boisterous family was significantly smaller. Juliette was Gerbert’s creature and had been eager to prove her usefulness at a time when Matthew was growing tired of being the de Clermont family’s problem solver. She had disposed of more vampires in New Orleans than Matthew had.
“My wife killed her.” Matthew didn’t elaborate.
“Sounds like you found yourself a good woman,” Ransome said, snapping open the ledger before him. He took the cap off a nearby pen, the tip of which looked as if it had been chewed by a wild animal. “Care to play a game of chance with me, Matthew?”
Matthew’s cool eyes met Ransome’s brighter green gaze. Matthew’s pupils were growing larger by the second. Ransome’s lip curled in a scornful smile.
“Afraid?” Ransome asked. “Of me? I’m flattered.”
“Whether I play the game or not depends on the stakes.”
“My sworn allegiance if you win,” Ransome replied, his smile foxy.
“And if I lose?” Matthew’s drawl was not treacle-coated but was just as disarming. “That’s where the chance comes in.” Ransome sent the domino spinning into the air.
Matthew caught it. “I’ll take your wager.”
“You don’t know what the game is yet,” Ransome said.
Matthew stared at him impassively.
Ransome’s lips tipped up at the corners. “If you weren’t such a bastard, I might grow to like you,”
he observed.
“Likewise,” Matthew said crisply. “The game?”
Ransome drew the ledger closer. “If you can name every sister, brother, niece, nephew, and grandchild of mine you killed in New Orleans all those years ago—as well as any other vampires you killed in the city along the way—I will throw myself in with the rest.”
Matthew studied his grandson.
“Wish you’d asked for the terms sooner?” Ransome grinned.
“Malachi Smith. Crispin Jones. Suzette Boudrot. Claude Le Breton.” Matthew paused as Ransome searched the ledger’s entries for the names. “You should have kept them in chronological order instead of alphabetical. That’s how I remember them.”
Ransome looked up in surprise. Matthew’s smile was small and wolfish, the kind to make any fox run for the hills.
Matthew continued to recite names long after the downstairs bar opened for business. He finished just in time to see the first gamblers arrive at nine o’clock. Ransome had consumed a fifth of bourbon by then. Matthew was still sipping his first glass of 1775 Château Lafite, which he had given to Marcus in 1789 when the Constitution went into effect. Ransome had been storing it for his father since the Domino Club opened.
“I believe that settles matters, Ransome.” Matthew stood and placed the domino on the desk.
Ransome looked dazed. “How can you possibly remember all of them?”
“How could I ever forget?” Matthew drank down the last of his wine. “You have potential, Ransome. I look forward to doing business with you in future. Thank you for the wine.”
“Son of a bitch,” Ransome muttered under his breath as the sire of his clan departed.
Matthew was weary to the bone and ready to murder something when he returned to the Garden District.
He’d walked there from the French Quarter, hoping to burn off some excess emotion. The endless list of names had stirred up too many memories, none of them pleasant. Guilt had followed in their wake.
He took out his phone, hoping that Diana had sent him a photograph. The images she sent thus far were his lifeline. Though Matthew had been furious to discover from them that his wife was in London rather than Sept-Tours, there had been moments over the past weeks when the glimpses into her life there were all that kept him sane.
“Hello, Matthew.” To his surprise, Fernando sat on the wide front steps of Marcus’s house, waiting for him. Chris Roberts was perched nearby.
“Diana?” It was part howl, part accusation, and entirely terrifying. Behind Fernando the door opened.
“Fernando? Chris?” Marcus looked startled. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for Matthew,” Fernando replied.
“Come inside. All of you.” Marcus beckoned them forward. “Miss Davenport is watching.” His neighbors were old, idle, and nosy.
Matthew, however, was beyond the reach of reason. He’d been nearly there several times, but the unexpected sight of Fernando and Chris had sent him over. Now that Marcus knew that his father had blood rage, he understood why Matthew always went away—alone—to recover when he got into this state.
“Who is with her?” Matthew’s voice was like a musket firing: first a raspy sound of warning, then a loud report.
“Ysabeau, I expect.” Marcus said. “Phoebe. And Sarah. And of course Gallowglass.”
“Don’t forget Leonard,” Jack said, appearing behind Marcus. “He’s my best friend, Matthew.
Leonard would never let anything happen to Diana.”