“Perhaps, Doctor, we could get rid of death altogether. The chevalier de Clermont could make us all immortal, if he wanted.” Marat, who was a daemon and should know better than to bait Matthew, pressed the matter further. “But true equality wouldn’t suit the vampires. Who would be their serviteurs de sang?”
“Oh, I think we would always keep a few daemons around—for amusement if not nourishment,” Matthew said quietly. “Like the fools and jesters of old.”
Marat flushed. He was sensitive about both his small stature and his appearance. Marat’s fingers scratched at his neck, where a rash bloomed red and pink.
“I oppose capital punishment, as you know, Monsieur Marat,” Guillotin said. “But if we must put criminals to death, let it be quick and painless. And let it be done in a regular, reliable fashion.”
“I’m not sure God means death to be painless,” Marcus said. He searched the room for someone who might bring him a drink. Veronique caught his eye, and her mouth dropped open in astonishment at the company he was keeping.
“Improvements need to be made to these mechanical executioners,” Guillotin continued, as if Marcus had not spoken. His real audience was Matthew, who was listening attentively. “They have engines of death in England and Scotland, but the axes are crude and crush the spine and tear the head from the body.”
Marat’s fingers dug deeper into his skin, vainly searching for relief from the itching. Matthew’s nostrils flared as blood rushed to the surface, and Marcus watched as his father pushed back the appetites that plagued all vampires. The chevalier de Clermont was famously self-controlled. Marcus envied him that. Even though Marat was his friend, and a daemon, the metallic tang of his blood still made Marcus’s mouth water.
“I need to speak to you.” Matthew was suddenly next to him, his lips close to Marcus’s ear.
Reluctantly, Marcus left Marat and Guillotin. It was not the conversation that made him want to stay, but the prospect of slaking his sudden thirst. Matthew led him to the stained wooden counter, where Veronique was watering down blood with wine. She handed a tall beaker to Marcus.
“Drink,” she said, looking worried. Marcus was still too young to be fully trustworthy in a crowd of warmbloods.
Matthew waited until Marcus had swallowed down half the liquid before he spoke.
“I think you should stay away from Marat. He’s trouble,” Matthew advised.
“Then so am I, for we share the same views,” Marcus retorted, his temper flaring. “You can order me around, make me study the law, restrict my funds, and forbid me from holding a job, but you cannot choose my friends.”
“If you persist, you’ll be summoned to an audience with Philippe.” Once again, Matthew had switched to English. It was a common de Clermont practice, moving from one language to another in an attempt to speak more privately.
“Grandfather doesn’t care what I do.” Marcus took another sip. “He has bigger fish to catch than Jean-Paul or me.”
“There is no such thing as a small fish during a revolution,” Matthew replied. “Any creature who causes a ripple, no matter how seemingly insignificant, can change the course of events. You know that, Marcus.”
Maybe, but Marcus had no intention of conceding to his father’s demands. This city was his home now. Marcus felt comfortable among the working poor of Paris in a way he never did perched on a silk-covered chair in Ysabeau’s salon or attending an aristocratic ball with Fanny.
“Go back to the ?le de la Cité where you belong,” Marcus told Matthew. “I’m sure Juliette is waiting for you.”
He did not like Matthew’s companion, whose soft, generous mouth said one thing and whose hard, dangerous eyes said something else.
Matthew’s eyes narrowed. Marcus felt a sense of satisfaction that his shot had reached its target.
“I can take care of myself,” Marcus insisted, turning his attention back to his drink.
“That’s what we all thought—once,” Matthew said softly. He slid a sealed letter across the counter. Embedded in the red-and-black marbled wax was an ancient coin. “You can’t say I didn’t try. I hope you enjoyed your liberty, equality, and brotherhood, Marcus. In the de Clermont family, it never lasts for very long.”
* * *
—
MARCUS WAS IN THE BACK room of La Ruche, dabbing at his wounds, wearing torn and filthy clothing. It was a frigid day in late January, and he had spent most of it running for his life.