I nod. ‘He left us and never came back.’ The question I most want to ask and am most afraid to ask, sticks in my throat. I have to swallow a few times before the words come free. ‘He is French. Do you know who he is?’
Mémère clasps the jade pendant at her neck. ‘En quelle année es-tu née?’ Marianne translates. ‘What year were you born?’
‘1835,’ I say.
‘Qu’est-ce qu’elle a dit?’ Mémère’s voice is strained, a frown ridging the once smooth expanse between her dark brows.
There’s a rapid exchange between the three of them.
‘Non, ce n’est pas possible,’ Maximilien says, a snarl twisting his features.‘C’est une chinoise.’His words carry an unpleasant sharpness.
I shrink into my chair, not understanding the words, but the emotions behind them are clear enough. The instinct to flee is overwhelming.
Tony tenses next to me, as do Gigi and Ah Lang. Lord Aengus snorts in derision. But, before anyone else can react, Mémère hisses at Maximilien, makinghimshrink intohischair. She leans towards me, takes both my hands in hers, and pats them, ever so gently, like she is soothing a frightened kitten. I am surprised to find the gesture does indeed soothe.
Her eyes shine, the whites have turned the pink of her armchair. Maximilien gapes at her in horrified disbelief.
‘Benesangue, coeur des coeurs, chair de la chair.C’était toi qui était notre surprise. C’était toi, ma chère petite fille, que mon Romain voulait nous présenter,’ Mémère murmurs. ‘Que tu es jolie, ma petite fille.’
A crimson tear rolls down her alabaster cheek. She doesn’t seem to notice or care. She searches my face, as if there are answers in the planes of my cheeks, the slope of my nose, the shape of my eyes. I look nothing like them, and yet, their fangs are just like mine.
‘Ma tendre petite fille,’she murmurs over and over again.
‘What’s she saying?’ I ask Marianne.
But she doesn’t answer, only stares at Mémère’s hands holding mine.
Tony frowns. I catch his eye, and I remember he’s a polyglot, which gives me a surge of hope and comfort. He understands them. My mahjong face must slip because he shakes his head very discreetly. He doesn’t want the vampires to know. Lord Aengus, however, is not as discreet. Round blue eyes dart pointedly between me and Mémère.
It doesn’t matter though since the vampires are deeply absorbed in their own animated discussion.
Finally, Marianne nods grimly. ‘Our father, Romain de Durand’ – Marianne’s voice is soft, the words slow, as if pulled from a dream – ‘travelled to China in 1834 and never came back.’
‘What do you mean, never came back?’
When she says no more, Mémère leans forward, impatient. ‘Racontes-lui.’
Marianne nods, takes a deep breath. ‘In order for you to understand the significance of this moment, we must trust you with details we normally would never share with outsiders.’ She pauses, meeting each of our gazes before proceeding. ‘Fate has put us in each other’s paths and we must trust in your discretion.’ Marianne glances briefly at Mémère. ‘We thought at first you were ours in sangue – as we call our vampire kin – and we wished to know who had blessed you with benesangue, that is, turned you vampire.’
My heart races at this information. So the stories were right. I swallow, forcing myself not to look at Tony, though I desperately want to.
Marianne continues. ‘As we vampires are few in number, we have been searching, with little success, for others of our kind. You are not only ours in sangue, but also ours in flesh: a rare born vampire, child in flesh to Romain de Durand. You are heart of heart, flesh of flesh, of House Durand.’
I don’t really understand all that heart and flesh talk. But,child in flesh to Romain de Durand– does that mean...?
‘Are you saying your missing father, Romain de Durand, isalsomyfather?’
Marianne nods.
The revelation that vampires can be made fizzles in comparison to this last thunderclap. If I were not already sitting, I would have sunk to my knees.
I frown, unsure of how I feel about this. Max glares at me, his hostility growing by the second. A stark contrast to Mémère, who keeps squeezing my hands, as if checking I’m real.
I wonder what it would be like to have a family who wants you. The thought pinches my heart; the sting shakes off the sentimentality.
‘How can you be sure?’ I say.
‘As I said, our numbers are small. It is easy to keep track of our comings and goings,’ Marianne says. ‘My father was the only vampire in China in 1834 and ’35. He is also the only French vampire capable of fathering a vampire in flesh. There is no doubt in our minds you are the flesh and sangue of House Durand.’
