“I sure as hell hope there’s enough bourbon in this house to wash down all the bullshit,” Chris said.
“‘Milord’ my ass. And I’m not bowing to anybody.”
“Duly noted,” Marcus said. “What brings you both to New Orleans?”
“Miriam sent me,” Chris said. “I’ve got test results for Matthew, and she didn’t want to send them electronically. Plus, Fernando didn’t know how to find Matthew. Good thing Jack and I stayed in touch.”
He smiled at the young man. Jack grinned back.
“As for me, I am here to save your father from himself,” Fernando bowed again, this time with a trace of mockery. “With your permission, milord.”
“Be my guest,” Marcus said, stepping inside. “But if you call me ‘milord’ or bow to me one more time, I’ll put you in the bayou. And Chris will help me.”
“I’ll show you where Matthew is,” Jack said, already eager to rejoin his idol.
“What about me? We need to catch up,” Chris said, grabbing his arm. “Have you been sketching, Jack?”
“My sketchbook is upstairs. . . .” Jack cast a worried look toward the back garden. “Matthew isn’t feeling well. He never leaves me when I’m like this. I should—”
Fernando rested his hands on the young man’s tense shoulders. “You remind me of Matthew, back when he was a young vampire.” It hurt Fernando’s heart to see it, but it was true.
“I do?” Jack sounded awed.
“You do. Same compassion. Same courage, too.” Fernando looked at Jack thoughtfully. “And you share Matthew’s hope that if you shoulder the burdens of others, they will love you in spite of the sickness in your veins.”
Jack looked at his feet. “Did Matthew tell you that his brother Hugh was my mate?” Fernando asked.
“No,” Jack murmured.
“Long ago Hugh told Matthew something very important. I am here to remind him of it.” Fernando waited for Jack to meet his eyes.
“What?” Jack asked, unable to hide his curiosity.
“If you truly love someone, you will cherish what they despise most about themselves.” Fernando’s voice dropped. “Next time Matthew forgets that, you remind him. And if you forget, I’ll remind you.
Once. After that, I’m telling Diana that you are wallowing in self-hatred. And your mother is not nearly as forgiving as I am.”
Fernando found Matthew in the narrow back garden, under the cover of a small gazebo. The rain that had been threatening all evening had finally started to fall. He was oddly preoccupied with his phone.
Every minute or so, his thumb moved, followed by a fixed stare, then another movement of the thumb.
“You’re as bad as Diana, staring at her phone all the time without ever sending a message.”
Fernando’s laughter stopped abruptly. “It’s you. You’ve been in touch with her all along.”
“Just pictures. No words. I don’t trust myself—or the Congregation—with words.” Matthew’s thumb moved.
Fernando had heard Diana say to Sarah, “Still no word from Matthew.” Literally speaking, the witch had not lied, which had prevented the family from knowing her secret. And as long as Diana sent only pictures, there would be little way for Matthew to know how badly things had gone wrong in Oxford.
Matthew’s breath was ragged. He steadied it with visible effort. His thumb moved.
“Do that one more time and I’ll break it. And I’m not talking about the phone.”