Time's Convert

“We all have different tastes,” Louis said softly. “In time, you will learn to accept that.”

“Never.” Marcus looked at Matthew in disgust. “I expected better from you.”

“I’ve never touched a child,” Matthew said, his eyes darkening.

“No, but you’ll stand by and let your whore do it.”

Juliette launched herself at Marcus, her fingers raised in claws.

The child, who was caught between them, screamed in terror, her weakened heart skipping beats, slowing, then stopping. She slumped to the floor, dead.

Myrna flew into the room, wearing nothing but a corset and a pair of high-heeled slippers. Her hair was in disarray, and she held a bread knife aloft in one hand.

“The child. The child.” Myrna sobbed, her eyes wild. She began slashing at the air, left and right, slaying whatever ghosts had accompanied her into the room.

“Hush, Myrna. You’re safe. No one will harm you.” Marcus shielded Myrna from the view of the other vampires. He took off his coat and draped it around Myrna’s shaking shoulders.

“Get out of this house. All of you.” Ransome appeared, carrying a gun. One of his friends had modified the barrel, and it carried a ball and charge so large it could blow off half of a vampire’s head. Ransome called his gun “my angel.”

“I think, Monsieur de Clermont, that the time has come to do more than talk,” Louis observed with a superior sniff.

* * *

—

THE DEATHS BEGAN WITH MOLLY. Her body was found in the bayou, her neck savagely torn.

“Alligators,” the city coroner said.

Juliette smiled, her teeth hard and white.

Within a few days, Marcus knew that it wasn’t alligators who were disposing of his family, one by one. All died in mysterious circumstances that suggested the Chauncey family of Coliseum Street was experiencing a colossal streak of bad fortune.

Marcus knew it wasn’t Lady Luck who was doing this evil work. It was Juliette. And Matthew.

Marcus could tell which kills belonged to which creature. Juliette’s showed an element of savagery, with gaping wounds and signs of a struggle. Matthew’s were surgical, precise. One fast, quick cut from ear to ear across the throat.

Like Vanderslice.

“There will be no more children,” Matthew told Marcus, when only a handful of his children, including Ransome, remained. All were in hiding, most of them far out of town. “Philippe gave you strict orders on this subject.”

“Tell grandfather his message was received.” Marcus sat, head in his hands, at the same table that he had gathered around with his family, telling tales and swapping insults, long into the New Orleans night.

“Tragic,” Juliette said. “Such a needless loss of life.”

Marcus snarled at her, daring her to continue. Wisely, she turned away. Had she not, Marcus would have ripped her heart out and let Matthew feast on his bones if he wished.

“I will never forgive you for this,” Marcus promised Matthew.

“I don’t expect you to,” Matthew said. “But it had to be done.”

33

Sixty

11 JULY

Finally, after two months, Miriam’s vampire blood was beginning to take root in Phoebe’s body. Some of the physical and emotional changes were subtle—so much so that Phoebe herself wasn’t always able to perceive them right away. There were moments, like the night she met Stella by the Seine, when her altered blood had been obvious. Most days, however, Phoebe looked into the mirror and saw the same face she’d always seen looking back at her.

As she approached the fledgling stage of vampire development, however, it was becoming increasingly clear that she was no longer a warmblood. Her five senses had all become laser sharp and precise. There was no such thing, for example, as background noise for a vampire. She could hear a cricket as loudly as though it were a brass band. Conversations held on mobile phones, all of which seemed to be undertaken at maximum volume, infringed on her sanity so much that she had to resist the impulse to rip the devices out of people’s hands and stomp on them. But music—oh, music was a delight. No one had told her how music would become something so utterly enrapturing. When Phoebe heard a song of any sort—classical, pop, it didn’t matter—she felt as though the notes had replaced the blood in her veins.

Phoebe could now classify the information coming through her nose into the same five categories that warmbloods used for tastes: sweet, salty, sour, bitter, and savory. Phoebe knew simply from smelling an animal or a person what they would taste like, and whether or not she would enjoy feeding from them. It was far more humane to sniff than to bite, and raised fewer human eyebrows.

Witches, Phoebe discovered while walking along the rue Maître Albert with Jason, smelled almost saccharine. Though she had a sweet tooth, and still enjoyed standing outside the window at Ladurée to smell the macarons and see the beautiful colors, the scent of witches turned Phoebe’s stomach. She wasn’t sure how she was going to endure spending time with Diana. Perhaps one became less sensitive to such a powerful odor, or became more aware of its top and bottom notes, like a fine perfume?

Phoebe’s memory had changed along with her senses. Instead of becoming sharper, however, it had grown fuzzier and more fragmented. Once she could recall precisely what color she wore on her birthday ten years ago, how much every handbag she owned had cost, and the titles (in accepted chronological order) for every canvas Renoir ever painted. Now she couldn’t remember Freyja’s mobile number from one hour to the next.

“What is wrong with me?” Phoebe had asked Françoise after she couldn’t find her glasses. “I want to take Persephone into the garden and it’s too bright out.”

It was eight in the morning and overcast, but Phoebe still found the light hurt her eyes.

With Françoise’s help she located the glasses, but then misplaced Persephone. The two of them were reunited in the laundry room, where Persephone napped in a basket full of Miriam’s dirty clothes.

“All manjasang have trouble with their memories,” Françoise said. “What did you expect? You have too many now for one brain to hold. It will get worse the longer you live.”

“Really?” Nobody had told Phoebe that. “How am I supposed to go back to work?” A sharp memory was crucial for someone working with fine art. You had to be able to recall stylistic differences, changes in techniques and materials, and more.

Françoise gave her a pitying look.

“I am going back to work,” Phoebe said firmly.

“So you say.” Françoise tucked one of Miriam’s T-shirts around Persephone like a blanket. It read COUTURE IS AN ATTITUDE, a sentiment with which Freyja did not agree.

Phoebe was finding that being a vampire, like most things in life, was a delicate balance of gains and losses. With every loss, be it temporary like her job or permanent like the taste of ice cream, there were gains.

One day, Françoise found Phoebe studying the latest mark she’d made on the doorframe. To Phoebe’s relief, she had grown a full inch.

“Your teacher is here,” Françoise said, delivering a freshly laundered pair of ballet tights and a leotard.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” Phoebe replied, noting the date on the doorframe in red ink. Freyja had asked her to stop scratching the wood in favor of a felt-tip marker that smelled of cherries and unidentifiable chemicals. “I’ve grown, Françoise.”

“You still have a long way to go,” Françoise replied.

“I know, I know,” Phoebe said with a laugh. Françoise was not talking about her height. Even so, Françoise’s criticisms did not sting as they once had.

“Do you need help?” Françoise asked.

“No.” Phoebe could manage dressing herself now without popping all the buttons off her blouses and buggering up the zippers.

She peeled off her pajamas and bathrobe. Both were silk and kept her from waking up at night itchy and raw-skinned. Phoebe was still uncommonly sensitive, even when compared to other young vampires. Fabric, light, sound—they all had the potential to make her irritable. But Phoebe was now aware of these triggers and was able to manage them most days.