One by one Marcus’s family grew larger and more boisterous. It happened so incrementally that Marcus took no notice of it, though Marguerite D’Arcantel and her coven surely did, as did the city officials.
By the time yellow fever hit the city hard in the summer of 1817, Marcus had generated a family of two dozen men and women of all backgrounds, religions, colors, and languages in his charge, as well as three distilleries, two brothels, and Ransome’s Domino Club, which had been shut down several times only to come back to life, vampire-like, as a members-only dining establishment. Since the mayor was the first to join, it seemed unlikely that the card games and sexual liaisons that took place before and after meals would get them into trouble.
It was at the height of the epidemic that New Orleans residents began to ask questions about Marcus and his family. Why did none of them ever get sick? What was keeping them healthy, when everyone else was dying of the fever? There were rumors of voodoo, which Marcus laughed off. He was feeling comfortable in New Orleans now. Marcus liked the city, and its inhabitants. He was well-fed, happy with his work, and enjoyed his family and their fast-paced life. Sometimes Marcus worried that he and Ransome were drawing too much attention to themselves, but it was easy to shrug off those concerns and focus instead on another game of cards or a new woman in his bed.
He and Ransome were at the Domino Club, counting the night’s take while Geraldine recorded the sums in the club’s ledger, when a woman arrived at the door. She was beautiful—not just pretty, but jaw-droppingly perfect. Her mixed-race heritage showed in her softly curled hair—most of which was piled on her head while the rest fell in tendrils that clung to her neck in the humid air—her café au lait skin, and her high cheekbones.
“Marcus de Clermont.” The woman smiled like a cat.
Ransome pulled a pistol out of the desk drawer.
“Juliette.” Marcus’s heart jumped, and Geraldine looked from him to the woman at the door, curious about her effect on him.
“Hello, Marcus.” His maker, Matthew de Clemont, joined the woman. “I told you he would remember you, Juliette.”
“What are you doing here?” Marcus asked Matthew, dazed by the sudden intrusion of past into present.
“I’ve come to meet my grandchildren. They’re the talk of the town.” His voice was calm, but Matthew was clearly furious. “Will you introduce me—or should I do it myself?”
* * *
—
“I TRUST YOU KNOW my son.” Matthew poured a glass of wine for the aristocratic vampire who sat across the table. It was so polished that you could see the dark reflections in the mahogany surface.
“Everybody knows him.” The vampire, like Matthew, spoke French. Marcus’s French was excellent thanks to Fanny and Stéphanie, and living in New Orleans kept him fluent.
“I am sorry for that.” Matthew sounded genuinely regretful.
“Louis.” Juliette sailed into the room, a silk turban wrapped around her head that nonetheless allowed a few curls to escape and tumble around her delicate face and neck. Her dress was also silk, caught under her breasts in a way that accentuated her slim figure and the curve of her shoulders and bosom.
“Juliette.” Louis stood and bowed. He kissed her on both cheeks in the French manner and pulled out a chair.
“So you’ve met Matthew’s problem child.” Juliette pushed out her lower lip in a seductive pout. “He’s been very naughty, I hear. What shall we do with him?”
Matthew looked at Juliette fondly. He poured her a glass of wine.
“Thank you, my love, but I would prefer blood,” Juliette said. “Would you like a slave, Louis, or are you content with wine?”
“I have all that I require at present,” Louis said.
“We have no slaves.” Marcus had been told not to speak unless he was directly addressed by one of his elders, but he detested Juliette Durand.
“You do now.” Juliette snapped her fingers and a vacant-looking black girl walked into the room. She stumbled and nearly fell.
“Juliette. Not here,” Matthew said, a note of warning in his voice.
But Juliette ignored him.
“I’ve told you not to be so clumsy.” Juliette pointed at the floor before her. “Kneel. Offer yourself to me.”
The girl did so. There was a look of panic in her eyes, quickly shuttered. She tilted her head to the side, and once again nearly toppled over.
“How much blood have you taken from her?” Marcus leaped out of his chair and pulled the girl away. He examined her eyes, and felt the pulse at her wrist. It was weak, and stuttering.