Matthew shook his head. “No. I drank every drop of his blood, so Philippe wouldn’t have to watch as his life force was spilled.”
“But then you saw . . .” I couldn’t keep the horror out of my voice. When a vampire drank from another creature, that creature’s memories came along with the fluid in fleeting, teasing glimpses. Matthew had freed his father from torment, but only after first sharing everything Philippe had suffered.
“Most creatures’ memories come in a smooth stream, like a ribbon unwinding in the darkness. With Philippe it was like swallowing shards of glass. Even when I got past the recent events, his mind was so badly fractured that I almost couldn’t continue.” His shaking intensified. “It took forever. Philippe was broken, lost, and frightened, but his heart was still fierce. His last thoughts were of Ysabeau. They were the only memories that were still whole, still his.”
“It’s all right,” I murmured again and again, holding him tightly until finally his limbs began to quiet.
“You asked me who I am at the Old Lodge. I’m a killer, Diana. I’ve killed thousands,” Matthew said eventually, his voice muffled. “But I never had to look any of them in the face again. Only Ysabeau knows the truth, and she cannot look at me without remembering my father’s death. Now I have to face you, too.”
I cradled his head between my hands and drew him away so that our eyes met. Matthew’s perfect face usually masked the ravages of time and experience. But all the evidence was on display now, and it only made him more beautiful to me. At last the man I loved made sense: his insistence that I face who and what I was, his reluctance to kill Juliette even to save his own life, his conviction that once I truly knew him, I could never love him.
“I love all of you, Matthew: warrior and scientist, killer and healer, dark and light.”
“How can you?” he whispered, disbelieving.
“Philippe couldn’t have gone on like that. Your father would have kept trying to take his own life, and from everything you say, he’d suffered enough.” I couldn’t imagine how much, but my beloved Matthew had witnessed it all. “What you did was an act of mercy.”
“I wanted to disappear when it was over, to leave Sept-Tours and never come back,” he confessed. “But Philippe made me promise to keep the family and the brotherhood together. I swore that I would take care of Ysabeau, too. So I stayed here, sat in his chair, pulled the political strings he wanted pulled, finished the war he gave his life to win.”
“Philippe wouldn’t have put Ysabeau’s welfare in the hands of someone he despised. Or placed a coward in charge of the Order of Lazarus.”
“Baldwin accused me of lying about Philippe’s wishes. He thought the brotherhood would go to him. No one could fathom why our father had decided to give the Order of Lazarus to me instead. Perhaps it was his final act of madness.”
“It was faith,” I said softly, reaching down and lacing my fingers through his. “Philippe believes in you. So do I. These hands built this church. They were strong enough to hold your son and your father during their final moments on this earth. And they still have work to do.”
High above there was a beating of wings. A dove had flown through the clerestory windows and lost its way among the exposed roof beams. It struggled, freed itself, and swooped down into the church. The dove landed on the stone that marked the final resting place of Blanca and Lucas and moved its feet in a deliberate circular dance until it faced Matthew and me. Then it cocked its head and studied us with one blue eye.
Matthew shot to his feet at the sudden intrusion, and the startled dove flew toward the other side of the apse. It beat its wings, slowing before the likeness of the Virgin. When I was convinced it was going to crash into the wall, it swiftly reversed direction and flew back out the way it had entered.
A long white feather from the dove’s wing drifted and curled on the currents of air, landing on the pavement before us. Matthew bent to pick it up, his expression puzzled as he held it before him.
“I’ve never seen a white dove in the church before.” Matthew looked to the half dome of the apse where the same bird hovered over Christ’s head.
“It’s a sign of of resurrection and hope. Witches believe in signs, you know.” I closed his hands around the feather. I kissed him lightly on the forehead and turned to leave. Perhaps now that he had shared his memories, he could find peace.
“Diana?” Matthew called. He was still by his family’s grave. “Thank you for hearing my confession.”