2
Matthew raced down the curving stone staircase that wound between his tower rooms at Sept-Tours and the main floor of the chateau. He avoided the slippery spot on the thirtieth tread and the rough patch on the seventeenth where Baldwin’s sword had bashed the edge during one of their arguments.
Matthew had built the tower addition as his private refuge, a place apart from the relentless busyness that always surrounded Philippe and Ysabeau. Vampire families were large and noisy, with two or more bloodlines coming uncomfortably together and trying to live as one happy pack. This seldom happened with predators, even those who walked on two legs and lived in fine houses. As a result, Matthew’s tower was designed primarily for defense. It had no doors to muffle a vampire’s stealthy approach and no way out except for the way you came in. His careful arrangements spoke volumes about his relationships with his brothers and sisters.
Tonight his tower’s isolation seemed confining, a far cry from the busy life he and Diana had created in Elizabethan London, surrounded by family and friends. Matthew’s job as a spy for the queen had been challenging but rewarding. From his former seat on the Congregation, he had managed to save a few witches from burning. Diana had begun the lifelong process of growing into her powers as a witch. They’d even taken in two orphaned children and given them a chance at a better future. Their life in the sixteenth century had not always been easy, but their days had been filled with love and the sense of hope that followed Diana wherever she went. Here at Sept-Tours, they seemed surrounded on all sides by death and de Clermonts.
The combination made Matthew restless, and the anger he kept so carefully in check whenever Diana was near him was dangerously close to the surface. Blood rage—the sickness that Matthew had inherited from Ysabeau when she’d made him—could take over a vampire’s mind and body quickly, leaving no room for reason or control. In an effort to keep the blood rage in check, Matthew had reluctantly agreed to leave Diana in Ysabeau’s care while he walked around the castle grounds with his dogs, Fallon and Hector, trying to clear his head.
Gallowglass was crooning a sea chantey in the chateau’s great hall. For reasons Matthew couldn’t fathom, every other verse was punctuated by expletives and ultimatums. After a moment of indecision, Matthew’s curiosity won out.
“Fucking firedrake.” Gallowglass had one of the pikes down from the cache of weapons by the entrance and was waving it slowly in the air. “‘Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain.’ Get your arse down here, or Granny will poach you in white wine and feed you to the dogs. ‘For we’ve received
orders for to sail for old England.’ What are you thinking, flying around the house like a demented parakeet? ‘And we may never see you fair ladies again.’”
“What the hell are you doing?” Matthew demanded.
Gallowglass turned wide blue eyes on Matthew. The younger man was wearing a black T-shirt adorned with a skull and crossbones. Something had slashed the back, rending it from left shoulder to right hip. The holes in his nephew’s jeans looked to be the result of wear, not war, and his hair was shaggy even by Gallowglassian standards. Ysabeau had taken to calling him “Sir Vagabond,” but this had done little to improve his grooming.
“Trying to catch your wife’s wee beastie.” Gallowglass made a sudden upward thrust with the pike.
There was a shriek of surprise, followed by a hail of pale green scales that shattered like isinglass when they hit the floor. The blond hair on Gallowglass’s forearms shimmered with their iridescent green dust.
He sneezed.
Corra, Diana’s familiar, was clinging to the minstrels’ gallery with her talons, chattering madly and clacking her tongue. She waved hello to Matthew with her barbed tail, piercing a priceless tapestry depicting a unicorn in a garden. Matthew winced. “I had her cornered in the chapel, up by the altar, but Corra is a cunning lass,” Gallowglass said with a touch of pride. “She was hiding atop Granddad’s tomb, her wings spread wide. I mistook her for an effigy. Now look at her. Up in the rafters, vainglorious as the devil and twice as much trouble. Why, she’s put her tail through one of Ysabeau’s favorite draperies. Granny is going to have a stroke.”