A Discovery of Witches - Deborah Harkness [263]
Sarah grumbled and retreated to the kitchen for coffee.
“Who’s winning?” I inquired.
“You need to ask?” The vampire smiled with satisfaction.
When not playing Scrabble or watching old movies, Miriam held classes covering Vampires 101. In the space of a few afternoons, she managed to teach Em the importance of names, pack behavior, possessive rituals, preternatural senses, and dining habits. Lately talk had turned to more advanced topics, such as how to slay a vampire.
“No, not even slicing our necks open is foolproof, Em,” Miriam told her patiently. The two were sitting in the family room while I made tea in the kitchen. “You want to cause as much blood loss as possible. Go for the groin as well.”
Matthew shook his head at the exchange and took the opportunity (since everyone else was otherwise engaged) to pin me behind the refrigerator door. My shirt was askew and my hair tumbling around my ears when our son came into the room with an armload of wood.
“Did you lose something behind the refrigerator, Matthew?” Marcus’s face was the picture of innocence.
“No,” Matthew purred. He buried his face in my hair so he could drink in the scent of my arousal. I swatted ineffectually at his shoulders, but he just held me tighter.
“Thanks for replenishing the firewood, Marcus,” I said breathlessly.
“Should I go get more?” One blond eyebrow arched up in perfect imitation of his father.
“Good idea. It will be cold tonight.” I twisted my head to reason with Matthew, but he mistook it as an invitation to kiss me again. Marcus and the wood supply faded into inconsequence.
When not lying in wait in dark corners, Matthew joined Sarah and Marcus in the most unholy trio of potion brewers since Shakespeare put three witches around a cauldron. The vapor Sarah and Matthew brewed up for the picture of the chemical wedding hadn’t revealed anything, but this didn’t deter them. They occupied the stillroom at all hours, consulting the Bishop grimoire and making strange concoctions that smelled bad, exploded, or both. On one occasion Em and I investigated a loud bang followed by the sound of rolling thunder.
“What are you three up to?” Em asked, hands on hips. Sarah’s face was covered in gray soot, and debris was falling down the chimney.
“Nothing,” Sarah grumbled. “I was trying to cleave the air and the spell got bent out of shape, that’s all.”
“Cleaving?” I looked at the mess, astonished.
Matthew and Marcus nodded solemnly.
“You’d better clean up this room before dinner, Sarah Bishop, or I’ll show you cleaving!” Em sputtered.
Of course, not all encounters between residents were happy ones. Marcus and Matthew walked together at sunrise, leaving me to the tender care of Miriam, Sarah, and the teapot. They never went far. They were always visible from the kitchen window, their heads bent together in conversation. One morning Marcus turned on his heel and stormed back to the house, leaving his father alone in the old apple orchard.
“Diana,” he growled in greeting before streaking through the family room and straight out the front door. “I’m too damn young for this!” he shouted as he left.
His engine revved—Marcus preferred sports cars to SUVs—and the tires bit into the gravel when he reversed and pulled out of the driveway.
“What’s Marcus upset about?” I asked when Matthew returned, kissing his cold cheek as he reached for the paper.
“Business,” he said shortly, kissing me back.
“You didn’t make him seneschal?” Miriam asked incredulously.
Matthew flipped the paper open. “You must have a very high opinion of me, Miriam, if you think the brotherhood has functioned for all these years without a seneschal. That position is already occupied.”
“What’s a seneschal?” I put two slices of bread in the beat-up toaster. It had six slots, but only two of them worked with any reliability.
“My second in command,” Matthew said briefly.
“If he’s not the seneschal, why has Marcus sped out of here?” Miriam pressed.
“I appointed him marshal,” Matthew said, scanning the headlines.
“He’s the least likely