Chapter 48
I watch Dora roll herself into the underground chamber. “I don’t understand,” I say. “The journal was written by someone young, practically a child.” The numbers flit through my head, but they don’t add up. “The little girl in the catacombs, that was what—nine or ten years ago?”
Dora edges up to the table, right beside my face. “She wasn’t mine, I’m afraid. But the first one was.”
Baffled, I wait for her to explain.
She sends a smile to her grandson. “I revealed the truth to Lyam years ago. I knew he was the one. And he wanted to impress me, to pay homage. You see, I made my first kill all on my own, without my father’s knowledge or permission. And he was so proud.”
She beams as if talking about winning a blue ribbon at a fair. Instead of murdering a child. “When I told Lyam, he wanted to do the same. Tradition is very important in our family.”
“I wanted to be like you,” Lyam says, his tone soft and obsequious, one meant to ingratiate himself to Dora.
“Unfortunately, both times were mistakes, and we both had to learn the first rule.” Dora laughs. “Don’t hunt at home.”
My mind whirls. Two little girls. Dora’s first murder, the one in her journal.
And later, Lyam. When he was in his teens.
I want to cover my face but can’t move my hands. “What about the girl from the party in 1985?”
Dora frowns and almost looks embarrassed. “Another mistake. And the first and last time I ever tried ecstasy.” She smiles and looks upward. “Oh, but the kill was divine. I never felt anything like it, before or since. Not even my first.”
Nausea grips my gut again, but I push it back down. “That’s not tradition. That’s sadism.”
Dora tilts her head. “No, dear. It’s a necessity. An obligation.”
She licks her lips and speaks in a warbly voice, almost whispered, as if in reverence. “Vis sanguinis.”
At first, I don’t understand, the words foreign to my ears and slurred together. Then I make sense of what she’s said.
Vis sanguinis. VS.
“That’s what the symbol stands for,” I say. “The one Grégoire Marteau always wore. The one on his tomb.”
Dora nods. “Latin. It means the power of blood. You see, my great-grandfather understood the properties of human blood. He understood the power, the advantages he could gain with its consumption. It is the essence of life, the spirit of all that we are. Blood strengthens the body and the mind.”
“That’s insane.” A breath of shock explodes from my lungs. “You murder people, because you think their blood makes you powerful?”
“Not murder, dear. Sacrifice.”
She says it with such conviction, and I can see by the softness of her smile that she’s trying to convince me.
“No. You don’t kill people to take some mystical, made-up power. You kill people because you enjoy it.”
“Oh my, dear. Such a simplistic view.” Dora speaks in a pleasant voice, but her smile slips, and I can see the hate.
The condescension. “My family has known this truth for generations, and the ones living at Maison Marteau accept this reality.
They understand that we do what we do because we are special. We are chosen.
“Sadly,” Dora continues, “the occasional family member refuses to go along. And anyone who threatens our bloodline must be removed.”
“Bloodline?” I think of Luci’s parents, their bodies rotting in the family crypt. Shock spreads through me like a fungus. “Did you kill your own son?”
Dora’s expression flickers, a flash of sadness in her eyes, but only for a moment. “His death was quick. He and his wife were in a plane crash. Those tiny, private planes.” She lifts a shoulder. “So many things that can go wrong.”
Her gaze drifts back to me. “Not everyone believes in the power. Not everyone is suited for the gift. Grégoire Marteau was the first. Then his son, then my father, then me.” She smiles up at her grandson. “And now my sweet Lyam.”
With a shrug, she speaks to me again. “Not everyone can be special. Sometimes the gift skips a generation.”
That’s when it hits. “You said something similar to me before, about how some things run in families. When we spoke about Luci.”
Now I’m the one to laugh, but the sound is harsh and scornful. “I thought you were talking about mental illness, that you were telling me Luci was depressed or, or . . . bipolar. But you meant she wasn’t like you. Luci is the one who got skipped.”
I glare at Dora. “You and Lyam, you’re the sick ones. You’re both psychopaths.”
For the first time, her mask slips. Her top lip curls and her face twists with anger, giving me a glimpse of the real Dora. “Psychopath,” she all but spits at me. “An ugly word for ignorant peasants. What would you know of the power we have?”
She waves an arm around, indicating everything above us. “Just because you were briefly allowed to occupy our space, don’t think you understand our world.”
“And what about Luci? Does she understand?” I flick my gaze to Lyam and back to Dora. “Or is she in danger? Will she have to be removed from the family line?”
“No,” Lyam says quickly, stepping forward, drawing his grandmother’s sharp gaze. He notices and looks at the ground.
“Luci is precious to me,” Dora says, her tone softer, mediated by the apparent love she has for her only granddaughter. “One day, I will tell her the secret, and she will understand. She’s smart, she’s strong—”
“She’s damaged.”
Dora recoils, but then she carries on, ignoring what I said. “Luci will come to accept the truth of our family. She’s like me in so many ways. I had hoped her father would carry on the bloodline, but he was weak.”
She glances fondly at Lyam. “No matter. I have my heir. One who values the Marteau legacy.”
“You made him your heir?” I can’t hide my revulsion. “After what he did to Luci?”
Now I have her attention. Dora rolls close again, her mouth pinched. “What are you talking about? Lyam has always guided and protected Luci, like an older brother.”
“What kind of brother—”
“Enough.” Lyam grabs my hair, pulling hard enough to stretch my neck. “We know what you’re trying to do. You think others haven’t tried to lie their way out of this room?”
He yanks again, and I feel pinpoints of pain, hairs ripping from my scalp.
But even as I grimace, an idea flashes. I see a light at the end of this tunnel of death. And, as Lyam said, a possible way out.
I might be restrained, but I can still fight.
“Tell her what you did.” I force the words through gritted teeth.
Dora looks confused. “You mean killing Luci’s lover? I approved that. I was not going to lose my granddaughter to Rose. That British goudou.”
“No. Not that. I mean the pictures. Of Luci.” My gaze locks with Dora’s. “The ones Lyam took.”