“Did you know about this, Veronique?” Marcus held up the papers.

His lover’s silence said more than words could.

“Jean-Paul is calling for a massacre!” Marcus cried. This was not his idea of liberty.

“They are enemies of the Revolution.” There was something fanatical in Veronique’s flat tone and fevered eyes.

“How can you say that? You don’t even know whom he plans to kill,” Marcus retorted.

“It doesn’t matter,” Veronique shot back. “They are aristocrats. One is much like another.”

“Lafayette was right,” Marcus said. “Marat only wants to stir up trouble. There will never be enough equality to satisfy him. His revolution cannot be won.”

“Marat was right,” Veronique said angrily. “You’re a traitor, just like the rest. I can’t believe I let you inside me—that I trusted you.”

Something dark and terrible had been unleashed in Veronique with all this talk of death and revolution. Marcus had to get her out of Paris, too.

“Gather your things,” Marcus said, thrusting Marat’s manuscript into the fire. “You’re coming to London with me and Fanny.”

“No!” Veronique dug into the flames with her bare hands to retrieve the pages. They were curling and blackened, but not yet totally destroyed.

Her hands, however—her beautiful, slender, agile fingers and soft palms—were a blistered, charred mess. Horrified, Marcus went to her.

“Let me see,” he said, reaching for them.

“No.” Veronique snatched them away. “No matter where I say it—in my bed, or in my tavern, or in my house, or in my city—you respect it as my final word, Marcus.”

“Veronique. Please.” Marcus held out his hand.

“I will not be told what to do by you, or your grandfather, or any man.” Veronique was shaking, her body consumed with shock and anger. Marcus could see her hands beginning to heal as her powerful blood repaired the damage the fire had wrought. “Go, Marcus. Just go.”

“Not without you,” Marcus said. He couldn’t leave her here, where she might fall further under Marat’s spell. “We belong together, Veronique.”

“You chose the de Clermonts,” Veronique said bitterly. “You belong to Philippe now.”

28

Forty-Five

26 JUNE

A plump woman in her midfifties walked along the path by the Seine. She wore stout walking shoes, a flowing cardigan, and a brightly colored scarf knotted around her neck. A heavy bag was slung over one shoulder. Every few steps, she took out a sheet of paper and held it at arm’s length to make out the words on it, then looked at the nearby landmarks and took a few more steps.

“She needs glasses,” Phoebe observed.

“It’s not important that she spots you,” Jason replied. “You’re here to spot her.”

“How could I miss her, with that scarf?” The lengthy June twilight provided sufficient illumination for Phoebe’s vampire senses to take in every detail of the woman’s appearance—the long silver earrings with turquoise stones, the oversize watch, the black leggings and crisp white shirt.

“The scarf was part of the agreement, remember,” Jason said, trying to be patient.

Phoebe bit her lip. The agreement had been more than a week in the making. Freyja had conducted interviews in the salon, and half a dozen middle-aged white women trooped through the house, cooing over the decor and asking questions about the gardens.

In the end, Freyja had selected the woman who asked the fewest questions and seemed least interested in the house. Curiosity, Freyja noted, was not an important quality in one’s food.

“Take note of her habits,” Jason said. “How fast does the woman walk? Is she on the phone? Is she distracted with a map, or a shopping list? Is she carrying bags, and therefore an easy target? Is she smoking?”

“Do smokers taste bad?” Phoebe asked him.

“Not necessarily. It depends on your palate. But smokers are often looking for a light—or are willing to share one with you. Always carry cigarettes,” Jason advised. “It makes approaching complete strangers perfectly acceptable.”

Phoebe added that to her mental list of all the things she should carry—moist towelettes, bribe money, a list of nearby hospitals—and all those things she shouldn’t—credit cards, a cell phone, and any type of identification.

For a few minutes, Phoebe and Jason watched the woman in silence. Every time the woman looked at her notes and then squinted up to orient herself, she either bumped into someone or tripped on an uneven stone. Once, she did both and narrowly avoided a dunking.

“She’s terribly clumsy,” Phoebe said.

“I know. Freyja really knows how to pick them,” Jason said, sounding pleased. “But remember, she may know you will be hunting her, but she still doesn’t know where, how, or when you will strike. Margot will be surprised and afraid—you’ll hear it in her heartbeat, and smell it in her blood. Fight or flight kicks in no matter what. It’s instinctive.”

The woman stopped again, seemingly to study the fading light on the water and stones.

“Okay, this is the moment,” Jason said, nudging Phoebe with his elbow. “She’ll be right in front of us in another sixty seconds. Hop down and get to it.”

Phoebe remained glued to the stone wall that was providing an impromptu seat.

Jason sighed. “Phoebe. It’s time you started feeding yourself. You’re ready, I promise. And this woman knows exactly what she’s doing. Freyja already fed from her, and her résumé is really quite impressive.”

The woman—her name was Margot and she was an Aries, Phoebe recalled—had fed half the vampires in Paris, according to the references she’d provided during her interview. Margot’s unassuming appearance masked the fact that she lived in a lavish apartment in the 5th and had extensive real estate investments throughout the city.

“Can you do it?” Phoebe asked. “I’d like to watch, and make sure I have all the moves worked out in my head.”

The only way to approach feeding from a human, Phoebe discovered, was to treat it as though it were a ballet. There were specific steps, foot positions, facial expressions, and even costuming considerations.

“No. You’ve watched me hunt three humans already,” Jason replied.

She and Jason had ventured forth several times since the disastrous night she attacked a tourist. Miriam went with them the first time, keeping watch over Phoebe while Jason took down a fit, attractive jogger in the Jardin du Luxembourg. It had piqued her appetite, not to mention her startling desire to run and chase things down. At that early hour of the morning, the only creatures available save joggers were squirrels and pigeons, but Miriam let Phoebe entertain herself with them until the sun rose. Jason dared her to snack on a squirrel, which was just as revolting as she had imagined it would be.

Since Phoebe comported herself without embarrassing her maker on that occasion, she and Jason were allowed to go out on their own. Dawns and twilights were designated as safe times for hunting, as the shadows were lengthening but the bright lights of the Parisian night were not yet likely to dazzle Phoebe’s lightstruck eyes.

“Phoebe.” Jason gave her a shove this time.

Had Phoebe still been a warmblood, she would have tumbled fifteen feet onto the path below. Because she was a vampire, she was merely irritated and gave him a shove back.

“Margot is walking past,” Jason said, urgent.

“Maybe I’ll wait and then bite her from behind,” Phoebe prevaricated.

“No. That’s not safe. Not when you’re this young. Were she to run, and you gave chase—which you wouldn’t be able to resist doing—humans would notice.” Jason watched Margot disappear around the bend in the river. “Damn.”

“Freyja’s going to be cross, isn’t she?” Phoebe didn’t want to disappoint Marcus’s aunt—or Miriam. But she just didn’t feel ready to feed off a person yet. “Sorry, Jason. I’m just not hungry.”

Phoebe was, in fact, ravenous. She needed to spend some quality time with Persephone and a bottle of Burgundy.