A wave of contempt flooded Phoebe. Pathetic warmbloods.
“She’s high on something,” the woman said. “Or drunk.”
“Probably both,” her friend said, a nasty edge to his voice.
“You wish to file a report?” the police officer asked.
There was a long pause while the tourists weighed their umbrage against the inconvenience of spending the rest of their night and most of tomorrow filling out paperwork and answering routine questions.
“Or, you could leave this with me.” The officer’s voice dropped. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t trouble anyone else. Give her time to sober up.”
The flashlight was no longer moving across Phoebe’s eyes. Instead, it was a steady beacon. Phoebe’s attention remained fixed on it, unwavering.
“Lock her up,” the man recommended. “A night in a cell will sort her out.”
“Leave it to me, monsieur,” the police officer replied with a chuckle. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
“I’m sorry,” Jason said to the couple. He pressed something into the man’s hand. “For the sweater.”
“Keep your girlfriend on a tighter leash.” The man pocketed the money. “I find it does wonders for their disposition.”
Phoebe snarled at the insult, the light keeping her where she was. Had the flashlight not been there, Phoebe would have ripped the man’s tongue out so that he could never say something so demeaning again.
“I’m her brother,” Jason explained. “She’s visiting. From London.”
“Come on, Bill,” the woman said, her feet shuffling against the stones. “The police will take it from here.”
The officer didn’t switch off her flashlight until the couple’s footsteps and conversation had faded into silence.
“That was close,” Jason said.
“Too close. And too soon. Thirty is too young to be out at night,” the officer said.
“Freyja?” Phoebe blinked, bringing her eyes into better focus. There, standing in front of her, was Freyja de Clermont in a navy all-weather jacket, her tactical trousers tucked into heavy black boots, and a cap set on her head at an angle. Her hair was scraped back into a tight ponytail.
“I promised Marcus I would take care of you.” Freyja slid the flashlight into a loop on her belt, anchoring it near a formidable-looking gun.
“Where did you get the costume?” Phoebe was intrigued by the possibilities for freedom and adventure this implied.
“Oh, it’s no costume,” Freyja said. “I’ve been in uniform since they first let women serve on the National Police force as assistants in 1904.”
“How do you explain why you never . . .” Phoebe was distracted by a passing ambulance’s blaring siren and flashing red lights.
“I don’t explain. I’m a de Clermont. Everybody in Paris who is in a position to question me knows exactly what that means,” Freyja said.
“But we’re supposed to be a secret. I don’t understand.” Phoebe was tired and hungry, and her eyes stung. If she weren’t a vampire, she would swear she was getting a migraine.
“We are, Phoebe dear.” Freyja put a hand on Phoebe’s shoulder. “It just happens to be a secret that many people share. Come. Let’s get you home. You’ve had enough excitement for one night.”
Back at Freyja’s house, Phoebe was given a pair of oversize Chanel sunglasses, a cup of warm blood, and a pair of slippers. Fran?oise steered her to a seat in front of the fire, unlit on this June evening.
Miriam was reading her e-mail. She looked up from her phone when Phoebe and her entourage entered the room.
“Well?” Miriam smiled like a cat. “How was your first taste of independence?”
24
The Hidden Hand
15 JUNE
“Remind me never to host another birthday party.” It was late afternoon and I was in the kitchen, decanting a bottle of red wine. The family was in the garden, where the tables were set and the candles were waiting to be lit, sitting in deep wooden chairs or reclining on chaise longues under bright umbrellas. Matthew’s brother-in-law, Fernando Gon?alves, had joined us. Even the head of the de Clermont family, Matthew’s brother Baldwin, was in attendance.
Fernando was in the kitchen with me, helping Marthe to arrange trays of food. He was, as usual, barefoot. His jeans and open-necked shirt emphasized his casual approach to most things in life, one that was strikingly different from that of Baldwin, whose only concessions to a family celebration had been to take off his jacket and loosen his tie.