“I am not bothered by the prospect of pain. Let’s just get this over with.” Phoebe’s tone indicated that she hoped to put an end to this conversational avenue—forever.
Freyja and Miriam exchanged glances.
“How about a local anesthetic for the bite?” Miriam asked, turning clinical once more.
“For God’s sake, Miriam.” When not feeling like a potential Olympian, Phoebe was convinced she was in the most thorough preoperative consultation ever conducted. “I don’t want anesthesia. I want to feel the bite. I want to feel the pain. This is the only birthing process I’m ever going to have. I’m not going to miss it.”
Phoebe was quite clear on this score.
“No act of creation has ever been painless,” she continued. “Miracles should leave a mark, so that we can remember how precious they are.”
“Very well, then,” Freyja said, brisk and efficient. “The doors are locked. The windows are locked. Fran?oise and Charles are standing by. Just in case.”
“I still think we should have done this in Denmark.” Even now, Miriam couldn’t stop reanalyzing the procedure. “There are too many beating hearts in Paris.”
“Lejre has nearly fifteen hours of daylight this time of year. Phoebe wouldn’t be able to stand so much sunshine so quickly,” Freyja argued.
“Yes, but the hunting . . .” Miriam began.
What would follow, Phoebe knew, was a long comparison of French and Danish fauna, in which the nutritive benefits of both would be considered, taking into account variability in size, freshness, farmed versus wild, and the unpredictable appetites of the infant vampire.
“That’s it,” Phoebe said, headed for the door. “Maybe Charles will change me. I cannot go over these arrangements one. More. Time.”
“She’s ready,” Miriam and Freyja said in unison.
Phoebe pulled the loose neck of the white dressing gown aside, exposing rich veins and arteries. “Then do it.”
The words were barely out of her mouth when Phoebe felt a sharp sensation.
Numbness.
Tingling.
Suction.
Phoebe’s knees buckled and her head swam as the shock of rapid blood loss overtook her. Her brain registered that she was being attacked and was in mortal danger, and her adrenaline rose.
Her field of vision narrowed, and the room dimmed.
Strong arms caught her.
Phoebe floated in a velvet darkness, sinking into folds of quiet.
Peace.
* * *
—
A SEARING COLD BROUGHT HER back to awareness.
Phoebe was freezing, burning.
Her mouth opened in a terrified scream as her body caught fire from the inside.
Someone offered a wrist, wet with something that smelled—delicious.
Copper and iron.
Salt and sweet.
It was the scent of life. Life.
Phoebe snuffled at the wrist like a baby seeking her mother’s breast, the flesh held tantalizingly close to her mouth without touching her lips.
“You choose,” her maker said. “Life? Or death?”
Phoebe used all of her energy to move closer to the promise of vitality. In the distance, someone was knocking, slow and steady. Understanding followed.
Heartbeat.
Pulse.
Blood.
Phoebe kissed the cold flesh of her maker’s wrist, reverent and blindingly conscious of the gift being given.
“Life,” Phoebe whispered before taking her first mouthful of vampire blood.
As the powerful substance surged through her veins, Phoebe’s body exploded in pain and yearning: for what was lost, for what was to come, for all that she would never be, and for everything that she would become.
Her heart began to make a new music, one that was slow and deliberate.
I am, Phoebe’s heart sang.
Naught.
And yet.
Now.
Evermore.
3
The Prodigal Returns
13 MAY
“If the ghosts are making that racket, I’m going to kill them,” I murmured, clinging to the disorientation of sleep in hopes of prolonging it for a few more moments. I was still jet-lagged after our recent flight from America to France and had piles of exams and papers to grade following the end of the spring semester at Yale. Pulling the covers closer to my chin, I turned over and prayed for silence.
Heavy pounding echoed through the house, bouncing off thick stone walls and floors.
“Someone’s at the front door.” Matthew, who slept very little, was at the open window, sniffing the night air for clues as to their identity. “It’s Ysabeau.”
“It’s three in the morning!” I groaned and slid my feet into a pair of waiting slippers. We were no strangers to crisis, but even so, this was unusual.