“I lied.” Matthew’s voice cracked at the admission.
“You can’t have blood rage, Matt,” Hamish said. “There was a mention of it in the family papers.
Its symptoms include blind fury, the inability to reason, and an overwhelming instinct to kill. You’ve never shown any sign of the disease.”
“I’ve learned to control it,” Matthew said. “Most of the time.”
“Thank God for that. If the Congregation were to find out, there would be a price on your head.
According to what I’ve read here, other creatures would have carte blanche to destroy you,” Hamish observed.
“Not just me.” Matthew’s glance flickered over my rounding abdomen. “My children, too.”
Sarah’s expression was stricken. “The babies . . .”
“And Marcus?” Phoebe’s knuckles showed white on the edge of the table though her voice was calm. “Marcus is only a carrier,” Matthew tried to reassure her. “The symptoms manifest immediately, and he’s never shown any signs of them.”
“And how did Marcus contract blood rage? Someone he fed from?” Phoebe asked.
“It’s genetic. I thought once that it was a virus, but it was in my blood and I passed it on to Marcus the moment I made him.” Matthew looked his son squarely in the eye. “When I made you, I genuinely believed that I was cured. It had been almost a century since I’d had an episode. It was the Age of Reason. In our pride we believed that all sorts of past evils had been eradicated, from smallpox to superstition. Then you went to New Orleans.”
“My own children.” Marcus looked wild, and then understanding dawned. “You and Juliette Durand came to the city, and they started turning up dead. You killed them because of their blood rage.”
“Your father had no choice,” Ysabeau said. “The Congregation knew there was trouble in New Orleans. Philippe ordered Matthew to deal with it before the vampires found out the cause. Had Matthew refused, you all would have died.”
“The other vampires on the Congregation were convinced that the old scourge of blood rage had returned,” Matthew said. “They wanted to raze the city and burn it out of existence, but I argued that the madness was a result of youth and inexperience, not blood rage. I was supposed to kill them all. I was supposed to kill you, too, Marcus.”
Marcus looked surprised. Ysabeau did not.
“Philippe was furious with me, but I destroyed only those who were symptomatic. I killed them quickly, without pain or fear,” Matthew said, his voice dead. I hated the secrets he kept and the lies he told to cover them up, but my heart hurt for him nonetheless. “I explained away the rest of my grandchildren’s excesses however I could—poverty, inebriation, greed. Then I took responsibility for what happened in New Orleans, resigned my seat on the Congregation, and swore that you would make no more children until you were older and wiser.”
“You told me I was a failure—a disgrace to the family.” Marcus was hoarse with suppressed emotion.
“I had to make you stop. I didn’t know what else to do.” Matthew confessed his sins without asking for forgiveness.
“Who else knows your secret, Matthew?” Sarah asked.
“Verin, Baldwin, Stasia, and Freyja. Fernando and Gallowglass. Miriam. Marthe. Alain.” Matthew extended his fingers one by one as the names tumbled from his mouth. “So did Hugh, Godfrey, Hancock, Louisa, and Louis.”
Marcus looked at his father bitterly. “I want to know everything. From the beginning.”
“Matthew cannot tell you the beginning of this tale,” Ysabeau said softly. “Only I can.”
“No, Maman,” Matthew said, shaking his head. “That’s not necessary.”