A Discovery Of Witches Part 12

"Thank G.o.d," Hamish said with relief, getting up from his chair. The vampire was easier to manage if he was dividing his attention between the conversation and something-anything-else.

Seated in the dining room at one end of a vast table designed to feed a house party's worth of guests, Hamish tucked into the first of several courses while Matthew toyed with a soup spoon until his meal cooled. The vampire leaned over the bowl and sniffed.

"Mushrooms and sherry?" he asked.

"Yes. Jordan wanted to try something new, and since it didn't contain anything you find objectionable, I let him."

Matthew didn't ordinarily require much in the way of supplemental sustenance at Cadzow Lodge, but Jordan was a wizard with soup, and Hamish didn't like to eat alone any more than he liked drinking alone.

"I'm sorry, Hamish," Matthew said, watching his friend eat.

"I accept your apology, Matt," Hamish said, the soup spoon hovering near his mouth. "But you cannot imagine how difficult it is to accept being a daemon or a witch. With vampires it's definite and incontrovertible. You're not a vampire, and then you are. No question, no room for doubt. The rest of us have to wait, watch, and wonder. It makes your vampire superiority doubly hard to take."

Matthew was twirling the spoon's handle in his fingers like a baton. "Witches know they're witches. They're not like daemons at all," he said with a frown.

Hamish put his spoon down with a clatter and topped off his winegla.s.s. "You know full well that having a witch for a parent is no guarantee. You can turn out perfectly ordinary. Or you can set your crib on fire. There's no telling if, when, or how your powers are going to manifest." Unlike Matthew, Hamish had a friend who was a witch. Janine did his hair, which had never looked better, and made her own skin lotion, which was nothing short of miraculous. He suspected that witchcraft was involved.

"It's not a total surprise, though," Matthew persisted, scooping some soup into his spoon and waving it slightly to cool it further. "Diana has centuries of family history to rely upon. It's nothing like what you went through as a teenager."

"I had a breeze of a time," Hamish said, recalling some of the daemonic coming-of-age stories he'd been privy to over the years.

When Hamish was twelve, his life had gone topsy-turvy in the s.p.a.ce of one afternoon. He had come to realize, over the long Scottish autumn, that he was far smarter than his teachers. Most children who reach twelve suspect this, but Hamish knew it with deeply upsetting certainty. He responded by feigning sickness so he could skip school and, when that no longer worked, by doing his schoolwork as rapidly as he could and abandoning all pretense of normalcy. In desperation his schoolmaster sent for someone from the university mathematics department to evaluate Hamish's troublesome ability to solve in minutes problems that occupied his school-mates for a week or more.

Jack Watson, a young daemon from the University of Glasgow with red hair and brilliant blue eyes, took one look at elfin Hamish Osborne and suspected that he, too, was a daemon. After going through the motions of a formal evaluation, which produced the expected doc.u.mentary proof that Hamish was a mathematical prodigy whose mind did not fit within normal parameters, Watson invited him to attend lectures at the university. He also explained to the headmaster that the child could not be accommodated within a normal cla.s.sroom without becoming a pyromaniac or something equally destructive.

After that, Watson made a visit to the Osbornes' modest home and told an astonished family how the world worked and exactly what kinds of creatures were in it. Percy Osborne, who came from a staunch Presbyterian background, resisted the notion of multiple supernatural and preternatural creatures until his wife pointed out that he had been raised to believe in witches-why not daemons and vampires, too? Hamish wept with relief, no longer feeling utterly alone. His mother hugged him fiercely and told him that she had always known he was special.

While Watson was still sitting in front of their electric fire drinking tea with her husband and son, Jessica Osborne thought she might as well take the opportunity to broach other aspects of Hamish's life that might make him feel different. She informed her son over chocolate biscuits that she also knew he was unlikely to marry the girl next door, who was infatuated with him. Instead Hamish was drawn to the girl's elder brother, a strapping lad of fifteen who could kick a football farther than anyone else in the neighborhood. Neither Percy nor Jack seemed remotely surprised or distressed by the revelation.

"Still," Matthew said now, after his first sip of tepid soup, "Diana's whole family must have expected her to be a witch-and she is, whether she uses her magic or not."

"I should think that would be every bit as bad as being among a bunch of clueless humans. Can you imagine the pressure? Not to mention the awful sense that your life didn't belong to you?" Hamish shuddered. "I'd prefer blind ignorance."

"What did it feel like," Matthew asked hesitantly, "the first day you woke up knowing you were a daemon?" The vampire didn't normally ask such personal questions.

"Like being reborn," Hamish said. "It was every bit as powerful and confusing as when you woke up craving blood and hearing the gra.s.s grow, blade by blade. Everything looked different. Everything felt different. Most of the time I smiled like a fool who'd won the lottery, and the rest of the time I cried in my room. But I don't think I believed it-you know, really really believed it-until you smuggled me into the hospital." believed it-until you smuggled me into the hospital."

Matthew's first birthday present to Hamish, after they became friends, had involved a bottle of Krug and a trip to the John Radcliffe. There Matthew sent Hamish through the MRI while the vampire asked him a series of questions. Afterward they compared Hamish's scans with those of an eminent brain surgeon on the staff, both of them drinking champagne and the daemon still in a surgical gown. Hamish made Matthew play the scans back repeatedly, fascinated by the way his brain lit up like a pinball machine even when he was replying to basic questions. It remained the best birthday present he'd ever received.

"From what you've told me, Diana is where I was before that MRI," Hamish said. "She knows she's a witch. But she still feels she's living a lie."

"She is is living a lie," Matthew growled, taking another sip of soup. "Diana's pretending she's human." living a lie," Matthew growled, taking another sip of soup. "Diana's pretending she's human."

"Wouldn't it be interesting to know why that's the case? More important, can you be around someone like that? You don't like lies."

Matthew looked thoughtful but didn't respond.

"There's something else," Hamish continued. "For someone who dislikes lies as much as you do, you keep a lot of secrets. If you need this witch, for whatever reason, you're going to have to win her trust. And the only way to do that is by telling her things you don't want her to know. She's roused your protective instincts, and you're going to have to fight them."

While Matthew mulled the situation over, Hamish turned the conversation to the latest catastrophes in the City and the government. The vampire calmed further, caught up in the intricacies of finance and policy.

"You've heard about the murders in Westminster, I presume," Hamish said when Matthew was completely at ease.

"I have. Somebody needs to put a stop to it."

"You?" Hamish asked.

"It's not my job-yet."

Hamish knew that Matthew had a theory about the murders, one that was linked to his scientific research. "You still think the murders are a sign that vampires are dying out?"

"Yes," Matthew said.

Matthew was convinced that creatures were slowly becoming extinct. Hamish had dismissed his friend's hypotheses at first, but he was beginning to think Matthew might be right.

They returned to less disturbing topics of conversation and, after dinner, retreated upstairs. The daemon had divided one of the lodge's redundant reception rooms into a sitting room and a bedroom. The sitting room was dominated by a large, ancient chessboard with carved ivory and ebony pieces that by all rights should be in a museum under protective gla.s.s rather than in a drafty hunting lodge. Like the MRI, the chess set had been a present from Matthew.

Their friendship had deepened over long evenings like this one, spent playing chess and discussing their work. One night Matthew began to tell Hamish stories of his past exploits. Now there was little about Matthew Clairmont that the daemon did not know, and the vampire was the only creature Hamish had ever met who wasn't frightened of his powerful intellect.

Hamish, as was his custom, sat down behind the black pieces.

"Did we finish our last game?" Matthew asked, feigning surprise at the neatly arranged board.

"Yes. You won," Hamish said curtly, earning one of his friend's rare, broad smiles.

The two began to move their pieces, Matthew taking his time and Hamish moving swiftly and decisively when it was his turn. There was no sound except for the crackle of the fire and the ticking of the clock.

After an hour of play, Hamish moved to the final stage of his plan.

"I have a question." His voice was careful as he waited for his friend to make his next move. "Do you want the witch for herself-or for her power over that ma.n.u.script?"

"I don't want her power!" Matthew exploded, making a bad decision with his rook, which Hamish quickly captured. He bowed his head, looking more than ever like a Renaissance angel focused on some celestial mystery. "Christ, I don't know what I want."

Hamish sat as still as possible. "I think you do, Matt."

Matthew moved a p.a.w.n and made no reply.

"The other creatures in Oxford," Hamish continued, "they'll know soon, if they don't know already, that you're interested in more than this old book. What's your endgame?"

"I don't know," the vampire whispered.

"Love? Tasting her? Making her like you?"

Matthew snarled.

"Very impressive," Hamish said in a bored tone.

"There's a lot I don't understand about all this, Hamish, but there are three things I do know," Matthew said emphatically, picking up his winegla.s.s from the floor by his feet. "I will not give in to this craving for her blood. I do not want to control her power. And I certainly have no wish to make her a vampire." He shuddered at the thought.

"That leaves love. You have your answer, then. You do know what you want."

Matthew swallowed a gulp of wine. "I want what I shouldn't want, and I crave someone I can never have."

"You're not afraid you'd hurt her?" Hamish asked gently. "You've had relationships with warm-blooded women before, and you've never harmed any of them."

Matthew's heavy crystal wine goblet snapped in two. The bowl toppled to the floor, red wine spreading on the carpet. Hamish saw the glint of powdered gla.s.s between the vampire's index finger and thumb.

"Oh, Matt. Why didn't you tell me?" Hamish governed his features, making sure that not a particle of his shock was evident.

"How could I?" Matthew stared at his hands and ground the shards between his fingertips until they sparkled reddish black from the mixture of gla.s.s and blood. "You always had too much faith in me, you know."

"Who was she?"

"Her name was Eleanor." Matthew stumbled over the name. He dashed the back of his hand across his eyes, a fruitless attempt to wipe the image of her face from his mind. "My brother and I were fighting. Now I can't even remember what the argument was about. Back then I wanted to destroy him with my bare hands. Eleanor tried to make me see reason. She got between us and-" The vampire's voice broke. He cradled his head without bothering to clean the b.l.o.o.d.y residue from his already healed fingers. "I loved her so much, and I killed her."

"When was this?" Hamish whispered.

Matthew lowered his hands, turning them over to study his long, strong fingers. "Ages ago. Yesterday. What does it matter?" he asked with a vampire's disregard for time.

"It matters enormously if you made this mistake when you were a newly minted vampire and not in control of your instincts and your hunger."

"Ah. Then it will also matter that I killed another woman, Cecilia Martin, just over a century ago. I wasn't 'a newly minted vampire' then." Matthew got up from his chair and walked to the windows. He wanted to run into the night's blackness and disappear so he wouldn't have to see the horror in Hamish's eyes.

"Are there more?" Hamish asked sharply.

Matthew shook his head. "Two is enough. There can't be a third. Not ever."

"Tell me about Cecilia," Hamish commanded, leaning forward in his chair.

"She was a banker's wife," Matthew said reluctantly. "I saw her at the opera and became infatuated. Everyone in Paris was infatuated with someone else's wife at the time." His finger traced the outline of a woman's face on the pane of gla.s.s before him. "It didn't strike me as a challenge. I only wanted a taste of her, that night I went to her house. But once I started, I couldn't stop. And yet I couldn't let her die either-she was mine, and I wouldn't give her up. I barely stopped feeding in time. Dieu, Dieu, she hated being a vampire. Cecilia walked into a burning house before I could stop her." she hated being a vampire. Cecilia walked into a burning house before I could stop her."

Hamish frowned. "Then you didn't kill her, Matt. She killed herself."

"I fed on her until she was at the brink of death, forced her to drink my blood, and turned her into a creature without her permission because I was selfish and scared," he said furiously. "In what way did I not kill her? I took her life, her ident.i.ty, her vitality-that's death, Hamish."

"Why did you keep this from me?" Hamish tried not to care that his best friend had done so, but it was difficult.

"Even vampires feel shame," Matthew said tightly. "I hate myself-and I should-for what I did to those women."

"This is why you have to stop keeping secrets, Matt. They're going to destroy you from the inside." Hamish thought about what he wanted to say before he continued. "You didn't set out to kill Eleanor and Cecilia. You're not a murderer."

Matthew rested his fingertips on the white-painted window frame and pressed his forehead against the cold panes of gla.s.s. When he spoke, his voice was flat and dead. "No, I'm a monster. Eleanor forgave me for it. Cecilia never did."

"You're not a monster," Hamish said, worried by Matthew's tone.

"Maybe not, but I am dangerous." He turned and faced Hamish. "Especially around Diana. Not even Eleanor made me feel this way." The mere thought of Diana brought the craving back, the tightness spreading from his heart to his abdomen. His face darkened with the effort to bring it under control.

"Come back here and finish this game," Hamish said, his voice rough.

"I could go, Hamish," Matthew said uncertainly. "You don't have to share your roof with me."

"Don't be an idiot," Hamish replied as quick as a whip. "You're not going anywhere."

Matthew sat. "I don't understand how you can know about Eleanor and Cecilia and not hate me, too," he said after a few minutes.

"I can't conceive of what you would have to do to make me hate you, Matthew. I love you like a brother, and I will until I draw my last breath."

"Thank you," Matthew said, his face somber. "I'll try to deserve it."

"Don't try. Do it," Hamish said gruffly. "You're about to lose your bishop, by the way."

The two creatures dragged their attention back to the game with difficulty, and they were still playing in the early morning when Jordan brought up coffee for Hamish and a bottle of port for Matthew. The butler picked up the ruined winegla.s.s without comment, and Hamish sent him off to bed.

When Jordan was gone, Hamish surveyed the board and made his final move. "Checkmate."

Matthew let out his breath and sat back in his chair, staring at the chessboard. His queen stood encircled by his own pieces-p.a.w.ns, a knight, and a rook. Across the board his king was checked by a lowly black p.a.w.n. The game was over, and he had lost.

"There's more to the game than protecting your queen," Hamish said. "Why do you find it so difficult to remember that it's the king who's not expendable?"

"The king just sits there, moving one square at a time. The queen can move so freely. I suppose I'd rather lose the game than forfeit her freedom."

Hamish wondered if he was talking about chess or Diana. "Is she worth the cost, Matt?" he asked softly.

"Yes," Matthew said without a moment of hesitation, lifting the white queen from the board and holding it between his fingers.

"I thought so," Hamish said. "You don't feel this way now, but you're lucky to have found her at last."

The vampire's eyes glittered, and his mouth twisted into a crooked smile. "But is she lucky, Hamish? Is she fortunate to have a creature like me in pursuit?"

"That's entirely up to you. Just remember-no secrets. Not if you love her."

Matthew looked into his queen's serene face, his fingers closing protectively around the small carved figure.

He was still holding it when the sun rose, long after Hamish had gone to sleep.

Chapter 10.

Still trying to shake the ice from my shoulders left by Matthew's stare, I opened the door to my rooms. Inside, the answering machine greeted me with a flashing red "13." There were nine additional voice-mail messages on my mobile. All of them were from Sarah and reflected an escalating concern about what her sixth sense told her was happening in Oxford.

Unable to face my all-too-prescient aunts, I turned down the volume on the answering machine, turned off the ringers on both phones, and climbed wearily into bed.

Next morning, when I pa.s.sed through the porter's lodge for a run, Fred waved a stack of message slips at me.