Given that incentive, Phoebe was determined to succeed. She’d pored over the arrangements, rehearsed every moment of going out into the city in the privacy of her room, and felt ready for any eventuality.
A knock sounded at the door.
Phoebe practically leaped into the air with excitement. She was about to meet a member of her new family. Fran?oise gave her a stern look when it seemed as though Phoebe herself might rush to the door and fling it open. Phoebe stilled her feet, folded her hands before her, and waited in Freyja’s salon.
This act of self-control earned her a slightly approving glance from Miriam, and a small smile from Fran?oise as she left to see to their visitor.
“Milord Jason,” Fran?oise said. A wave of unfamiliar scent washed over Phoebe: fir and the dark scent of mulberries. “Serena Miriam is in the salon.”
“Thank you, Fran?oise.” Jason’s voice was low and pleasing, accented in a way that Phoebe—traveled as she was—had not heard before.
When he entered the room, Jason pinned his hazel eyes on Miriam. He ignored Phoebe completely, walking past her without a second glance. Jason was about Marcus’s height—perhaps an inch shorter—and of a similarly compact, muscular build.
“Miriam.” Jason kissed Phoebe’s maker on both cheeks. The greeting was respectful and affectionate, but by no means warm.
“Jason.” Miriam studied her mate’s son. “You look well.”
“As do you. Motherhood suits you,” Jason replied drily.
“I’d forgotten how hard it is to raise a vampire,” Miriam said with a sigh. “Phoebe, this is Bertrand’s son Jason.”
Jason turned toward Phoebe as if noticing her presence for the first time. Phoebe stared at him with open curiosity even though she knew this was the height of rudeness. She took in his open, honest expression, the slight bump on the bridge of his nose, the streaks of gold in his brown hair.
“Forgive her. She’s still a child,” Miriam said disapprovingly.
Phoebe remembered that she was supposed to be good and bit back a defensive retort. Instead, she extended her hand. Phoebe had been imagining this moment for days. She knew it would not be possible to walk toward him—she might run him over in her excitement. Even so, could she behave like a human, and simply shake hands without crushing Jason’s fingers?
Jason stood before her, eyes slightly narrowed in appraisal. Then he whistled.
“For once in his life, Marcus didn’t exaggerate,” he said softly. “You are as beautiful as he promised.”
Phoebe smiled. Her hand was still extended. She lifted it slightly. “Pleased to meet you.”
Jason took her hand, raised it to his lips, and pressed a kiss upon her fingers.
Phoebe withdrew her hand as if she’d been slapped.
“You’re supposed to shake it, not kiss it.” Phoebe’s voice trembled with fury, though she didn’t know why the innocent gesture angered her so.
Jason stepped back, a grin on his face and both hands raised in a gesture of surrender.
Once the tension in the hall subsided, Jason spoke.
“Well, Miriam, she didn’t accept my overture, nor did she strike me, bite me, or run out the open door.” Jason nodded with approval. “You’ve done well.”
“Phoebe has done well,” Miriam said, her voice tinged with something Phoebe had not heard in it before. Pride.
“I just provided the blood,” Miriam continued. “Freyja and Fran?oise have done the rest. And Phoebe herself, of course.”
“That’s not true.” Phoebe was startled to hear herself contradicting Miriam. “Not just blood but history. Lineage. An understanding of my duty as a vampire.”
“Very well done indeed, Miriam,” Jason said softly. “Are you sure she’s only thirty-one days old?”
“Maybe Freyja’s modern parenting ideas aren’t as ridiculous as they seem,” Miriam mused. She shooed Phoebe and Jason in the direction of the front door. “Go. Get out of my sight. Come back in an hour. Maybe two.”
“Thank you, Miriam,” Phoebe said, already headed out of the room.
“And for God’s sake, stay out of trouble,” Miriam called after them.
* * *
—
THE STREETS OF THE 8TH arrondissement were by no means empty at this late hour. Couples were returning from their suppers at favorite restaurants. Pairs of lovers strolled arm in arm along the wide boulevards. Through illuminated windows, Phoebe could see night owls watching television, the canned laughter and gloomy newscasters forming a strange chorus. Snatches of conversation traveled through open bedroom windows as warmbloods took advantage of the June air.