieur Marat. I’m delighted to have found you before the guard. The scholars at the university talk of nothing but how you have taken refuge with the fair Veronique and Le Bébé Américain,” Philippe said, tossing his gloves on the table. The legs were uneven, and the weight of the supple leather was enough to give it a perilous tilt.

“You have nothing to fear, Jean-Paul,” Marcus assured his friend. “Philippe is here to help.”

“I do not want his help,” Marat said, spitting on the floor in a show of bravado.

“And yet you will take it anyway,” Philippe said cheerfully. “You are going into exile, sir.”

“I am staying here. I am no peasant, bound to do his lord’s bidding,” Marat said with a sneer. “Paris needs me.”

“Alas, your actions have made it impossible for you to remain in the city, or even France, monsieur.” Philippe studied the dregs of wine in a pitcher and decided against it. “To London you will go. You will still have to hide, of course, but you will not be killed on sight as you will be if you step outside this door.”

“London?” Veronique looked from Marat to Marcus to Philippe and back to Marcus.

“At first,” Philippe replied. “Marcus will meet his father there. Matthew will take Monsieur Marat to the house of Mrs. Graham, a friend of Dr. Franklin who will be sympathetic to his revolutionary passions.”

“It is out of the question,” Veronique replied, her eyes sparking with displeasure. “Jean-Paul must remain in Paris. We are depending upon his vision, his sensibility.”

“Monsieur Marat may not be able to see very far from a prison cell—which is where he is headed if you persist in this madness,” said Philippe.

“This is Lafayette’s doing,” Marat snarled, his mouth contorted. “He is a traitor to the people.”

A sword appeared at Marat’s throat. Philippe was at the other end of it.

“Softly, Marat. Softly. The only things standing between you and utter oblivion are your friendship with Marcus and the marquis’s decision not to pursue you today because of it. Lafayette sent the guard scurrying in a different direction, even though he knew where you were and could have set his hounds upon you,” Philippe said.