Chapter 14
Fourteen
About Me
I sink into my chair, Tony beside me. There’s so much spinning in my head.
I want to tell Tony I’m not alone in this world, about the naked, fornicating yaoguai; I need to know why these vampires are targetting Gigi, why they kidnapped us, why they want to know about me .
. . but it’s too much all at once and makes my head hurt.
Ah Lang leads Gigi to the seat next to mine.
Even with her hair a lopsided rats’ nest, her dress shredded and splattered with blood, Gigi carries herself with poise.
She lowers herself elegantly into her seat and smooths a non-existent crinkle from her tattered dress.
Ah Lang sits next to her, watches protectively as Gigi fusses with her waterfall sleeves, pulling them up to cascade over her forearms, then dropping them so they puddle on the parquet floors.
She only does that when she’s really worried.
A strange silvery fog now entirely shrouds the corpse at Mémère’s feet.
Lord Aengus sits on the floor between Ah Lang and Tony, uncharacteristically quiet.
It occurs to me Lord Aengus might have useful intel, being familiar with Paris and no doubt its yaojing.
But, first things first, fulfil my deal, and get everyone to safety.
A maid brings out a gilded teapot, tall, shaped more like the long-necked pots used for baijiu.
Tea steams from the spout; Pu-erh, from Yunnan, if I’m not mistaken.
Over-steeped. The cups, shaped like small urns with a single handle and gilded at the edges, sit atop matching saucers, similarly frilly looking.
Mémère has Marianne pour me another cup of blood, to help settle my nerves, she says.
The maid offers cups of tea to Ah Lang, Gigi and Tony, but on seeing Lord Aengus shudders and turns away.
‘Rude,’ he mutters.
While the others accept the tea, they don’t drink it. My fangs ache for the warm, aromatic blood in my cup, but, to show my solidarity with the others, I refrain.
Mémère nods at me, that softness once more in her gaze. ‘Dis-moi.’
‘Go on,’ Marianne says, unnecessarily. While I don’t understand Mémère’s words, the tone of them is easy enough to grasp.
I chew my lip. This is not how I would have chosen for Gigi, Ah Lang, Tony, and certainly not Lord Aengus, to learn about my less than idyllic childhood.
Heat rises up my neck, and the tips of my ears burn.
It’s suddenly too stuffy, too dry in the room.
My words lodge in my throat; even at the best of times I hate talking about my time in Turquoise Hills.
I stare at the cup in my hands. A little blood rush might help the words flow easier. I blow out a deep breath.
‘I was born in Turquoise Hills . . .’ My voice splinters like dried kindling. I try again. ‘I . . .’ My voice fails me, and to my horror my eyes have gone hot.
Rotted turds. I can’t cry in front of all these people. Desperation eclipses caution and I down the entire teacup.
It’s not a lot, maybe two mouthfuls, but it’s enough of a blood rush to smooth the barbs in my throat.
Despite our situation as hostages, despite my head telling me in no uncertain terms that these vampires are foe, despite the horror of the fog-shrouded corpse at our feet, I feel the tightness in my throat ease.
Perhaps it’s the blood rush, the wonder of meeting other vampires, the novelty of drinking blood out of a teacup as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Or perhaps it’s Mémère’s seemingly genuine interest in me that makes the words flow.
In a monotone, my gaze locked on the crimson smears at the bottom of my teacup, I begin at the beginning: ‘I was born in the Hulijing Court in Turquoise Hills . . .’
The memories normally shoved away in the darkest crevices of my mind spill from me in a torrent.
I recount Niang Niang’s casual cruelty, her hatred of my vampire heritage.
How my father abandoned us, and how I thought – how everyone thought – my mother had sold me to Big Wang, the King of Hell, for a canary-yellow diamond the size of a quail’s egg.
Thankfully, in my woe-is-me tale, this last detail was only a ruse Big Wang devised to keep me safe from my grandmother’s infanticidal tendencies.
He bundled me secretly out of hulijing territory, adopted me, raised me in Hell under the watchful eyes of Horsey, Bullhead, and the Kitchen God, Old Zao.
I don’t mention my inheritance, a priceless dragon pearl gifted by Lady Longnu, Lord Black’s cousin.
I pause and look up. Tony’s jaw is clenched hard, the muscle twitching.
He knows most of the story. But the others don’t.
Gigi’s eyes are wide, shimmering as if she might cry.
Ah Lang and Lord Aengus look so alike in their pained expressions that I might have laughed, but the mix of shock, sorrow, and the thing I hate most – pity – makes me turn away.
Mémère stares at me, her brown eyes wide, so still she looks as if she’s carved from stone. ‘You are a child of a vampire and a hulijing?’
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, making him shrink into his chair.
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, is also my father?’
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. ’