Francis scowled at the mention of Mirelle. She was the only other vampire he'd created, and he'd done it temporarily, for the sole purpose of flushing Mikhael out and exposing his plans to the king. "Mirelle wasn't a true vampire, and you know that," he said, words clipped. "You know why she was necessary, and I returned her to being human as soon as that was done. Just as I cleaned up the rest of your mess at St. Germain."
The force behind Mikhael's words surprised Francis, and the vehemence convinced him that his rival spoke the truth. That made their disappearance all the more worrisome. More vampires in the world, running around and doing who knew what. He raised an eyebrow as he noticed Mikhael slip his hand into his pocket, but said nothing about it. He could guess what was there. Unconsciously, his own hand slid into the pocket of his trousers, checking for the diamond and nodding very slightly to himself when he felt its familiar contours against his fingers.
At the former monk's question, Francis couldn't help but smirk. "From France," he said lightly. "And they were quite different from the two of us." His expression turned serious. "Could there have been another enclave of vampires outside of the Valley?" Much as it pained him to bring up the once-happy place, the monks there knew more about vampires than anyone, and Mikhael had been one of those monks, long ago. If there had been other vampires, surely they would have known.