Jane Slayre

by Sherri Browning Erwin

  "Late for a lady to be out," he drawled. "Perhaps I could accompany you home?"

  "What a sweet offer," I replied, furtively dropping a stake from each sleeve into my waiting palms. "But thank you, I can find my way."

  I sized him up. He was barely twenty, just a little taller than myself and not stout, or so it seemed. He wore a coat several sizes too big, something he'd possibly stripped off a previous victim.

  "Mm, no. I don't think you can. Did your mother never warn you not to speak to strangers?" His dark hair fell with rakish abandon into his sharp black eyes.

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  "My mother is dead," I answered, keeping up the conversation as I judged whether I had a better chance to lunge at him full on, or if I should try to put the tree between us and stake him from the side.

  "Poor little orphan," he said with a lecherous smile. "Is there no one to take care of you? I could offer you a family, love. A whole new world."

  "What do you mean?" I returned his smile, as if considering. Perhaps it would help if I could get close without his putting up a fight. If he thought I was complacent prey, willing to offer up my neck, I could stake him when he went in for the bite.

  He paused as I drew near. "You smell so sweet. I haven't eaten in weeks."

  "Surely, you don't mean to eat me, sir?"

  "Aha." He wrapped his arm around my waist and drew me closer. "That was my original plan. But perhaps you might enjoy a little game? I bite you, you bite me. It could be quite amusing."

  "What about your friends? How many, four? Five? If you mean to adopt me, I think you should know that I prefer to belong to a big family."

  He was distractedly sniffing at my neck. I was about to make my move and stake him, but he had more to add. "We're all family, love. There are twenty-two more of them at home. They come tomorrow. The few of us are just here to take the lay of the land, so to speak."

  "I know the land and could be helpful should you need assistance getting settled."

  "Delightful. You might be very useful to keep around. Now give us a taste, hm?"

  He bared his fangs and moved in towards my neck. I raised my arm, about to stake him through the back, praying I had properly calculated the location of his heart, when he, somehow, seemed to guess my purpose.

  Spinning around, he caught my wrist and slammed me into the trunk of a tree.

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  "Ah, ah! Now I'll have to kill you after all. Pity." He slapped me full across the face and I went tumbling off to the side.

  He pounced, but I rolled out of the way in time. I ran at him, stake extended. He dodged left, right, got hold of my arm, knocked me to the ground, and wrenched the stake from my hand.

  "How did you know? Who warned you we were coming?" he demanded.

  "No one. I always carry stakes. Everyone in these parts believes in being prepared."

  "In Morton? It never before was such." He clucked and rolled atop me, clearly believing me disarmed. "I'll have to be on my guard. In the meantime, a snack!"

  His voice trailed off as he bared his fangs again. Memories of John Reed came flooding back, urging me to fight, but yet I froze. Would I not be better off to let him bite me? I could continue my slaying as one of them. True, I would sacrifice my soul, but think of the access I would have to their inner circles, the power I would gain! Was it not worth losing myself to help the greater good? I felt his teeth pierce my neck, my blood begin to drain. I grew weaker, but somehow blissfully dazed. I felt my attacker moving against me, taking pleasure in the warmth of my body and my blood. It would be over soon. I would drink from him and be strong again. But for now, I gave in to the exquisite sensation of, for once, being weak. Of choosing the wrong path instead of the right. If only I had chosen Mr. Rochester ...

  Mr. Rochester! I could never be known to him again if I let myself go. I would be shamed. Defeated. With the remaining trace of strength I had, I raised my hand over my attacker. I did not hesitate to guess at my target. With as much force as I could muster, I simply rammed the stake, in my left hand, straight into his chest. He disintegrated, but perhaps because I was light-headed from blood loss, it seemed to take longer than usual. I watched his head rise from my neck, his face registering shock. His eyes rolled back. And then his skin seemed to dissolve, his eyes shrivel. From flesh, to bone, and

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  finally--he disintegrated atop me. I shuddered, brushed him off--the overlarge coat rolling off with him--brushed brown leaves and muck from my dress with my hands. I steadied myself, getting to my feet with the aid of a branch, and then I leaned against the trunk of a tree to catch my breath and get my bearings.

  A few great gasps of clean, fresh air seemed to restore me to my senses. How close I had come to losing myself, and all hope, forever! The feeling of triumph over not only the vampyre but over my own dark thoughts pulsed fierce in my veins, helping to recharge my sapped strength. Recovered at last, I ran home to warn St. John.

  After I delivered my report, relating the attack, but not all that had transpired, St. John remained calm, as if nearly catatonic. Having heard what I'd been through--only that I had been attacked and bitten, not that I'd considered the worst--and my fear of the potential danger to the village, all he could say was "Jane, your dress. It's torn."

  I looked down. Indeed, a slit in my skirts ran straight up to midthigh, baring my leg. I covered it and blushed, but St. John stared as if transfixed.

  "Come," he said at last. "Let's get the weapons and warn the villagers."

  After a quick change of frock, I led St. John to the edge of the woods where I'd seen the strangers gathering. The vampyres were there, now four of them, and St. John slew each one from a distance, taking them by surprise before they even realised what had happened. The stake-o-matic was a stunning success. I, armed with the lighter, recently improved version of the rapid-fire crossbow, never even needed to take a shot.

  By the next afternoon, we'd alerted, gathered, trained, and armed most of Morton. It helped that the children knew basic techniques and could demonstrate for the adults. Before the vampyres arrived, the men and boys, led by St. John, waited in the moors and woods

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  with stake-o-matics loaded and ready. My assignment was to keep watch over the women and younger children in the schoolroom so that none could be killed or terrorized in their homes. The girls who knew how to fight were prepared to do so, under the guidance of their new teacher, Dinah Winn, with my assistance.

  As night fell and we waited for reports from the men, one of the girls, a former student, expressed her fear that vampyres might make it into town and she would have to employ the techniques she'd learned in school.

  "I know what to do," she said. "I've practised. I just never imagined I would actually have to act in my own defence."

  "If the time comes, you'll be able to trust your instincts," I assured her. "But the men are well armed and quite capable. I doubt any vampyres could infiltrate the village with Mr. St. John Rivers on guard. If it would help you to feel more secure, we could step out of doors and have some target practise with the crossbows?"

  She declined, either confident in St. John's abilities or too afraid to venture into the open square. I thought of going out on my own. I enjoyed target practise, though it wasn't as satisfying as the actual charge of power that hummed in my veins after killing a vampyre.

  "I wish Mother were here," the baker's daughter said after a moment.

  "She isn't here?" I looked around. I'd thought Dinah had taken a count of heads, but perhaps she'd missed one or two in the tumult of assembling all in one place. "Where is she?"

  "There were loaves in the oven and more ready to bake. We can ill afford to waste good flour. She instructed me to run on ahead and say that she was here, but she's not and I'm worried." The girl began to sob. I put her in the care of an older girl, then put Dinah Winn in charge of guarding the bunch. Armed with a loaded crossbow and pack of stakes, I set off in search of the baker, the widow Watson.

/>   The moon lit my path and I found no reason to be alarmed along the way. When I reached Watsons' shop, which they lived above, the door was ajar. It was dark inside, but a light was in a window

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  abovestairs. I proceeded carefully to the door, leading the way with my crossbow, and peeked inside, squinting through the darkness. There was the empty table I'd sat at my first day in Morton, when I'd tried to get information on employment as I'd struggled to find a way to trade my gloves for bread. The pastry cases sat empty, but the aroma of fresh-baked bread lingered. As I started towards the ovens in back, the sound of something crashing drew my attention overhead.

  A stream of light led me to the stairs, and graceful on my feet though I wore boots St. John had provided me, I went up without making a sound. There, at the top of the stairs, I heard them.

  "That's it," a deep voice crooned. "Let me drink my fill and then you have a taste of me."

  "No, Richard." A woman cried softly. "Think of Lily. Someone's got to take care of Lily."

  The widowed baker referred to her daughter. I followed the voices, rounded a corner, and saw what had crashed, a vase that might have been hurled or thrown, broken and scattered along the floor leading to a stout vampyre pressing a slender woman up against the wall, fangs bared as if poised to take a bite.

  "Back away from her," I said in the harshest tone I could muster. "Release her and back away."

  I couldn't get a shot at him without potentially harming her. The vampyre laughed in response, shaking his head before turning around, prepared to pounce on me until his black eyes widened at the sight of my well-aimed crossbow. A large man, he could not close his coat around his sizable belly, making him an easy target for me, except--

  The woman screamed at the sight of me. Could she not see that I was trying to save her? "You don't understand," she said in shaky voice as she was still crying. "He's my husband."

  I paused, the fatal pause St. John had always warned me about in training. The vampyre's reaction wasn't to be expected. He didn't lunge at me or try to wrest away my weapon. He reached behind

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  him and pulled the baker to the fore, using her as a sort of shield from my attack.

  "I'll drain her," he said, menace in his tone. "I'll drain her and come get you."

  "Lily was worried about you," I informed Mrs. Watson. "She sent me to bring you back."

  Mrs. Watson cried harder, but the vampyre held her fast in front of him, his pudgy arms wrapped around her waist, his canines extended and hovering over her throat. I suspected I'd come just in time. He would have killed her or made her a vampyre as well.

  "Don't you care about young Lily, Mr. Watson?" I addressed the vampyre by name. "She'll grow up without a mother. Or worse, raised by vampyres. It's no life for a child."

  They could trust me on that.

  "Bothersome chit," Mr. Watson conceded. "Always making a fuss and getting in the way. Even now."

  He loosed his hold slightly, or so it seemed as the dimples in his hands relaxed. I kept my gaze narrowed, my aim focused.

  I sniffed the air. "Is that burning bread?"

  The air still smelled fragrant, but the threat of burned bread made Mrs. Watson start for the door, and I took full advantage of her brief separation from her husband to fire off a stake. Phut! It hit him in the chest, left of centre. It took a few seconds longer than usual, or so it seemed, for that big pile of flesh to disintegrate to a pile of cloth and dust. Watching it, I felt the usual sense of relief and power, a surge of triumph over evil singing in my veins.

  Mrs. Watson was safe, and I could restore her to her daughter. I thought of my own mother and smiled. Had she led me here on purpose, to look after these people? To make sure no daughter had to be separated from her mother by vampyres again? I could not be sure, but it felt right that I was here now, preserving life amongst good working people. I turned to check on the baker just as she started to shriek.

  I put down the weapon. "Mrs. Watson, I'm sorry. I had to do it."

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  Quickly, she regained control of her emotions, only sobbing lightly when she spoke again. "You don't understand. I'm relieved, I am. He--" She choked on a sob. "He was always so angry and bullying. He left the baking to me and went to work in the needle factory, and then he was attacked. He was never the same afterwards. He went away. I said he was dead. I didn't think I would see him again, and then I was putting loaves in the oven and turned, and there he was."

  She covered her mouth with her hands and went over to examine her husband's remains.

  "He's truly gone," I assured her. "But you might want to check on that bread."

  We brought fresh loaves back to the crowd gathered at the school. Lily and her mother had a happy reunion.

  Fortunately, St. John soon returned to put us all at ease with his report. I watched from the window and I knew him by his walk--a strong, measured stride. St. John believed that we were no longer in imminent danger of attack. He and his men had kept watch as the vampyres headed into town, travelling in smaller groups and meeting up at the edge of the woods. The men allowed them to gather, then surrounded them, moving in until it was certain the stake-o-matics were within range. Once the first vampyres began to drop, the others began to run. But it was too late. Our men had them in sight, targeted, until they were shot down, eighteen in all. Some of the men were staying on to patrol the woods around Morton, but most were headed home.

  "But what of Miss Oliver?" one of the girls, the baker's daughter, asked. "She never came. What if there are vampyres at Vale Hall?"

  I met St. John's gaze. We both were struck by the same sense of alarm.

  "Vale Hall!" I said. "If any had investigated the area in advance, it might be the likeliest place they would go to establish a base. The

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  vampyre who attacked me last night said there had been twenty-two, but we've only accounted for nineteen."

  "Grab your crossbow," St. John said. "Let's go have a look."

  When we arrived at Vale Hall, all seemed dark and quiet inside, to be expected considering the late hour. A creak and a bang spun us in our tracks as we approached the front door.

  "Oh, thank God," Rosamond Oliver lowered her weapon, one of the rapid-fire crossbows she had picked up from the school. "I thought you were more vampyres. When the servants came home with the news, the house was in a panic. I managed to sneak out before they barred the doors. I shot three right over there."

  St. John went over to inspect the remains. "Well done."

  He sounded amazed. I was equally surprised.

  "Indeed, Miss Oliver. You were really paying attention in class," I said.

  "I deserve very little credit. This is truly an amazing weapon. Ingenious design, Mr. Rivers."

  "Miss Slayre is partly to credit for the design. Your father's generous Christmas donations, and your support of the school, helped us make it possible to arm all the citizens," St. John said. "The credit for that belongs to your father and to you."

  She beamed with pride. "I suppose it's safe to go to bed now?"

  "The danger has passed," St. John affirmed. "Allow us to escort you inside."

  Days later, once things had again settled down, Mary and Diana planned a trip into Morton, but I had to excuse myself as I had come down with a terrible cold.

  I sat working on my German translation skills while St. John sat nearby puzzling over some scrolls. I happened to look his way and found myself under the influence of the ever-watchful blue eyes. So keen were they, yet so cold, I felt for the moment superstitious, as if I were sitting in the room with something uncanny.

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  "Jane, I want you to give up German and learn hindustani."

  "You are not in earnest?"

  "In such earnest that I must have it so, and I will tell you why."

  He was studying Hindustani, he explained, and it would help him to have a pupil with whom he might go over the elements and so fix them thoroughly in hi
s mind. Would I do him this favour?

  St. John was not a man to be lightly refused. I consented. When Diana and Mary returned, they laughed that he had been able to persuade me to such a step.

  "I know it," he answered quietly. "Jane is a good deal more interested in adventure than any other woman I've ever known."

  "I daresay Rosamond Oliver proved more adventurous than you ever suspected, and she possesses a fair amount of courage. Do you regret letting her go now?" I asked.

  He shook his head, not taking a moment to gather his answer. "Her courage was born of temporary excitement," he stated decisively. "Impressive, but fleeting. If confronted with a crisis on a regular basis, she would throw up her hands and run. She would prefer to live in her pretty house with her Mr. Granby sitting docilely at her side. She's not the type of woman suited to me. In fact, the more time passes, the more I wonder quite what I ever saw in her."

  That evening at bedtime, his sisters and I stood around him, bidding him good-night. He kissed each of them, as was his custom. As was equally his custom, he gave me his hand.

  "St. John!" Diana exclaimed in a frolicsome humour. "You used to call Jane your third sister, but you don't treat her as such. You should kiss her, too."

  She pushed me towards him. I thought Diana very provoking and felt uncomfortably confused. St. John bent his head. His Greek face was brought to a level with mine. His eyes questioned mine piercingly. Before I could protest, he kissed me.

  It was not a lover's kiss, but not quite a brother's, either. When given, he viewed me to learn the result. It was not striking. I am sure I did not blush. Perhaps I went pale. I might have trembled.