“Well, maybe not the dean.” Chris’s voice dropped. “Matthew isn’t going to bite me to keep me quiet?”
“No,” I assured him.
Fernando inserted his foot between the keeping-room doors and nudged them open.
“I’d be happy to bite you instead, but only if you ask very nicely.” Fernando put a tray on the table.
“Sarah thought you might like coffee. Or something stronger. Call me if you need anything else. No need to shout.” He gave Chris the kind of dazzling smile he’d bestowed on the coven’s female membership at the Lughnasadh potluck.
“Saddling the wrong horse, Fernando,” I warned as he departed.
“He’s a vampire, too?” Chris whispered.
“Yep. Matthew’s brother-in-law.” I held up the whiskey bottle and the coffeepot. “Coffee?
Whiskey?”
“Both,” said Chris, reaching for a mug. He looked at me in alarm. “You haven’t kept this witch business from your aunt, have you?”
“Sarah’s a witch, too. So was Em.” I poured a healthy slug of whiskey in his mug and topped it off with a bit of coffee. “This is the third or fourth pot of the day, so it’s mostly decaf. Otherwise we have to scrape Sarah off the ceiling.”
“Coffee makes her fly?” Chris took a sip, considered a moment, and added more whiskey.
“In a manner of speaking,” I said, uncapping the water and taking a swig. The babies fluttered, and I gave my abdomen a gentle pat.
“I can’t believe you’re pregnant.” For the first time, Chris sounded amazed.
“You’ve just learned that I spent most of last year in the sixteenth century, I have a pet dragon, and that you’re surrounded by daemons, vampires, and witches, but it’s my pregnancy that you find implausible?”
“Trust me, honey,” Chris said, pulling out his best Alabama drawl. “It’s way more implausible.”
13
When the phone rang, it was pitch black outside. I shook myself from sleep, reaching across the bed to jostle Matthew awake. He wasn’t there.
I rolled over and picked up his mobile from the bedside table. The name MIRIAM was displayed, along with the time. Three o’clock Monday morning. My heart thudded in alarm. Only an emergency would have induced her to call at such an hour.
“Miriam?” I said after pushing the answer button.
“Where is he?” Miriam’s voice shook. “I need to speak with Matthew.”
“I’ll find him. He must be downstairs, or outside hunting.” I threw off the covers. “Is something wrong?”
“Yes,” Miriam said abruptly. Then she switched to another language, one I didn’t understand. The cadence was unmistakable, though. Miriam Shephard was praying.
Matthew burst through the door, Fernando behind him.
“Here’s Matthew.” I hit the speaker button and handed him the phone. He was not going to have this conversation in private.
“What is it, Miriam?” Matthew said.
“There was a note. In the mailbox. A Web address was typed on it.” There was a curse, a jagged sob, and Miriam’s prayer resumed.
“Text me the address, Miriam,” Matthew said calmly.
“It’s him, Matthew. It’s Benjamin,” Miriam whispered. “And there was no stamp on the envelope.
He must still be here. In Oxford.”
I leaped out of bed, shivering in the predawn darkness.