“I don’t understand,” Marcus said. “Even if he’s dead, Benjamin should still appear in the genealogy.”
“I disavowed him. So did Philippe.” Matthew closed his eyes rather than meet our curious looks. “Just as a creature can be made part of your family with a blood vow, he can be formally cast out to fend for himself without family or the protection of vampire law. You know how important a pedigree is among vampires, Marcus. Not having an acknowledged bloodline is as serious a stain among vampires as being spellbound is for witches.”
It was becoming clearer to me why Baldwin might not want me included in the de Clermont family tree as one of Philippe’s children.
“So Benjamin is dead,” Hamish said. “Legally at least.”
“And the dead sometimes rise up to haunt us,” Ysabeau murmured, earning a dark look from her son.
“I can’t imagine what Benjamin did to make you turn away from your own blood, Matthew.” Marcus still sounded confused. “I was a holy terror in my early years, and you didn’t abandon me.”
“Benjamin was one of the German crusaders who marched with Count Emicho’s army toward the Holy Land. When they were beaten in Hungary, he joined up with my brother Godfrey’s forces,” Matthew began. “Benjamin’s mother was the daughter of a prominent merchant in the Levant, and he had learned some Hebrew and even Arabic because of the family’s business operations. He was a valuable ally—at first.”
“So Benjamin was Godfrey’s son?” Sarah asked.
“No,” Matthew replied. “He was mine. Benjamin began to trade in de Clermont family secrets. He swore he would expose the existence of creatures—not just vampires but witches and daemons—to the humans in Jerusalem. When I discovered his betrayal, I lost control. Philippe dreamed of creating a safe haven for us all in the Holy Land, a place where we could live without fear. Benjamin had the power to crush Philippe’s hopes, and I had given him that power.”
I knew my husband well enough to imagine the depth of his guilt and remorse.
“Why didn’t you kill him?” Marcus demanded.
“Death was too quick. I wanted to punish Benjamin for being a false friend. I wanted him to suffer as we creatures suffered. I made him a vampire so that if he exposed the de Clermonts, he would have to expose himself.” Matthew paused. “Then I abandoned him to fend for himself.”
“Who taught him how to survive?” Marcus said, his voice hushed.
“Benjamin taught himself. That was part of his punishment.” Matthew held his son’s gaze. “It became part of mine, too—God’s way of making me atone for my sin. Because I abandoned Benjamin, I didn’t know that I had given him the same blood rage that was in my own veins. It was years before I found out what a monster Benjamin had become.”
“Blood rage?” Marcus looked at his father incredulously. “That’s impossible. It turns you into a cold-blooded killer, without reason or compassion. There hasn’t been a case of it for nearly two millennia. You told me so yourself.”
“I lied.” Matthew’s voice cracked at the admission.
“You can’t have blood rage, Matt,” Hamish said. “There was a mention of it in the family papers. Its symptoms include blind fury, the inability to reason, and an overwhelming instinct to kill. You’ve never shown any sign of the disease.”
“I’ve learned to control it,” Matthew said. “Most of the time.”
“If the Congregation were to find out, there would be a price on your head. According to what I’ve read here, other creatures would have carte blanche to destroy you,” Hamish observed, clearly concerned.
“Not just me.” Matthew’s glance flickered over my rounding abdomen. “My children, too.”
Sarah’s expression was stricken. “The babies . . .”
“And Marcus?” Phoebe’s knuckles showed white on the edge of the table though her voice was calm.
“Marcus is only a carrier,” Matthew tried to reassure her. “The symptoms manifest immediately.”
Phoebe looked relieved.
Matthew looked his son squarely in the eye. “When I made you, I genuinely believed that I was cured. It had been almost a century since I’d had an episode. It was the Age of Reason. In our pride we believed that all sorts of past evils had been eradicated, from smallpox to superstition. Then you went to New Orleans.”
“My own children.” Marcus looked wild, and then understanding dawned. “You and Juliette Durand came to the city, and they started turning up dead. I thought Juliette killed them. But it was you. You killed them because of their blood rage.”
“Your father had no choice,” Ysabeau said. “The Congregation knew there was trouble in New Orleans. Philippe ordered Matthew to deal with it before the vampires found out the cause. Had Matthew refused, you all would have died.”
“The other vampires on the Congregation were convinced that the old scourge of blood rage had returned,” Matthew said. “They wanted to raze the city and burn it out of existence, but I argued that the madness was a result of youth and inexperience, not blood rage. I was supposed to kill them all. I was supposed to kill you, too, Marcus.”
Marcus looked surprised. Ysabeau did not.
“Philippe was furious with me, but I destroyed only those who were symptomatic. I killed them quickly, without pain or fear,” Matthew said, his voice dead. I hated the secrets he kept and the lies he told to cover them up, but my heart hurt for him nonetheless. “I explained away the rest of my grandchildren’s excesses however I could—poverty, inebriation, greed. Then I took responsibility for what happened in New Orleans, resigned my seat on the Congregation, and swore that you would make no more children until you were older and wiser.”
“You told me I was a failure—a disgrace to the family.” Marcus was hoarse with suppressed emotion.
“I had to make you stop. I didn’t know what else to do.” Matthew confessed his sins without asking for forgiveness.
“Who else knows your secret, Matthew?” Sarah asked.
“Verin, Baldwin, Stasia, and Freyja. Fernando and Gallowglass. Miriam. Marthe. Alain.” Matthew extended his fingers one by one as the names tumbled from his mouth. “So did Hugh, Godfrey, Hancock, Louisa, and Louis.”
Marcus looked at his father bitterly. “I want to know everything. From the beginning.”
“Matthew cannot tell you the beginning of this tale,” Ysabeau said softly. “Only I can.”
“No, Maman,” Matthew said, shaking his head. “That’s not necessary.”