Shadow of Night (All Souls Trilogy, #2)(54)

After what seemed an interminable length of time, Matthew and his father returned. “Diana!” Matthew rounded the wooden screen, confused to see me sitting at the head of the family table. “I expected you to be upstairs, or in the library.”

“I thought it was more courteous for me to sit here, considering how much work Chef put into preparing the meal.” My eyes traveled to Philippe. “How was your hunting, Philippe?”

“Adequate. But animal blood provides only so much nourishment.” He beckoned to Alain, and his cold eyes nudged my high collar.

“Enough.” Though his voice was low, the warning in Matthew’s tone was unmistakable. Heads swiveled in his direction. “You should have instructed them to start without us. Let me take you upstairs, Diana.” Heads swiveled back to me, waiting for my reply.

“I have not finished,” I said, gesturing at my plate, “nor have the others. Sit by me and take some wine.” Matthew might be a Renaissance prince in substance as well as style, but I would not heel when he clicked his fingers.

Matthew sat by my side while I forced myself to swallow some chicken. When the tension was unbearable, I rose. Once more, benches scraped against stone as the household stood.

“Finished so soon?” Philippe asked with surprise. “Good night, then, Diana. Matthew, you will return at once. I have a strange desire to play chess.”

Matthew ignored his father and extended his arm. We didn’t exchange a word as we passed out of the great hall and climbed to the family rooms. At my door Matthew at last had himself under enough control to risk conversation.

“Philippe is treating you like a glorified housekeeper. It’s intolerable.”

“Your father is treating me like a woman of the time. I’ll manage, Matthew.” I paused, gathering my courage. “When did you last feed on a creature that walks on two legs?” I’d forced him to take blood from me before we left Madison, and he’d fed on some nameless warmblood in Canada. Several weeks prior to that, he’d killed Gillian Chamberlain in Oxford. Maybe he had fed on her, too. Otherwise I didn’t believe that a drop of anything other than animal blood had crossed his lips in months.

“What makes you ask?” Matthew’s tone was sharp.

“Philippe says you aren’t as strong as you should be.” My hand tightened on his. “If you need to feed and won’t take blood from a stranger, then I want you to take mine.”

Before Matthew could respond, a chuckle came from the stairs. “Careful, Diana. We manjasang have sharp ears. Offer your blood in this house and you’ll never keep the wolves at bay.” Philippe was standing with arms braced against the sides of the carved stone archway.

Matthew swung his head around, furious. “Go away, Philippe.”

“The witch is reckless. It’s my responsibility to make sure her impulses don’t go unchecked. Otherwise she could destroy us.”

“The witch is mine,” Matthew said coldly.

“Not yet,” Philippe said, descending the stairs with a regretful shake of his head. “Maybe not ever.”

After that encounter Matthew was even more guarded and remote. He was angry with his father, but rather than taking his frustration out on its source, Matthew snapped at everyone else: me, Alain, Pierre, Chef, and any other creature unfortunate enough to cross his path. The household was in a state of high anxiety already because of the feast, and after putting up with his bad behavior for several hours, Philippe gave his son a choice. He could sleep off his bad humor or feed. Matthew chose a third option and went off to search the de Clermont archives for some hint as to the present whereabouts of Ashmole 782. Left to my own devices, I returned to the kitchens.

Philippe found me in Marthe’s room, crouched over the malfunctioning still with my sleeves rolled up and the room full of steam.

“Has Matthew fed from you?” he asked abruptly, his eyes moving over my forearms.

I lifted my left arm in reply. The soft linen pooled around my shoulder, exposing the pink traces of a jagged scar on my inner elbow. I’d cut into the flesh so that Matthew could drink from me more easily.

“Anywhere else?” Philippe directed his attention to my torso.

With the other hand, I exposed my neck. The wound there was deeper, but it had been made by a vampire and was far neater.

“What a fool you are, to allow a besotted manjasang to take the blood from not only your arm but your neck,” Philippe said, stunned. “The covenant forbids the manjasang to take the blood of witches or daemons. Matthew knows this.”

“He was dying, and mine was the only blood available!” I said fiercely. “If it makes you feel better, I had to force him.”

“So that’s it. My son has no doubt convinced himself that so long as he has taken only your blood and not your body, he will be able to let you go.” Philippe shook his head. “He is wrong. I’ve been watching him. You will never be free of Matthew, whether he beds you or not.”

“Matthew knows I’d never leave him.”

“Of course you will. One day your life on this earth will draw to a close and you will make your final journey into the underworld. Rather than grieve, Matthew will want to follow you into death.” Philippe’s words rang with truth.

Matthew’s mother had shared with me the story of his making: how he fell from the scaffolding while helping to lay the stones for the village church. Even when I first heard it, I’d wondered if Matthew’s despair over losing his wife, Blanca, and his son, Lucas, had driven him to suicide.