“Here. Try this one.” Freyja, who was serving as vampire mixologist, gave a chased Tiffany cocktail shaker a final jiggle and poured the contents into a waiting silver beaker. A bottle of red wine stood nearby, the cork pulled, along with a ewer of water to dilute the blood if required. Long-handled spoons of silver, horn, and even gold littered the area by her elbow. Fran?oise scooped these up, deposited fresh ones, and disappeared into the nether reaches of the house.
Miriam had a clipboard and was, as usual, collating information. For Phoebe’s maker, life was a collection of data points waiting to be gathered, organized, assessed, analyzed, and regularly augmented with still more data. The development of Phoebe’s vampire taste was Miriam’s latest project.
Phoebe couldn’t help wondering whether this was how Miriam had stayed sane through the centuries without Ori. She had seen in Miriam’s blood that her maker had been prioress in Jerusalem. The priory had an extensive ossuary, and Miriam had spent much of her time there counting and recounting bones, arranging and rearranging them in new groups according to type. One year Miriam sorted them by date of burial. The next, she arranged them by size. After that, Miriam assembled whole skeletons out of the constituent parts, only to take them to pieces again and start over with another sorting scheme.
“Number thirty-two. What’s in it?” Miriam asked, scribbling a fresh entry into her notes.
“Let’s wait until Phoebe decides if she likes it or not,” Freyja said, handing Phoebe the small cup. “We don’t want her natural taste to be altered by preconceived notions of right and wrong. Phoebe must feel free to experiment and try new things.”
Phoebe had vomited up the dog’s blood after she’d been told what it was, and even though Freyja had tried to sneak some more past her, much adulterated with Chateauneuf-du-Pape and cold water, the mere thought of consuming it had nauseated her.
“I’m not hungry.” Phoebe just wanted to close her eyes and sleep. She didn’t want new foods. She was happy with Persephone’s blood.
“You have to eat.” Miriam’s tone brooked no refusal.
“I did.” Phoebe had sipped from the cat that morning.
Persephone was curled up in her basket at Phoebe’s feet, lost in slumber, the faint paddling of her paws suggesting that she was happily dreaming of chasing mice. Phoebe, on the other hand, was so mentally exhausted that she could hardly string a sentence together. A sharp pang of jealous rage that the cat could be sleeping so peacefully, when she could not, rose in her gorge with startling swiftness. She lunged.
Freyja had the cat by the scruff of the neck in a flash, while Miriam had hold of Phoebe.
“Let me go.” Phoebe’s words came out in a snarl, the reverberations in the depths of her throat nearly choking her.
“You do not shed blood in someone else’s house,” Miriam said, her grip tightening.
“I’ve already shed blood here,” Phoebe said, her gaze locking with Miriam’s. “Persephone—”
“The cat,” Miriam interrupted, still refusing to call it by name, “entered this house for your use and with Freyja’s permission—for consumption in your own room, not anywhere you felt like eating. It was certainly not provided for you to kill out of envy or for sport.”
For a moment, Miriam and Phoebe faced off. Then, Phoebe looked away. It was a sign of submission. This much she had learned in her four days as a vampire: Don’t challenge your elders—and certainly not your maker—with a direct stare.
“Apologize to Freyja.” Miriam dropped Phoebe and returned to her clipboard. “She’s gone to a great deal of trouble on your behalf. Most infants aren’t given this kind of consideration. They feed off what they’re given, without complaint.”
“Sorry.” Phoebe plopped back into her chair with ill grace and such force that the legs cracked ominously.
“It’s f—” Freyja began.
“It certainly is not.” Miriam’s glacial gaze returned to Phoebe. “Stand up, Phoebe. Do so without breaking anything. Once you have, go to Freyja and kneel. Then you will apologize. Properly.”
It was hard to know who was more shocked by this set of instructions—Phoebe or Freyja.
“I will not!” The whole idea of making obeisance to Freyja was appalling, even if she was Marcus’s aunt.
“It’s not necessary, Miriam,” Freyja protested, her expression alarmed. She deposited Persephone in her basket.