“What’s wrong with you, boy?” someone called out of the smoky gloom. “Why not keep her in bed, where she belongs?”
Veronique sailed through the room bestowing kisses on the cheeks of her favorites and accepting congratulations on the successful march on Versailles that she had helped to organize.
“Liberty!” a woman called from the counter where drinks were served.
“Fraternity!” the man next to her chimed in. This earned him a good-natured shove from his neighbor, which sent his coffee sloshing over the brim of the cup. Veronique served every kind of liquid refreshment a creature could desire—wine, coffee, tea, ale, chocolate, and even blood. The one thing she refused to serve was water.
Her customers began to bang their drinking vessels—dented tin and heavier pewter, fine glass and glowing copper, rough pottery and delicate porcelain—on tables, windowsills, the counter, walls, the backs of chairs, stools, and even on the skulls of nearby patrons.
Marcus grinned. He was not the only one drawn to Veronique’s fire and passion.
“Equality!” Veronique cried, holding her fist in the air.
Marcus watched the crowd swallow her up, everyone eager to hear what she had seen at the palace, and how the royal family had responded, and whether it was true that Veronique spoke to the queen.
Marcus no longer panicked when his skin prickled and his hackles rose to alert him that that there was another predator nearby. He had been a vampire for eight years and was now a fledgling, capable of feeding himself and moving like a warmblood. The sleepless hours no longer weighed on him. He spoke French like a native, could converse with his grandfather and Ysabeau in Greek, and debated philosophy with his father in Latin.
“Hello, Matthew.” Tonight, however, Marcus spoke in English, a language that he and his father shared but that was beyond the reach of the ordinary Parisians who filled La Ruche. He turned.
Matthew was sitting in a dark corner, as usual, sipping wine out of Veronique’s finest glass. His waistcoat was the color of soot and embroidered with paler gray and silver thread. The plain white shirt he wore underneath was immaculate, as were the silk hose that extended from knee to polished shoes. Marcus wondered how much the ensemble had cost, and reckoned it would be enough to feed a family of eight for a year or more in this part of town.
“You’re overdressed,” Marcus said mildly, approaching his father’s bench. “You should have donned your leather apron and brought a hammer and chisel if you wanted to blend in.”
The man next to Matthew turned, revealing a face that was strangely twisted, the angles of cheek and mouth set in a fleshy imitation of the tavern’s windows. Dark, deeply set eyes studied Marcus from under a thatch of black hair. Like Marcus, he wore no wig and his clothes were simple and made of thick, serviceable fabric.
“Jean-Paul!” Marcus was surprised to see Marat sharing a drink with his father. He wasn’t aware they knew each other.
“Marcus.” Marat moved along the bench, making room for him. “We are talking about death. Do you know Dr. Guillotin?”
The doctor inclined his head. He was dressed in somber black, though the material was expensive and the coat well cut. Guillotin’s dark eyebrows and the shadow at his jawline suggested there was dark hair under his powdered wig.
“Only by reputation.” Marcus wished he had ordered a drink first. “Dr. Franklin always spoke highly of you, sir.”
Guillotin extended his hand to Marcus. Marat eyed them both suspiciously and then buried his nose in his tin cup.
Marcus took the doctor’s hand and felt the shifting pressure in his grip that confirmed what Marat suspected: Guillotin was a Freemason, like Marcus. Like Matthew. Like Franklin. That meant that Guillotin knew about creatures, and about vampires in particular.
“Marcus often assisted Dr. Franklin in his laboratory,” Matthew said. “He is a surgeon, and interested in medical matters.”
“Like father, like son,” Guillotin said. “And you are a physician, too, Dr. Marat. How fortunate that I came upon my old friend the chevalier.”
No one came upon Matthew de Clermont by chance. Marcus wondered what constellation of influences had placed Matthew in Guillotin’s path.
“The doctor is trying to reform medicine.” Marat’s voice echoed strangely in his contorted nasal cavities. “He has picked the oddest place to begin. Dr. Guillotin wants to give criminals a quicker, more humane death.”
Marcus parted the tails of his coat and sat on the bench. God, he needed a drink. The pleasant hours he’d had with Veronique faded into memory as he prepared to navigate the tricky waters of this conversation.