“Tell me about Cecilia,” Hamish commanded, leaning forward in his chair.
“She was a banker’s wife,” Matthew said reluctantly. “I saw her at the opera and became infatuated. Everyone in Paris was infatuated with someone else’s wife at the time.” His finger traced the outline of a woman’s face on the pane of glass before him. “It didn’t strike me as a challenge. I only wanted a taste of her, that night I went to her house. But once I started, I couldn’t stop. And yet I couldn’t let her die either—she was mine, and I wouldn’t give her up. I barely stopped feeding in time. Dieu, she hated being a vampire. Cecilia walked into a burning house before I could stop her.”
Hamish frowned. “Then you didn’t kill her, Matt. She killed herself.”
“I fed on her until she was at the brink of death, forced her to drink my blood, and turned her into a creature without her permission because I was selfish and scared,” he said furiously. “In what way did I not kill her? I took her life, her identity, her vitality—that’s death, Hamish.”
“Why did you keep this from me?” Hamish tried not to care that his best friend had done so, but it was difficult.
“Even vampires feel shame,” Matthew said tightly. “I hate myself—and I should—for what I did to those women.”
“This is why you have to stop keeping secrets, Matt. They’re going to destroy you from the inside.” Hamish thought about what he wanted to say before he continued. “You didn’t set out to kill Eleanor and Cecilia. You’re not a murderer.”
Matthew rested his fingertips on the white-painted window frame and pressed his forehead against the cold panes of glass. When he spoke, his voice was flat and dead. “No, I’m a monster. Eleanor forgave me for it. Cecilia never did.”
“You’re not a monster,” Hamish said, worried by Matthew’s tone.
“Maybe not, but I am dangerous.” He turned and faced Hamish. “Especially around Diana. Not even Eleanor made me feel this way.” The mere thought of Diana brought the craving back, the tightness spreading from his heart to his abdomen. His face darkened with the effort to bring it under control.
“Come back here and finish this game,” Hamish said, his voice rough.
“I could go, Hamish,” Matthew said uncertainly. “You don’t have to share your roof with me.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Hamish replied as quick as a whip. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Matthew sat. “I don’t understand how you can know about Eleanor and Cecilia and not hate me, too,” he said after a few minutes.
“I can’t conceive of what you would have to do to make me hate you, Matthew. I love you like a brother, and I will until I draw my last breath.”
“Thank you,” Matthew said, his face somber. “I’ll try to deserve it.”
“Don’t try. Do it,” Hamish said gruffly. “You’re about to lose your bishop, by the way.”
The two creatures dragged their attention back to the game with difficulty, and they were still playing in the early morning when Jordan brought up coffee for Hamish and a bottle of port for Matthew. The butler picked up the ruined wineglass without comment, and Hamish sent him off to bed.
When Jordan was gone, Hamish surveyed the board and made his final move. “Checkmate.”
Matthew let out his breath and sat back in his chair, staring at the chessboard. His queen stood encircled by his own pieces—pawns, a knight, and a rook. Across the board his king was checked by a lowly black pawn. The game was over, and he had lost.
“There’s more to the game than protecting your queen,” Hamish said. “Why do you find it so difficult to remember that it’s the king who’s not expendable?”
“The king just sits there, moving one square at a time. The queen can move so freely. I suppose I’d rather lose the game than forfeit her freedom.”
Hamish wondered if he was talking about chess or Diana. “Is she worth the cost, Matt?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” Matthew said without a moment of hesitation, lifting the white queen from the board and holding it between his fingers.
“I thought so,” Hamish said. “You don’t feel this way now, but you’re lucky to have found her at last.”
The vampire’s eyes glittered, and his mouth twisted into a crooked smile. “But is she lucky, Hamish? Is she fortunate to have a creature like me in pursuit?”
“That’s entirely up to you. Just remember—no secrets. Not if you love her.”
Matthew looked into his queen’s serene face, his fingers closing protectively around the small carved figure.
He was still holding it when the sun rose, long after Hamish had gone to sleep.
Chapter 10
Still trying to shake the ice from my shoulders left by Matthew’s stare, I opened the door to my rooms. Inside, the answering machine greeted me with a flashing red “13.” There were nine additional voice-mail messages on my mobile. All of them were from Sarah and reflected an escalating concern about what her sixth sense told her was happening in Oxford.
Unable to face my all-too-prescient aunts, I turned down the volume on the answering machine, turned off the ringers on both phones, and climbed wearily into bed.
Next morning, when I passed through the porter’s lodge for a run, Fred waved a stack of message slips at me.
“I’ll pick them up later,” I called, and he flashed his thumb in acknowledgment.
My feet pounded on familiar dirt paths through the fields and marshes north of the city, the exercise helping to keep at bay both my guilt over not calling my aunts and the memory of Matthew’s cold face.
Back in college I collected the messages and threw them into the trash. Then I staved off the inevitable call home with cherished weekend rituals: boiling an egg, brewing tea, gathering laundry, piling up the drifts of papers that littered every surface. After I’d wasted most of the morning, there was nothing left to do but call New York. It was early there, but there was no chance that anyone was still in bed.
“What do you think you’re up to, Diana?” Sarah demanded in lieu of hello.
“Good morning, Sarah.” I sank into the armchair by the defunct fireplace and crossed my feet on a nearby bookshelf. This was going to take awhile.
“It is not a good morning,” Sarah said tartly. “We’ve been beside ourselves. What’s going on?”
Em picked up the extension.
“Hi, Em,” I said, recrossing my legs. This was going to take a long while.
“Is that vampire bothering you?” Em asked anxiously.
“Not exactly.”
“We know you’ve been spending time with vampires and daemons,” my aunt broke in impatiently. “Have you lost your mind, or is something seriously wrong?”
“I haven’t lost my mind, and nothing’s wrong.” The last bit was a lie, but I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best.
“Do you really think you’re going to fool us? You cannot lie to a fellow witch!” Sarah exclaimed. “Out with it, Diana.”
So much for that plan.
“Let her speak, Sarah,” Em said. “We trust Diana to make the right decisions, remember?”
The ensuing silence led me to believe that this had been a matter of some controversy.
Sarah drew in her breath, but Em cut her off. “Where were you last night?”
“Yoga.” There was no way of squirming out of this inquisition, but it was to my advantage to keep all responses brief and to the point.
“Yoga?” Sarah asked, incredulous. “Why are you doing yoga with those creatures? You know it’s dangerous to mix with daemons and vampires.”
“The class was led by a witch!” I became indignant, seeing Amira’s serene, lovely face before me.
“This yoga class, was it his idea?” Em asked.
“Yes. It was at Clairmont’s house.”
Sarah made a disgusted sound.
“Told you it was him,” Em muttered to my aunt. She directed her next words to me. “I see a vampire standing between you and . . . so
mething. I’m not sure what, exactly.”
“And I keep telling you, Emily Mather, that’s nonsense. Vampires don’t protect witches.” Sarah’s voice was crisp with certainty.
“This one does,” I said.
“What?” Em asked and Sarah shouted.
“He has been for days.” I bit my lip, unsure how to tell the story, then plunged in. “Something happened at the library. I called up a manuscript, and it was bewitched.”
There was silence.
“A bewitched book.” Sarah’s voice was keen with interest. “Was it a grimoire?” She was an expert on grimoires, and her most cherished possession was the ancient volume of spells that had been passed down in the Bishop family.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “All that was visible were alchemical illustrations.”
“What else?” My aunt knew that the visible was only the beginning when it came to bewitched books.
“Someone’s put a spell on the manuscript’s text. There were faint lines of writing—layers upon layers of them—moving underneath the surface of the pages.”
In New York, Sarah put down her coffee mug with a sharp sound. “Was this before or after Matthew Clairmont appeared?”
“Before,” I whispered.
“You didn’t think this was worth mentioning when you told us you’d met a vampire?” Sarah did nothing to disguise her anger. “By the goddess, Diana, you can be so reckless. How was this book bewitched? And don’t tell me you don’t know.”
“It smelled funny. It felt . . . wrong. At first I couldn’t lift the book’s cover. I put my palm on it.” I turned my hand over on my lap, recalling the sense of instant recognition between me and the manuscript, half expecting to see the shimmer that Matthew had mentioned.
“And?” Sarah asked.
“It tingled against my hand, then sighed and . . . relaxed. I could feel it, through the leather and the wooden boards.”
“How did you manage to unravel this spell? Did you say any words? What were you thinking?” Sarah’s curiosity was now thoroughly roused.
“There was no witchcraft involved, Sarah. I needed to look at the book for my research, and I laid my palm flat on it, that’s all.” I took a deep breath. “Once it was open, I took some notes, closed it, and returned the manuscript.”
“You returned it?” There was a loud clatter as Sarah’s phone hit the floor. I winced and held the receiver away from my head, but her colorful language was still audible.
“Diana?” Em said faintly. “Are you there?”
“I’m here,” I said sharply.
“Diana Bishop, you know better.” Sarah’s voice was reproachful. “How could you send back a magical object you didn’t fully understand?”
My aunt had taught me how to recognize enchanted and bewitched objects—and what to do with them. You were to avoid touching or moving them until you knew how their magic worked. Spells could be delicate, and many had protective mechanisms built into them.
“What was I supposed to do, Sarah?” I could hear my defensiveness. “Refuse to leave the library until you could examine it? It was a Friday night. I wanted to go home.”
“What happened when you returned it?” Sarah said tightly.
“The air might have been a little funny,” I admitted. “And the library might have given the impression it shrank for just a moment.”
“You sent the manuscript back and the spell reactivated,” Sarah said. She swore again. “Few witches are adept enough to set up a spell that automatically resets when it’s broken. You’re not dealing with an amateur.”
“That’s the energy that drew them to Oxford,” I said, suddenly understanding. “It wasn’t my opening the manuscript. It was the resetting of the spell. The creatures aren’t just at yoga, Sarah. I’m surrounded by vampires and daemons in the Bodleian. Clairmont came to the library on Monday night, hoping to catch a glimpse of the manuscript after he heard two witches talking about it. By Tuesday the library was crawling with them.”
“Here we go again,” Sarah said with a sigh. “Before the month’s out, daemons will be showing up in Madison looking for you.”
“There must be witches you can rely on for help.” Em was making an effort to keep her voice level, but I could hear the concern in it.
“There are witches,” I said haltingly, “but they’re not helpful. A wizard in a brown tweed coat tried to force his way into my head. He would have succeeded, too, if not for Matthew.”
“The vampire put himself between you and another witch?” Em was horrified. “That’s not done. You never interfere in business between witches if you’re not one of us.”
“You should be grateful!” I might not want to be lectured by Clairmont or have breakfast with him again, but the vampire deserved some credit. “If he hadn’t been there, I don’t know what would have happened. No witch has ever been so . . . invasive with me before.”
“Maybe you should get out of Oxford for a while,” Em suggested.
“I’m not going to leave because there’s a witch with no manners in town.”
Em and Sarah whispered to each other, their hands over the receivers.
“I don’t like this one bit,” my aunt finally said in a tone that suggested that the world was falling apart. “Bewitched books? Daemons following you? Vampires taking you to yoga? Witches threatening a Bishop? Witches are supposed to avoid notice, Diana. Even the humans are going to know something’s going on.”
“If you stay in Oxford, you’ll have to be more inconspicuous,” Em agreed. “There’s nothing wrong with coming home for a while and letting the situation cool off, if that becomes impossible. You don’t have the manuscript anymore. Maybe they’ll lose interest.”
None of us believed that was likely.
“I’m not running away.”
“You wouldn’t be,” Em protested.
“I would.” And I wasn’t going to display a shred of cowardice so long as Matthew Clairmont was around.
“He can’t be with you every minute of every day, honey,” Em said sadly, hearing my unspoken thoughts.
“I should think not,” Sarah said darkly.
“I don’t need Matthew Clairmont’s help. I can take care of myself,” I retorted.
“Diana, that vampire isn’t protecting you out of the goodness of his heart,” Em said. “You represent something he wants. You have to figure out what it is.”
“Maybe he is interested in alchemy. Maybe he’s just bored.”
“Vampires do not get bored,” Sarah said crisply, “not when there’s a witch’s blood around.”
There was nothing to be done about my aunt’s prejudices. I was tempted to tell her about yoga class, where for over an hour I’d been gloriously free from fear of other creatures. But there was no point.
“Enough.” I was firm. “Matthew Clairmont won’t get any closer, and you needn’t worry about me fiddling with more bewitched manuscripts. But I’m not leaving Oxford, and that’s final.”
“All right,” Sarah said. “But there’s not much we can do from here if things go wrong.”
“I know, Sarah.”
“And the next time you get handed something magical—whether you expected it or not—behave like the witch you are, not some silly human. Don’t ignore it or tell yourself you’re imagining things.” Willful ignorance and dismissing the supernatural were at the top of Sarah’s list of human pet peeves. “Treat it with respect, and if you don’t know what to do, ask for help.”
“Promise,” I said quickly, wanting to get off the phone. But Sarah wasn’t through yet.
“I never thought I’d see the day when a Bishop relied on a vampire for protection, rather than her own power,” she said. “My mother must be turning in her grave. This is what comes from avoiding who you are, Diana. You’ve got a mess on your hands, and it’s all because you thought you could ignore your heritage. It doesn’t work that way.”
Sarah’s bitterness soured the atmosphere in my room long after I?
??d hung up the phone.
The next morning I stretched my way through some yoga poses for half an hour and then made a pot of tea. Its vanilla and floral aromas were comforting, and it had just enough caffeine to keep me from dozing in the afternoon without keeping me awake at night. After the leaves steeped, I wrapped the white porcelain pot in a towel to hold in the heat and carried it to the chair by the fireplace reserved for my deep thinking.
Calmed by the tea’s familiar scent, I pulled my knees up to my chin and reviewed my week. No matter where I started, I found myself returning to my last conversation with Matthew Clairmont. Had my efforts to prevent magic from seeping into my life and work meant nothing?
Whenever I was stuck with my research, I imagined a white table, gleaming and empty, and the evidence as a jigsaw puzzle that needed to be pieced together. It took the pressure off and felt like a game.
Now I tumbled everything from the past week onto that table—Ashmole