Deborah Harkness - The Book of Life

Diana let out a startled cry. Matthew tried to pull her naked body behind him, but it was too late.

His wife was already in the grip of another.

“I could hear my father’s blood vow halfway up the drive. You’re pregnant, too.” Baldwin de Clermont’s face was coldly furious under his fiery hair as his eyes dropped to Diana’s rounded belly. He twisted her arm so that he could sniff her wrist. “And only Matthew’s scent upon you. Well, well.”

Baldwin released Diana, and Matthew caught her.

“Get up. Both of you,” Baldwin commanded, his fury evident.

“You have no authority over me, Baldwin!” Diana cried, her eyes narrowing.

She couldn’t have calculated a response that would have angered Matthew’s brother more. Without warning, Baldwin swooped until his face was inches away. Only the firm pressure of Matthew’s hand around Baldwin’s throat kept the vampire from getting even closer.

“My father’s blood vow says I do, witch.” Baldwin stared into Diana’s eyes, trying to force her through sheer will to look away. When she did not, Baldwin’s eyes flickered. “Your wife lacks manners, Matthew. School her, or I will.”

“School me?” Diana’s eyes widened. Her fingers splayed, and the wind in the room circled her feet, ready to answer her call. High above, Corra shrieked to let her mistress know she was on the way.

“No magic and no dragon,” Matthew murmured against her ear, praying that just this once his wife would obey him. He didn’t want Baldwin or anyone else in the family to know how much Diana’s abilities had grown while they were in London.

Miraculously, Diana nodded.

“What is the meaning of this?” Ysabeau’s frosty voice cracked through the room. “The only excuse for your presence here, Baldwin, is that you have lost your senses.”

“Careful, Ysabeau. Your claws are showing.” Baldwin stalked toward the stairs. “And you forget:

I’m the head of the de Clermont family. I don’t need an excuse. Meet me in the family library, Matthew.

You, too, Diana.”

Baldwin turned to level his strange golden-brown eyes at Matthew. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

The de Clermont family library was bathed in a gentle predawn light that made everything in it appear in soft focus: the edges of the books, the strong lines of the wooden bookcases that lined the room, the warm golden and blue hues of the Aubusson rug.

What it could not blunt was my anger.

For three days I had thought that nothing could displace my grief over Emily’s death, but three minutes in Baldwin’s company had proved me wrong.

“Come in, Diana.” Baldwin sat in a thronelike Savonarola chair by the tall windows. His burnished red-gold hair gleamed in the lamplight, its color reminding me of the feathers on Augusta, the eagle that Emperor Rudolf hunted with in Prague. Every inch of Baldwin’s muscular frame was taut with anger and banked strength.

I looked around the room. We were not the only ones to have been summoned to Baldwin’s impromptu meeting. Waiting by the fireplace was a waif of a young woman with skin the color of skim milk and black, spiky hair. Her eyes were deep gray and enormous, fringed with thick lashes. She sniffed the air as though scenting a storm.

“Verin.” Matthew had warned me about Philippe’s daughters, who were so terrifying that the family asked him to stop making them. But she didn’t look very frightening. Verin’s face was smooth and serene, her posture easy, and her eyes sparkled with energy and intelligence. Were it not for her unrelieved black clothing, you might mistake her for an elf.

Then I noticed a knife hilt peeking out from her high-heeled black boots.

“Wölfling,” Verin replied. It was a cold greeting for a sister to give her brother, but the look she gave me was even more frigid. “Witch.”

“It’s Diana,” I said, my anger flaring.

“I told you there was no way to mistake it,” Verin said, turning to Baldwin without acknowledging my reply.

“Why are you here, Baldwin?” Matthew asked.

“I wasn’t aware I needed an invitation to come to my father’s house,” he replied. “But as it happens, I came from Venice to see Marcus.”

The eyes of the two men locked.

“Imagine my surprise at finding you here,” Baldwin continued. “Nor did I expect to discover that your mate is now my sister. Philippe died in 1945. So how is it that I can feel my father’s blood vow?

Smell it? Hear it?”

“Someone else can catch you up on the news.” Matthew took me by the hand and turned to go back upstairs.

“Neither of you is leaving my sight until I find out how that witch tricked a blood vow from a dead vampire.” Baldwin’s voice was low with menace.

“It was no trick,” I said, indignant.

“Was it necromancy, then? Some foul resurrection spell?” Baldwin asked. “Or did you conjure his spirit and force him to give you his vow?”

“What happened between Philippe and me had nothing to do with my magic and everything to do with his generosity.” My own anger burned hotter.

“You make it sound as though you knew him,” Baldwin said. “That’s impossible.”

“Not for a timewalker,” I replied.

“Timewalker?” Baldwin was stunned.

“Diana and I have been in the past,” Matthew explained. “In 1590, to be exact. We were here at Sept-Tours just before Christmas.”

“You saw Philippe?” Baldwin’s expression was shocked.

“We did. Philippe was alone that winter. He sent a coin and ordered me home,” Matthew said.. The de Clermonts present understood their father’s private code: When a command was sent along with one of Philippe’s ancient silver coins, the recipient was to obey without question.

“December? That means we have to endure five more months of Philippe’s bloodsong,” Verin muttered, her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose as though her head ached. I frowned.

“Why five months?” I asked.

“According to our legends, a vampire’s blood vow sings for a year and a day. All vampires can hear it, but the song is particularly loud and clear to those who carry Philippe’s blood in their veins,” Baldwin said.

“Philippe said he wanted there to be no doubt I was a de Clermont,” I said, looking up at Matthew.

All the vampires who had met me in the sixteenth century must have heard Philippe’s blood song and known I was not only Matthew’s mate but also Philippe de Clermont’s daughter. Philippe had been protecting me during every step of our journey through the past.

“No witch will ever be recognized as a de Clermont.” Baldwin’s voice was flat and final.

“I already am.” I held up my left hand so he could see my wedding ring. “Matthew and I are married as well as mated. Your father hosted the ceremony. If Saint-Lucien’s parish registers survive, you’ll find our wedding took place on the seventh of December, 1590.”

“What we will likely find, should we go to the village, is that a single page has been torn out of the priest’s book,” Verin said under her breath. “ Atta always covered his tracks.”

“Whether you and Matthew are married is of no consequence, for Matthew is not a true de Clermont either,” Baldwin said coldly. “He is merely the child of my father’s mate.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I protested. “Philippe considered Matthew his son. Matthew calls you brother and Verin sister.”

“I am not that whelp’s sister. We share no blood, only a name,” Verin said. “And thank God for it.”

“You will find, Diana, that marriage and mating don’t count for much with the de Clermonts,” said a quiet voice with a marked Spanish or Portuguese accent. It came from the mouth of a stranger standing just inside the door. His dark hair and espresso-colored eyes set off his pale golden skin and light shirt.