“Anxiety is a symptom of some condition I can’t pronounce. Diana had leaflets about it in New Haven. You hold on, Auntie!” Gallowglass sounded frantic.
I wondered dimly why he sounded so alarmed before I vomited again, right into Ysabeau’s purse.
“Hamish? We need a doctor. A vampire doctor. Something’s wrong with Diana.”
Sol in Scorpio
When the sun is in the signe of Scorpio, expect death, feare, and poison. During this dangerous time, beware of serpents and all other venomous creatures. Scorpio rules over conception and childbirth, and children born under this sign are blessed with many gifts.
—Anonymous English Commonplace Book, c. 1590,
Gonçalves MS 4890, f. 9r
Where is Matthew? He should be here,” Fernando murmured, turning away from the view of Diana sitting in the small, sunny room where she spent most of her time since being put on a strict regime of bed rest.
Diana was still brooding over what happened in the Bodleian. She had not forgiven herself for allowing Benjamin to threaten Phoebe or for letting the opportunity to kill Matthew’s son slip through her fingers. But Fernando feared that this would not be the last time her nerves would fail in the face of the enemy.
“Diana’s fine.” Gallowglass was propped up against the wall in the hallway opposite the door, his arms crossed. “The doctor said so this morning. Besides, Matthew can’t return until he gets his new family sorted out.”
Gallowglass had been their only link to Matthew for weeks. Fernando swore. He pounced, pressing his mouth tightly against Gallowglass’s ear and his hand against his windpipe.
“You haven’t told Matthew,” Fernando said, lowering his voice so that no one else in the house could hear. “He has a right to know what’s happened here, Gallowglass: the magic, finding that page from the Book of Life, Benjamin’s appearance, Diana’s condition—all of it.”
“If Matthew wanted to know what was happening to his wife, he would be here and not bringing a pack of recalcitrant children to heel,” Gallowglass choked out, grasping Fernando’s wrist.
“And you believe this because you would have stayed?” Fernando released him. “You are more lost than the moon in winter. It does not matter where Matthew is. Diana belongs to him. She will never be yours.”
“I know that.” Gallowglass’s blue eyes did not waver.
“Matthew may kill you for this.” There was not a touch of histrionics in Fernando’s pronouncement.
“There are worse things than my being killed,” Gallowglass said evenly. “The doctor said no stress or the babes could die. So could Diana. Not even Matthew will harm them while I have breath in my body. That’s my job—and I do it well.”
“When I next see Philippe de Clermont—and he is no doubt toasting his feet before the devil’s fire—he will answer to me for asking this of you.” Fernando knew that Philippe enjoyed making other people’s decisions. He should have made a different one in this case.
“I would have done it regardless.” Gallowglass stepped away. “I don’t seem to have a choice.”
“You always have a choice. And you deserve a chance to be happy.” There had to be a woman out there for Gallowglass, Fernando thought—one who would make him forget Diana Bishop.
“Do I?” Gallowglass’s expression turned wistful.
“Yes. Diana has a right to be happy, too.” Fernando’s words were deliberately blunt. “They’ve been apart long enough. It’s time Matthew came home.”
“Not unless his blood rage is under control. Being away from Diana so long will have made him unstable enough. If Matthew finds out the pregnancy is putting her life in peril, God only knows what he’ll do.” Gallowglass matched blunt with blunt. “Baldwin is right. The greatest danger we face is not Benjamin, and it isn’t the Congregation—it’s Matthew. Better fifty enemies outside the door than one within it.”
“So Matthew is your enemy now?” Fernando spoke in a whisper. “And you think he’s the one who has lost his senses?”
Gallowglass made no reply.
“If you know what is good for you, Gallowglass, you will walk out of this house the minute Matthew returns. Wherever you go—and the ends of the earth may not be far enough to keep you from his wrath—I advise you to spend time on your knees begging God for His protection.”
* * *
The Domino Club on Royal Street hadn’t changed much since Matthew had first walked through its doors almost two centuries ago. The three-story façade, gray walls, and crisp black-and-white–painted trim was the same, the height of the arched windows at street level suggesting an openness to the outside world that was belied by the closing of their heavy shutters. When the shutters were flung wide at five o’clock, the general public would be welcomed to a beautiful polished bar and to enjoy music provided by a variety of local performers.
But Matthew was not interested in tonight’s entertainment. His eyes were fixed on an ornate iron railing wrapped around the second-floor balcony that provided a sheltering overhang for the pedestrians below. That floor and the one above were restricted to members. A significant portion of the Domino Club’s membership roster had signed up when it was founded in 1839—two years before the Boston Club, officially the oldest gentlemen’s club in New Orleans, opened its doors. The rest had been carefully selected according to their looks, breeding, and ability to lose large sums of money at the gambling tables.
Ransome Fayrweather, Marcus’s eldest son and the club’s owner, would be on the second floor in his office overlooking the corner. Matthew pushed open the black door and entered the cool, dark bar. The place smelled of bourbon and pheromones, the most familiar cocktail in the city. The heels of his shoes made a soft snick against the checkered marble floor.
It was four o’clock, and only Ransome and his staff were on the premises.
“Mr. Clairmont?” The vampire behind the bar looked as though he’d seen a ghost and took a step toward the cash register. One glance from Matthew and he froze.
“I’m here to see Ransome.” Matthew stalked toward the stairs. No one stopped him.
Ransome’s door was closed, and Matthew opened it without knocking.
A man sat with his back to the door and his feet propped up on the windowsill. He was wearing a black suit, and his hair was the same rich brown as the wood of the mahogany chair in which he sat.
“Well, well. Grandpa’s home,” Ransome said in a treacle-dipped drawl. He didn’t turn to look at his visitor, and a worn ebony-and-ivory domino kept moving between his pale fingers. “What brings you to Royal Street?”