that the witch bothering you was Peter Knox, I’d never have left Oxford.”
“You were right,” I blurted, needing to make my own confession before tackling the subject of Knox. “I’ve never kept the magic out of my life. I’ve been using it in my work, without realizing it. It’s in everything. I’ve been fooling myself for years.” The words tumbled from my mouth. Matthew remained focused on the traffic. “I’m frightened.”
His cold hand touched my knee. “I know.”
“What am I going to do?” I whispered.
“We’ll figure it out,” he said calmly, turning in to the Old Lodge’s gates. He scrutinized my face as we crested the rise and pulled in to the circular drive. “You’re tired. Can you manage yoga?”
I nodded.
Matthew got out of the car and opened the door for me. This time he didn’t help me out. Instead he fished around in the trunk, pulled out our mats, and shouldered both of them himself. Other members of the class filtered by, casting curious looks in our direction.
He waited until we were the only ones on the drive. Matthew looked down at me, wrestling with himself over something. I frowned, my head tilted back to meet his eyes. I’d just confessed to engaging in magic without realizing it. What was so awful that he couldn’t tell me?
“I was in Scotland with an old friend, Hamish Osborne,” he finally said.
“The man the newspapers want to run for Parliament so he can be chancellor of the exchequer?” I said in amazement.
“Hamish will not be running for Parliament,” Matthew said drily, adjusting the strap of his yoga bag with a twitch.
“So he is gay!” I said, thinking back to a recent late-night news program. Matthew gave me a withering glance. “Yes. More important, he’s a daemon.” I didn’t know much about the world of creatures, but participating in human politics or religion was also forbidden.
“Oh. Finance is an odd career choice for a daemon.” I thought for a moment. “It explains why he’s so good at figuring out what to do with all that money, though.”
“He is good at figuring things out.” The silence stretched on, and Matthew made no move for the door. “I needed to get away and hunt.”
I gave him a confused look.
“You left your sweater in my car,” he said, as if that were an explanation.
“Miriam gave it back to me already.”
“I know. I couldn’t hold on to it. Do you understand why?”
When I shook my head, he sighed and then swore in French.
“My car was full of your scent, Diana. I needed to leave Oxford.”
“I still don’t understand,” I admitted.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” He raked his hand through his hair and looked down the drive.
My heart was beating irregularly, and the reduced blood flow slowed my mental processes. Finally, though, I understood.
“You’re not afraid you would hurt me?” I had a healthy fear of vampires, but Matthew seemed different.
“I can’t be sure.” His eyes were wary, and his voice held a warning.
“So you didn’t go because of what happened Friday night.” My breath released in sudden relief.
“No,” he said gently, “it had nothing to do with that.”
“Are you two coming in, or are you going to practice out here on the drive?” Amira called from the doorway.
We went in to class, occasionally glancing at each other when one of us thought the other wasn’t looking. Our first honest exchange of information had altered things. We were both trying to figure out what was going to happen next.
After class ended, when Matthew swung his sweater over his head, something shining and silver caught my eye. The object was tied around his neck on a thin leather cord. It was what he kept touching through his sweater, over and over, like a talisman.
“What’s that?” I pointed.
“A reminder,” Matthew said shortly.
“Of what?”
“The destructive power of anger.”
Peter Knox had warned me to be careful around Matthew.
“Is it a pilgrim’s badge?” The shape reminded me of one in the British Museum. It looked ancient.
He nodded and pulled the badge out by the cord. It swung freely, glinting as the light struck it. “It’s an ampulla from Bethany.” It was shaped like a coffin and just big enough to hold a few drops of holy water.
“Lazarus,” I said faintly, eyeing the coffin. Bethany was where Christ had resurrected Lazarus from the dead. And though raised a pagan, I knew why Christians went on pilgrimage. They did it to atone for their sins.
Matthew slid the ampulla back into his sweater, concealing it from the eyes of the creatures who were still filing out of the room.
We said good-bye to Amira and stood outside the Old Lodge in the crisp autumn air. It was dark, despite the floodlights that bathed the bricks of the house.
“Do you feel better?” Matthew asked, breaking into my thoughts. I nodded. “Then tell me what’s happened.”
“It’s the manuscript. Knox wants it. Agatha Wilson—the creature I met in Blackwell’s—said the daemons want it. You want it, too. But Ashmole 782 is under a spell.”
“I know,” he said again.
A white owl swooped down in front of us, its wings beating the air. I flinched and lifted my arms to protect myself, convinced it was going to strike me with its beak and talons. But then the owl lost interest and soared up into the oak trees along the drive.
My heart was pounding, and a sudden rush of panic swept up from my feet. Without any warning, Matthew pulled open the back door of the Jaguar and pushed me into the seat. “Keep your head down and breathe,” he said, crouching on the gravel with his fingers resting on my knees. The bile rose—there was nothing in my stomach but water—and crawled up my throat, choking me. I covered my mouth with my hand and retched convulsively. He reached over and tucked a wayward piece of hair behind my ear, his fingers cool and soothing.
“You’re safe,” he said.
“I’m so sorry.” My shaking hand passed across my mouth as the nausea subsided. “The panic started last night after I saw Knox.”
“Do you want to walk a bit?”
“No,” I said hastily. The park seemed overly large and very black, and my legs felt like they were made of rubber bands.
Matthew inspected me with his keen eyes. “I’m taking you home. The rest of this conversation can wait.”
He pulled me up from the backseat and held my hand loosely until he had me settled in the front of the car. I closed my eyes while he climbed in. We sat for a moment in silence, and then Matthew turned the key in the ignition. The Jaguar quickly sprang to life.
“Does this happen often?” he asked, his voice neutral.
“No, thank God,” I said. “It happened a lot when I was a child, but it’s much better now. It’s just an excess of adrenaline.” Matthew’s glance settled on my hands as I pushed my hair from my face.
“I know,” he said yet again, disengaging the parking brake and pulling out onto the drive.
“Can you smell it?”
He nodded. “It’s been building up in you since you told me you were using magic. Is this why you exercise so much—the running, the rowing, the yoga?”
“I don’t like taking drugs. They make me feel fuzzy.”
“The exercise is probably more effective anyway.”
“It hasn’t done the trick this time,” I murmured, thinking of my recently electrified hands.
Matthew pulled out of the Old Lodge’s grounds and onto the road. He concentrated on his driving while the car’s smooth movements rocked me gently.
“Why did you call me?” Matthew asked abruptly, interrupting my reveries.
“Because of Knox and Ashmole 782,” I said, flickers of panic returning at his sudden shift in mood.
“I know that. What I’m asking is why you called me. Surely you have friends—witches, humans—who could help you.
”
“Not really. None of my human friends know I’m a witch. It would take days just to explain what’s really happening in this world—if they stuck around long enough for me to finish, that is. I don’t have friends who are witches, and I can’t drag my aunts into this. It’s not their fault I did something stupid and sent the manuscript back when I didn’t understand it.” I bit my lip. “Should I not have called you?”
“I don’t know, Diana. On Friday you said witches and vampires couldn’t be friends.”
“On Friday I told you lots of things.”
Matthew was quiet, giving his full attention to the curves in the road.
“I don’t know what to think anymore.” I paused, considering my next words carefully. “But there is one thing I know for sure. I’d rather share the library with you than with Knox.”
“Vampires are never completely trustworthy—not when they’re around warmbloods.” Matthew’s eyes focused on me for a single, cold moment.
“Warmbloods?” I asked with a frown.
“Humans, witches, daemons—everyone who’s not a vampire.”
“I’ll risk your bite before I let Knox slither into my brain to fish for information.”
“Has he tried to do that?” Matthew’s voice was quiet, but there was a promise of violence in it.
“It was nothing,” I said hastily. “He was just warning me about you.”
“So he should. Nobody can be what he’s not, no matter how hard he tries. You mustn’t romanticize vampires. Knox may not have your best interests at heart, but he was right about me.”
“Other people don’t pick my friends—certainly not bigots like Knox.” My fingers began to prickle as my anger mounted, and I shoved them under my thighs.
“Is that what we are, then? Friends?” Matthew asked.
“I think so. Friends tell each other the truth, even when it’s difficult.” Disconcerted by the seriousness of the conversation, I toyed with the ties on my sweater.
“Vampires aren’t particularly good at friendship.” He sounded angry again.
“Look, if you want me to leave you alone—”
“Of course not,” Matthew interrupted. “It’s just that vampire relationships are . . . complicated. We can be protective—possessive, even. You might not like it.”
“A little protectiveness sounds pretty good to me about now.”
My answer brought a look of raw vulnerability to Matthew’s eyes. “I’ll remind you of that when you start complaining,” he said, the rawness quickly replaced with wry amusement.
He pulled off Holywell Street into the arched gates of the lodge. Fred glanced at the car and grinned before looking discreetly away. I waited for Matthew to open the door, checking the car carefully to make sure that nothing of mine was left there—not even a hair elastic—so as not to drive him back to Scotland.
“But there’s more to all this than Knox and the manuscript,” I said urgently when he handed me the mat. From his behavior you would think there weren’t creatures closing in on me from every direction.
“It can wait, Diana. And don’t worry. Peter Knox won’t get within fifty feet of you again.” His voice was grim, and he touched the ampulla under his sweater.
We needed time together—not in the library, but alone.
“Would you like to come to dinner tomorrow?” I asked him, my voice low. “We could talk about what happened then.”
Matthew froze, confusion flitting over his face along with something I couldn’t name. His fingers flexed slightly around the pilgrim’s badge before he released it.
“I’d like that,” he said slowly.
“Good.” I smiled. “How’s half past seven?”
He nodded and gave me a shy grin. I managed to walk two steps before realizing there was one matter that needed to be resolved before tomorrow night.
“What do you eat?” I whispered, my face flushing.
“I’m omnivorous,” Matthew said, his face brightening further into a smile that made my heart skip a beat.
“Half past seven, then.” I turned away, laughing and shaking my head at his unhelpful answer. “Oh, one more thing,” I said, turning back. “Let Miriam do her own work. I really can take care of myself.”
“So she tells me,” Matthew said, walking around to the driver’s side of the car. “I’ll consider it. But you’ll find me in Duke Humfrey’s tomorrow, as usual.” He got into the car, and when I showed no sign of moving, he rolled down his window.
“I’m not leaving until you’re out of my sight,” he said, looking at me in disapproval.
“Vampires,” I muttered, shaking my head at his old-fashioned ways.
Chapter 12
Nothing in my culinary experience had taught me what to feed a vampire when he came for dinner.
In the library I spent most of the day on the Internet looking for recipes that involved raw foods, my manuscripts forgotten on the desk. Matthew said he was omnivorous, but that couldn’t be true. A vampire must be more likely to tolerate uncooked food if he was used to a diet of blood. But he was so civilized he would no doubt eat whatever I put in front of him.
After undertaking extensive gastronomical research, I left the library at midafternoon. Matthew had held down Fortress Bishop by himself today, which must have pleased Miriam. There was no sign of Peter Knox or Gillian Chamberlain anywhere in Duke Humfrey’s, which made me happy. Even Matthew looked in good humor when I trotted down the aisle to return my manuscripts.
Passing by the dome of the Radcliffe Camera, where the undergraduates read their assigned books, and the medieval walls of Jesus College, I went shopping along the aisles of Oxford’s Covered Market. List in hand, I made my first stop at the butcher for fresh venison and rabbit, and then to the fishmonger for Scottish salmon.
Did vampires eat greens?
Thanks to my mobile, I was able to reach the zoology department and inquire about the feeding habits of wolves. They asked me what kind of wolves. I’d seen gray wolves on a long-ago field trip to the Boston zoo, and it was Matthew’s favorite color, so that was my answer. After rattling off a long list of tasty mammals and explaining that they were “preferred foods,” the bored voice on the other end told me that gray wolves also ate nuts, seeds, and berries. “But you shouldn’t feed them!” the voice warned. “They’re not house pets!”
“Thanks for the advice,” I said, trying not to giggle.
The grocer apologetically sold me the last of the summer’s black currants and some fragrant wild strawberries. A bag of chestnuts found its way into my expanding shopping bag, too.
Then it was off to the wine store, where I found myself at the mercy of a viticultural evangelist who asked if “the gentleman knew wine.” That was enough to send me into a tailspin. The clerk seized upon my confusion to sell me what ended up being a remarkably few French and German bottles of wine for a king’s ransom. He then tucked me into a cab to recover from the sticker shock during the drive back to college.
In my rooms I swept all the papers off a battered eighteenth-century table that served as both desk and dining room and moved it closer to the fireplace. I set the table carefully, using the old porcelain and silver that was in my cupboards, along with heavy crystal glasses that had to be the final remainders of an Edwardian set once used in the senior common room. My loyal kitchen ladies had supplied me with stacks of crisp white linen, which were now draped over the table, folded next to the silver, and spread on the chipped wooden tray that would help me carry things the short distance from the kitchen.
Once I started making dinner, it became clear that cooking for a vampire doesn’t take much time. You don’t actually cook much of anything.
By seven o’clock the candles were lit, the food was ready except for what could be done only at the last minute, and all that was left to get ready was me.
My wardrobe contained precious little that said “dinner with a vampire.” There was no way I was dining with Matthew in a suit or in the outfi
t I’d worn to meet the warden. The number of black trousers and leggings I owned was mind-boggling, all with different degrees of spandex, but most were splotched with tea, boat grease, or both. Finally I found a pair of swishy black trousers that looked a bit like pajama bottoms but with slightly more style. They’d do.
Wearing nothing but a bra and the trousers, I ran into the bathroom and dragged a comb through my shoulder-length, straw-colored hair. Not only was it tied in knots at the end, it was daring me to make it behave by lifting up from my scalp with every touch of the comb. I briefly considered resorting to the curling iron, but chances were excellent I’d get only half my head done by the time Matthew arrived. He was going to be on time. I just knew it.
While brushing my teeth, I decided the only thing to do about my hair was to pull it away from my face and twist it into a knot. This made my chin and nose look more pointed but created the illusion of cheekbones and got my hair out of my eyes, which is where it gravitated these days. I pinned it back, and one piece immediately flopped forward. I sighed.
My mother’s face stared back at me from the mirror. I thought of how beautiful she’d looked when she sat down to dinner, and I wondered what she’d done to make her pale eyebrows and lashes stand out the way they did and why her wide mouth looked so different when she smiled at me or my father. The clock ruled out any idea of achieving a similar