The mint in her mouth turned to paste. Phoebe spat it across the room, where it pinged as it hit the window.
Another crack, Phoebe thought with sorrow.
The cat stretched, sighed, and turned her belly and paws heavenward, filling the room with a musky scent. She no longer smelled dry and unappealing. Now, with Phoebe’s hunger mounting, she smelled glorious.
Phoebe took the cat’s decision to expose her soft underbelly as the long-awaited sign of permission. Moving quickly, before she lost her nerve, Phoebe bent over the cat and bit decisively into her neck. Phoebe’s mouth filled with the coppery tang of blood. It was not as satisfying as Miriam’s, but it was fuel and would keep her from going mad.
After three swallows the cat began to stir. Phoebe withdrew reluctantly from the animal, her fingers pressing into the spot in its neck where she had taken its blood, and waited for the cat to die.
But the cat was a survivor. She studied Phoebe with glazed eyes. Deliberately, Phoebe brought her thumb to her teeth. She bit down. Hard.
The cat lapped the blood with the same curiosity as before, and returned to dozing.
Phoebe drank six more swallows of blood before the cat stirred again. The warm drink had taken the edge off her hunger, though Phoebe was far from satiated. She used a bit more of her blood to help the wound on the cat’s neck scab over so that a second set of sheets was not ruined. Phoebe could not afford to further annoy Fran?oise, bringer of Pellegrino and Hello! magazines.
The cat woke from her induced slumber when the clocks in the house sounded the half hour. Phoebe removed the tasseled rope that tied back one of the curtains, and she and the cat played with it until the clocks struck the hour.
It was then that Phoebe knew that she and the cat would not be parted. Not by death. Not by another vampire. They belonged together.
“What should I call you?” Phoebe wondered aloud.
* * *
—
IT HAD BEEN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS since Phoebe had fed from Miriam.
A gentle knock on the door announced the arrival of her visitors. Phoebe had heard them coming up the stairs like a herd of elephants, waking the cat.
“Come in,” Phoebe called, her body curved protectively around the purring bundle. She pulled on the cat’s tail and scratched the bridge of her nose, much to the animal’s delight.
“You’ve done remarkably well, Phoebe,” Freyja said, her eyes taking a quick inventory of the room. There was not a speck of blood anywhere. “Where’s the body?”
“There isn’t a body.” Phoebe “There’s a cat. And she’s right here.”
“She’s not dead,” Miriam said, sounding slightly impressed.
“She is called Persephone,” Phoebe replied.
11
Liberty and Restraint
18 MAY
“There’s a griffin on the second-floor landing.” Sarah entered the library in a cloud of bergamot and lavender. Agatha had been in the fragrant stillroom next to the kitchen, experimenting with essential oils. Inspired by their recent trip to Provence, Agatha was considering launching a line of signature scents.
I looked up from my desk, where I was trying to put what Marcus had told us last night into some kind of context. What was available online was little help. Most accounts of the early years of the American Revolution focused on battle strategies or the occupation of Boston. Few focused on western Massachusetts, the socioeconomic effects of the French and Indian Wars, or generational conflicts between fathers and sons. I would need access to a proper research library to learn more.
“It’s quite good, isn’t it?” I said absently, returning my attention to my notes.
The tapestry that hung on the wall had a rich red background, and the profuse flowers that surrounded the woven griffin brightened up what would otherwise have been a dark space.
“Ysabeau bought it in the fifteenth century. Phoebe thinks it came from the same workshop that produced the unicorn tapestries at the Musée de Cluny in Paris,” I continued. “What was the first name of that gunsmith Marcus mentioned? Saul? Stephen? I want to look him up in this encyclopedia of Massachusetts soldiers and sailors I found online.”
“Seth. And I am not talking about Ysabeau’s old carpet.” Sarah held out a bleeding index finger. “I mean a live griffin. It’s small, but its beak works.”
I scrambled to my feet and dashed toward the stairs.
The griffin who had taken a bite out of Sarah was sitting before the tapestry, cooing and chattering to its much larger woven sister. From beak to tip of the tail, it was about two feet long, with front legs, head, and neck that resembled those of an eagle, and the hindquarters and tail of a lion. Its beak and talons were formidable looking, in spite of its relatively small size.