“What is the meaning of this?” Ysabeau’s frosty voice cracked through the room. “The only excuse for your presence here, Baldwin, is that you have lost your senses.”
“Careful, Ysabeau. Your claws are showing.” Baldwin stalked toward the stairs. “And you forget:
I’m the head of the de Clermont family. I don’t need an excuse. Meet me in the family library, Matthew.
You, too, Diana.”
Baldwin turned to level his strange golden-brown eyes at Matthew. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
3
The de Clermont family library was bathed in a gentle predawn light that made everything in it appear in soft focus: the edges of the books, the strong lines of the wooden bookcases that lined the room, the warm golden and blue hues of the Aubusson rug.
What it could not blunt was my anger.
For three days I had thought that nothing could displace my grief over Emily’s death, but three minutes in Baldwin’s company had proved me wrong.
“Come in, Diana.” Baldwin sat in a thronelike Savonarola chair by the tall windows. His burnished red-gold hair gleamed in the lamplight, its color reminding me of the feathers on Augusta, the eagle that Emperor Rudolf hunted with in Prague. Every inch of Baldwin’s muscular frame was taut with anger and banked strength.
I looked around the room. We were not the only ones to have been summoned to Baldwin’s impromptu meeting. Waiting by the fireplace was a waif of a young woman with skin the color of skim milk and black, spiky hair. Her eyes were deep gray and enormous, fringed with thick lashes. She sniffed the air as though scenting a storm.
“Verin.” Matthew had warned me about Philippe’s daughters, who were so terrifying that the family asked him to stop making them. But she didn’t look very frightening. Verin’s face was smooth and serene, her posture easy, and her eyes sparkled with energy and intelligence. Were it not for her unrelieved black clothing, you might mistake her for an elf.
Then I noticed a knife hilt peeking out from her high-heeled black boots.
“W?lfling,” Verin replied. It was a cold greeting for a sister to give her brother, but the look she gave me was even more frigid. “Witch.”
“It’s Diana,” I said, my anger flaring.
“I told you there was no way to mistake it,” Verin said, turning to Baldwin without acknowledging my reply.
“Why are you here, Baldwin?” Matthew asked.
“I wasn’t aware I needed an invitation to come to my father’s house,” he replied. “But as it happens, I came from Venice to see Marcus.”
The eyes of the two men locked.
“Imagine my surprise at finding you here,” Baldwin continued. “Nor did I expect to discover that your mate is now my sister. Philippe died in 1945. So how is it that I can feel my father’s blood vow?
Smell it? Hear it?”
“Someone else can catch you up on the news.” Matthew took me by the hand and turned to go back upstairs.
“Neither of you is leaving my sight until I find out how that witch tricked a blood vow from a dead vampire.” Baldwin’s voice was low with menace.
“It was no trick,” I said, indignant.
“Was it necromancy, then? Some foul resurrection spell?” Baldwin asked. “Or did you conjure his spirit and force him to give you his vow?”
“What happened between Philippe and me had nothing to do with my magic and everything to do with his generosity.” My own anger burned hotter.
“You make it sound as though you knew him,” Baldwin said. “That’s impossible.”