A Discovery Of Witches Part 28

"If you trust them, then I do, too." To my surprise, I meant it-in spite of the niggling worry that he'd had to ask them if they planned on taking a piece out of my neck.

"Thank you," he said simply. Matthew's eyes drifted to my mouth, and my blood tingled in response. "You pack, and I'll wash up and make a few phone calls."

When I pa.s.sed by his end of the sofa, he caught my hand in his. Once again the shock of his cold skin was counteracted by an answering warmth in my own.

"You're doing the right thing," he murmured before he released me.

It was almost laundry day, and my bedroom was draped with dirty clothes. A rummage through the wardrobe yielded several nearly identical pairs of black pants that were clean, a few pairs of leggings, and half a dozen long-sleeved T-s.h.i.+rts and turtlenecks. There was a beat-up Yale duffel bag on top of it, and I jumped up and snagged the strap with one hand. The clothes all went into the old blue-and-white canvas bag, along with a few sweaters and a fleece pullover. I also chucked in sneakers, socks, and underwear, along with some old yoga clothes. I didn't own decent pajamas and could sleep in those. Remembering Matthew's French mother, I slipped in one presentable s.h.i.+rt and pair of trousers.

Matthew's low voice floated down the hall. He talked first to Fred, then to Marcus, and then to a cab company. With the bag's strap over my shoulder, I maneuvered myself awkwardly into the bathroom. Toothbrush, soap, shampoo, and a hairbrush all went inside, along with a hair dryer and a tube of mascara. I hardly ever wore the stuff, but on this occasion a cosmetic aid seemed a good idea.

When I was finished, I rejoined Matthew in the living room. He was thumbing through the messages on his phone, my computer case at his feet. "Is that it?" he asked, eyeing the duffel bag with surprise.

"You told me I didn't need much."

"Yes, but I'm not used to women listening to me when it comes to luggage. When Miriam goes away for the weekend, she packs enough to outfit the French Foreign Legion, and my mother requires multiple steamer trunks. Louisa wouldn't have crossed the street with what you're carrying, never mind leave the country."

"Along with having no common sense, I'm not known for being high maintenance either."

Matthew nodded appreciatively. "Do you have your pa.s.sport?"

I pointed. "It's in my computer bag."

"We can go, then," Matthew said, his eyes sweeping the rooms one last time.

"Where's the photo?" It seemed wrong to just leave it.

"Marcus has it," he said quickly.

"When was Marcus here?" I asked with a frown.

"While you were sleeping. Do you want me to get it back for you?" His finger hovered over a key on his phone.

"No." I shook my head. There was no reason for me to look at it again.

Matthew took my bags and managed to get them and me down the stairs with no mishaps. A cab was waiting outside the college gates. Matthew stopped for a brief conversation with Fred. The vampire handed the porter a card, and the two men shook hands. Some deal had been struck, the particulars of which would never be disclosed to me. Matthew tucked me into the cab, and we drove for about thirty minutes, leaving the lights of Oxford behind us.

"Why didn't we take your car?" I asked as we headed into the countryside.

"This is better," he explained. "There's no need to have Marcus fetch it later."

The sway of the cab was rocking me to sleep. Leaning against Matthew's shoulder, I dozed.

At the airport we were airborne soon after we'd had our pa.s.sports checked and the pilot filed the paperwork. We sat opposite each other on couches arranged around a low table during the takeoff. I yawned every few moments, ears popping as we climbed. Once we reached cruising alt.i.tude, Matthew unsnapped his seat belt and gathered up some pillows and a blanket from a cabinet under the windows.

"We'll be in France soon." He propped the pillows at the end of my sofa, which was about as deep as a twin bed, and held the blanket open to cover me. "Meanwhile you should get some sleep."

I didn't want to sleep. The truth was, I was afraid to. That photograph was etched on the inside of my eyelids.

He crouched next to me, the blanket hanging lightly from his fingers. "What is it?"

"I don't want to close my eyes."

Matthew tossed all the pillows except one onto the floor. "Come here," he said, sitting beside me and patting the fluffy white rectangle invitingly. I swung around, s.h.i.+mmied down the leather-covered surface, and put my head on his lap, stretching out my legs. He tossed the edge of the blanket from his right hand to his left so that it covered me in soft folds.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"You're welcome." He took his fingers and touched them to his lips, then to mine. I tasted salt. "Sleep. I'll be right here."

I did sleep, heavy and deep with no dreams, waking only when Matthew's cool fingers touched my face and he told me we were about to land.

"What time is it?" I asked, now thoroughly disoriented.

"It's about eight," he said, looking at his watch.

"Where are we?" I swung to a seated position and rooted for my seat belt.

"Outside Lyon, in the Auvergne."

"In the center of the country?" I asked, imagining the map of France. He nodded. "Is that where you're from?"

"I was born and reborn nearby. My home-my family's home-is an hour or two away. We should arrive by midmorning."

We landed in the private area of the busy regional airport and had our pa.s.sports and travel doc.u.ments checked by a bored-looking civil servant who snapped to attention the moment he saw Matthew's name.

"Do you always travel this way?" It was far easier than flying a commercial airline through London's Heathrow or Paris's Charles de Gaulle airport.

"Yes," he said without apology or self-consciousness. "The one time I'm entirely glad that I'm a vampire and have money to burn is when I travel."

Matthew stopped behind a Range Rover the size of Connecticut and fished a set of keys out of his pocket. He opened the back door, stowing my bags inside. The Range Rover was slightly less deluxe than his Jaguar, but what it lacked in elegance it more than made up for in heft. It was like traveling in an armored personnel carrier.

"Do you really need this much car to drive in France?" I eyed the smooth roads.

Matthew laughed. "You haven't seen my mother's house yet."

We drove west through beautiful countryside, studded here and there with grand chateaus and steep mountains. Fields and vineyards stretched in all directions, and even under the steely sky the land seemed to blaze with the color of turning leaves. A sign indicated the direction of Clermont-Ferrand. That couldn't be a coincidence, in spite of the different spelling.

Matthew kept heading west. He slowed, turned down a narrow road, and pulled to the side. He pointed off to the distance. "There," he said. "Sept-Tours."

In the center of rolling hills was a flattened peak dominated by a crenellated hulk of buff and rose stone. Seven smaller towers surrounded it, and a turreted gatehouse stood guard in front. This was not a pretty, fairy-tale castle made for moonlit b.a.l.l.s. Sept-Tours was a fortress.

"That's home?" I gasped.

"That's home." Matthew took his phone out of his pocket and dialed a number. "Maman? We're almost there." We're almost there."

Something was said on the other end, and the line went dead. Matthew smiled tightly and pulled back onto the road.

"She's expecting us?" I asked, just managing to keep the tremor out of my voice.

"She is."

"And this is all right with her?" I didn't ask the real question-Are you sure it's okay that you're bringing a witch home?-but didn't need to.

Matthew's eyes remained fixed on the road. "Ysabeau doesn't like surprises as much as I do," he said lightly, turning on to something that looked like a goat track.

We drove between rows of chestnut trees, climbing until we reached Sept-Tours. Matthew steered the car between two of the seven towers and through to a paved courtyard in front of the entrance to the central structure. Parterres and gardens peeked out to the right and left, before the forest took over. The vampire parked the car.

"Ready?" he asked with a bright smile.

"As I'll ever be," I replied warily.

Matthew opened my car door and helped me down. Pulling at my black jacket, I looked up at the chateau's imposing stone facade. The forbidding lines of the castle were nothing compared to what awaited me inside. The door swung open.

"Courage," Matthew said, kissing me gently on the cheek.

Chapter 18.

Ysabeau stood in the doorway of her enormous chateau, regal and icy, and glared at her vampire son as we climbed the stone stairs.

Matthew stooped a full foot to kiss her softly on both cheeks. "Shall we come inside, or do you wish to continue our greetings out here?"

His mother stepped back to let us pa.s.s. I felt her furious gaze and smelled something reminiscent of sarsaparilla soda and caramel. We walked through a short, dark hallway, lined in a none-too-welcoming fas.h.i.+on with pikes that pointed directly at the visitor's head, and into a room with high ceilings and wall paintings that had clearly been done by some imaginative nineteenth-century artist to reflect a medieval past that never was. Lions, fleurs-de-lis, a snake with his tail in his mouth, and scallop sh.e.l.ls were painted on white walls. At one end a circular set of stairs climbed to the top of one of the towers.

Indoors I faced the full force of Ysabeau's stare. Matthew's mother personified the terrifying elegance that seemed bred to the bone in French-women. Like her son-who disconcertingly appeared to be slightly older than she was-she was dressed in a monochromatic palette that minimized her uncanny paleness. Ysabeau's preferred colors ranged from cream to soft brown. Every inch of her ensemble was expensive and simple, from the tips of her soft, buff-colored leather shoes to the topazes that fluttered from her ears. Slivers of startling, cold emerald surrounded dark pupils, and the high slashes of her cheekbones kept her perfect features and dazzling white skin from sliding into mere prettiness. Her hair had the color and texture of honey, a golden pour of silk caught at the base of her skull in a heavy, low knot.

"You might have shown some consideration, Matthew." Her accent softened his name, making it sound ancient. Like all vampires she had a seductive and melodic voice. In Ysabeau's case it sounded of distant bells, pure and deep.

"Afraid of the gossip, Maman Maman? I thought you prided yourself on being a radical." Matthew sounded both indulgent and impatient. He tossed the keys onto a nearby table. They slid across the perfect finish and landed with a clatter at the base of a Chinese porcelain bowl.

"I have never been a radical!" Ysabeau was horrified. "Change is very much overrated."

She turned and surveyed me from head to toe. Her perfectly formed mouth tightened.

She did not like what she saw-and it was no wonder. I tried to see myself through her eyes-the sandy hair that was neither thick nor well behaved, the dusting of freckles from being outdoors too much, the nose that was too long for the rest of my face. My eyes were my best feature, but they were unlikely to make up for my fas.h.i.+on sense. Next to her elegance and Matthew's perpetually unruffled self, I felt-and looked-like a gauche country mouse. I pulled at the hem of my jacket with my free hand, glad to see that there was no sign of magic at the fingertips, and hoped that there was also no sign of that phantom "s.h.i.+mmering" that Matthew had mentioned.

"Maman, this is Diana Bishop. Diana, my mother, Ysabeau de Clermont." The syllables rolled off his tongue. this is Diana Bishop. Diana, my mother, Ysabeau de Clermont." The syllables rolled off his tongue.

Ysabeau's nostrils flared delicately. "I do not like the way witches smell." Her English was flawless, her glittering eyes fixed on mine. "She is sweet and repulsively green, like spring."

Matthew launched into a volley of something unintelligible that sounded like a cross between French, Spanish, and Latin. He kept his voice low, but there was no disguising the anger in it.

"ca suffit," Ysabeau retorted in recognizable French, drawing her hand across her throat. I swallowed hard and reflexively reached for the collar of my jacket.

"Diana." Ysabeau said it with a long e e rather than an rather than an i i and an emphasis on the first rather than the second syllable. She extended one white, cold hand, and I took her fingers lightly in mine. Matthew grabbed my left hand in his, and for a moment we made an odd chain of vampires and a witch. " and an emphasis on the first rather than the second syllable. She extended one white, cold hand, and I took her fingers lightly in mine. Matthew grabbed my left hand in his, and for a moment we made an odd chain of vampires and a witch. "Encantada."

"She's pleased to meet you," Matthew said, translating for me and shooting a warning glance at his mother.

"Yes, yes," Ysabeau said impatiently, turning back to her son. "Of course she speaks only English and new French. Modern warmbloods are so poorly educated."

A stout old woman with skin like snow and a ma.s.s of incongruously dark hair wrapped around her head in intricate braids stepped into the front hall, her arms outstretched. "Matthew!" she cried. "Cossi anatz?"

"Va plan, merces. E tu?" Matthew caught her in a hug, and kissed her on both cheeks.

"Aital aital," she replied, grabbing her elbow and grimacing.

Matthew murmured in sympathy, and Ysabeau appealed to the ceiling for deliverance from the emotional spectacle.

"Marthe, this is my friend Diana," he said, drawing me forward.

Marthe, too, was a vampire, one of the oldest I'd ever seen. She had to have been in her sixties when she was reborn, and though her hair was dark, there was no mistaking her age. Lines crisscrossed her face, and the joints of her hands were so gnarled that apparently not even vampiric blood could straighten them.

"Welcome, Diana," she said in a husky voice of sand and treacle, looking deep into my eyes. She nodded at Matthew and reached for my hand. Her nostrils flared. "Elle est une puissante sorciere," "Elle est une puissante sorciere," she said to Matthew, her voice appreciative. she said to Matthew, her voice appreciative.

"She says you're a powerful witch," Matthew explained. His closeness somewhat diminished my instinctive concern with having a vampire sniff me.

Having no idea what the proper French response was to such a comment, I smiled weakly at Marthe and hoped that would do.

"You're exhausted," Matthew said, his eyes flicking over my face. He began rapidly questioning the two vampires in the unfamiliar language. This led to a great deal of pointing, eye rolling, emphatic gestures, and sighs. When Ysabeau mentioned the name Louisa, Matthew looked at his mother with renewed fury. His voice took on a flat, abrupt finality when he answered her.

Ysabeau shrugged. "Of course, Matthew," she murmured with patent insincerity.

"Let's get you settled." Matthew's voice warmed as he spoke to me.

"I will bring food and wine," Marthe said in halting English.

"Thank you," I said. "And thank you, Ysabeau, for having me in your home." She sniffed and bared her teeth. I hoped it was a smile but feared it was not.

"And water, Marthe," Matthew added. "Oh, and food is coming this morning."

"Some of it has already arrived," his mother said tartly. "Leaves. Sacks of vegetables and eggs. You were very bad to ask them to drive it down."

"Diana needs to eat, Maman. Maman. I didn't imagine you had a great deal of proper food in the house." Matthew's long ribbon of patience was fraying from the events of last evening and now his lukewarm homecoming. I didn't imagine you had a great deal of proper food in the house." Matthew's long ribbon of patience was fraying from the events of last evening and now his lukewarm homecoming.

"I need fresh blood, but I don't expect Victoire and Alain to fetch it from Paris in the middle of the night." Ysabeau looked vastly pleased with herself as my knees swayed. need fresh blood, but I don't expect Victoire and Alain to fetch it from Paris in the middle of the night." Ysabeau looked vastly pleased with herself as my knees swayed.

Matthew exhaled sharply, his hand under my elbow to steady me. "Marthe," he asked, pointedly ignoring Ysabeau, "can you bring up eggs and toast and some tea for Diana?"

Marthe eyed Ysabeau and then Matthew as if she were at center court at Wimbledon. She cackled with laughter. "c," she replied, with a cheerful nod.

"We'll see you two at dinner," Matthew said calmly. I felt four icy patches on my shoulders as the women watched us depart. Marthe said something to Ysabeau that made her snort and Matthew smile broadly.

"What did Marthe say?" I whispered, remembering too late that there were few conversations, whispered or shouted, that would not be overheard by everyone in the house.