“I’ve decided to become a vampire.” Phoebe’s eyes shone with happiness as she looked at her once-and-forever husband. “Marcus insists that I get used to that before we marry, so yes, our engagement may be a bit longer than we’d like.”
Phoebe sounded as though she were contemplating minor plastic surgery or a change of hairstyle, rather than a complete biological transformation.
“I don’t want her to have any regrets,” Marcus said softly, his face split into a wide grin.
“Phoebe will not become a vampire. I forbid it.” Matthew’s voice was quiet, but it seemed to echo in the crowded room.
“You don’t get a vote. This is our decision—Phoebe’s and mine,” Marcus said. Then he threw down the gauntlet. “And of course Baldwin’s. He is head of the family.”
Baldwin tented his fingers in front of his face as though considering the question, while Matthew looked at his son in disbelief. Marcus returned his father’s stare with a challenging one of his own.
“All I’ve ever wanted is a traditional marriage, like Grandfather and Ysabeau enjoyed,” Marcus said. “When it comes to love, you’re the family revolutionary, Matthew. Not me.”
“Even if Phoebe were to become a vampire, it could never be traditional. Because of the blood rage, she should never take blood from your heart vein,” Matthew said.
“I’m sure Grandfather took Ysabeau’s blood.” Marcus looked to his grandmother. “Isn’t that right?”
“Do you want to take that risk, knowing what we know now about blood-borne diseases?” Matthew said. “If you truly love her, Marcus, don’t change her.”
Matthew’s phone rang, and he reluctantly looked at the display. “It’s Miriam,” he said, frowning.
“She wouldn’t call at this hour unless something important had come up in the lab,” Marcus said.
Matthew switched on the phone’s speaker so the warmbloods could hear as well as the vampires and answered the call. “Miriam?”
“No, Father. It’s your son. Benjamin.”
The voice on the other end of the line was both alien and familiar, as the voices in nightmares often were. Ysabeau rose to her feet, her face the color of snow.
“Where is Miriam?” Matthew demanded.
“I don’t know,” Benjamin replied, his tone lazy. “Perhaps with someone named Jason. He’s called a few times. Or someone named Amira. She called twice. Miriam is your bitch, Father. Perhaps if you snap your fingers, she will come running.”
Marcus opened his mouth, and Baldwin hissed a warning that made his nephew’s jaws snap shut.
“I’m told there was trouble at Sept-Tours. Something about a witch,” Benjamin said.
Matthew refused to take the bait.
“The witch had discovered a de Clermont secret, I understand, but died before she could reveal it.
Such a shame.” Benjamin made a sound of mocking sympathy. “Was she anything like the one you were holding in thrall in Prague? A fascinating creature.”
Matthew swung his head around, automatically checking that I was safe.
“You always said I was the black sheep of the family, but we’re more alike than you want to admit,” Benjamin continued. “I’ve even come to share your appreciation for the company of witches.”
I felt the change in the air as the rage surged through Matthew’s veins. My skin prickled, and a dull throbbing started in my left thumb.
“Nothing you do interests me,” Matthew said coldly.