Jane and the Damned

by Janet Mullany

  Garonne helped the ladies to punch, from one of many large silver bowls that stood on tables heaped high with fruits and other delicacies.

  “Why, Captain, how does this food arrive in the city?” Jane asked innocently. “We haven‧t seen anything as delicious as this since you were kind enough to invade.”

  “After curfew, ma‧am, but I am not allowed to tell you more.”

  “Your secret would be safe with me, sir!” She managed a delighted giggle while determining she could easily find out more from Garonne. “No, really, I cannot—well, half a glass more. Oh, Captain, that is another full glass. I shall scarcely be able to dance.” She let the captain give orders to a waiter and then the group went outside into the grounds, where braziers and flambeaux provided light and scattered pockets of warmth. An orchestra, the musicians wearing woolen gloves with the fingers removed, played at a little distance. Under other circumstances she would have enjoyed the scene, the gaily colored paper lanterns hung from trees, and the well-dressed and elegant crowd. Doubtless if she had any appetite for food, she would have been roundly scolded by her sister for being greedy. Waiters flocked around their table, bearing china and cutlery and bottles of wine.

  Cassandra looked particularly handsome in her fur tippet and matching muff, a small feathered hat perched on her head, and she and Jane entertained themselves with comparing their dress to that of other ladies present.

  “It has happened again,” Jane murmured to her sister. “We have failed in sartorial matters by an unnatural desire not to catch our deaths of cold. Observe that lady on the French officer‧s arm—she might as well be wearing her shift, and does she not realize the fabric is almost entirely transparent?”

  “How dreadfully immodest! I don‧t know that I approve of headdresses based on Phrygian caps—and oh, even more shocking, some actually sport tricouleur cockades!”

  “But they are the colors also of your flag, ma‧amselle Austen.” Garonne raised his glass. “I propose a toast to a greater friendship with the Austens.”

  The stem of the wineglass snapped in Jane‧s fingers and blood dripped onto the white tablecloth. She caught a strong sense of others of the Damned nearby and then the sensation was lost as her family exclaimed, and Garonne offered her a napkin. A waiter arrived to clear up the broken glass and provide her with a new wineglass.

  “I am so dreadfully clumsy,” she said. “No, sir, it bleeds very little now. I have wrapped it in my handkerchief, and I shall hide the offending digit in my muff so I do not cause offense. I believe enough blood has been spilled already in this city.”

  “True, ma‧amselle. Your shopkeepers and militia put up a most gallant defense.”

  That Garonne did not attempt to deny the bloodshed in the city raised a grudging admiration in Jane‧s perception. The waiters approached again, with platters of food and small lamps on which to keep them warm, and the party‧s attention was turned to the food, which was of high quality and excellently prepared. Garonne turned out to be an attentive host, making sure everyone‧s glass was filled and that every dish was shared. He questioned Cassandra and Mrs. Austen about parties and assemblies in Hampshire and with great politeness asked if he could partner the Miss Austens when the dancing began. Even Mr. Austen began to unbend a little.

  “But Mr. and Mrs. Austen, here is my uncle, General Renard. I have told him so much of you and your hospitality.” Garonne introduced them. Jane noticed the similarities between the two men, and suspected that their relationship was in fact father and son; they had a similar scent.

  Renard bowed over the ladies’ hands and begged that they might each dance with him. He was an observant and clever man, that much was clear, and Jane was surprised that her family welcomed him into their midst, her father offering him a glass of wine. “No, no, I shall not intrude. But we shall see each other later, eh?”

  “You are not eating, Miss Jane,” Garonne commented after the general had left.

  “No, I fear my appetite is somewhat diminished.” And what I should really like is to bite into someone‧s neck. In a few hours she would feed unless she could find someone here—she stopped herself in horror. It was bad enough that the previous night she had gorged herself upon a compliant stranger before creeping home in her men‧s clothes shortly before dawn. The idea of a pursuit and flirtation followed by an exquisite surrender in the shadows of the maze tempted her with a great surge of hunger, and she raised a napkin to her lips to hide her fangs. She wished Luke were here so that she could ask his advice.

  But I am here, my dear Jane.

  Where? But there was no reply. She searched and received hints of conversations, desires, jealousies, worries, inebriated joyfulness—nothing useful. But she knew William was close by also and felt once again that painful, unreciprocated longing.

  “The captain is really quite a pleasant young fellow,” her father said, when Garonne left the table to greet some fellow officers. “If only we did not know him under these unfortunate circumstances.”

  Unfortunate circumstances! “Indeed, sir. I think he harbors a tendresse for Cassandra. Do you think he would make an acceptable son-in-law?”

  “I beg of you, do not jest of such a thing.” Her father touched Jane‧s hand quickly; he must find her cold skin repellent and for a moment his shame and desperation overwhelmed her.

  “Papa, I—”

  At that moment the band struck up the familiar opening chords of a country dance and Garonne led Cassandra onto the open space that served as a dance floor in front of the musicians.

  “It is too bad he has not introduced us to some of the other officers,” Mrs. Austen said. “And then you could dance too, Jane. Why, General Renard, do you seek a partner?” For the general stood bowing before them.

  “I should be honored if the younger Miss Austen would stand up with me, madame.”

  “I regret I am not well enough to dance,” Jane said.

  “Oh, nonsense, I have rarely seen you in such handsome looks!” her mother cried. “She is notorious for her love of dancing, sir. She does not mean it.”

  “Her modesty does you credit, madame.” He gave a charming, if somewhat predatory smile. “I need to learn these English dances. It would be a great favor.”

  Heart sinking, Jane stood, and discarded her muff. “If you insist, sir,” she said in her coldest tone.

  “Ah, les anglaises. I know beneath your stern exterior a warm heart beats.”

  “So you may think, sir.” She wasn‧t quite sure of vampire physiology; she knew she had little pulse and was impervious to extreme temperatures. Yet another thing to ask Luke about, unless that was considered an indelicate subject.

  “I am your enemy, that is the problem, you think, eh? But I find you a worthy foe.” He frowned. “Why, your hands, so cold. I feel it through your glove.”

  She eyed the flirtatious Frenchman and wondered if she could lure him away for a quick taste of his blood. On the platform while accepting the surrender of the city, he had appeared a tall man, but he was barely her height, stocky, with snapping dark eyes. She was fairly sure she could subdue him easily enough.

  She subdued an inappropriate giggle. Once she had thought of gentlemen in terms of their looks, their income—for was not a large income conducive to happiness?—and their conversation. Now she dreamed, not of witty yet sensible conversation at a ball and the clasp of hands during a dance, but of how the gentleman‧s blood would taste.

  The dance started.

  “So, Miss Jane, you like my nephew, eh?”

  “He seems a perfectly agreeable young man. You must set now, as the gentleman opposite does. It is a step in triplet time.”

  “Perfectly agreeable!” Renard repeated, bouncing with great energy in an approximation of the step. “So you are halfway in love with him, then.”

  “Not even a quarter or an eighth of the way, General, for as you say, he too is my enemy.”

  “Oh, that is a little nothing.” He waved his hands, interrupt
ing the progress of the dance. “You suit each other well. He seeks to make you jealous with your sister.”

  She laughed aloud. “Do you always seek to find wives for your officers?”

  “Wives?” He shrugged. “I wish them to be comfortable. To be content. They fight hard. They are away from home.”

  “Here, General, women do not give away their virtue so easily.”

  “Which way do I go? This dance is confusing.”

  “Here.” She shoved him into position and noticed his look of alarm and respect. It was easy to forget how strong she was. They both cast off around the other dancers in their set and met and joined hands.

  “A woman may find her virtue is worth only a little when she seeks—oh, let us see—a pass to leave the city.” His insinuating murmur was a mere breath in her ear.

  She broke free. “You insult me and my family, General.”

  “Keep dancing, Miss Jane, for your family will not approve if you show such bad manners.”

  With a great deal of effort she forced her fangs back and made a great show of exchanging flirtatious glances with other, English, gentlemen in the set, barely giving the General any attention. The dance ended; she curtsied, murmured an excuse that she must find her sister, and escaped into the welcoming shadows. The sound of the music faded away as she slipped into the maze that formerly she had thought to be a playful, innocent conceit of the gardens. Now its hedged walls held secrets and pleasures.

  She stepped forward with barely a sound on the gravel and snuffed the air. So, others had come this way, seeking privacy and solitude, not realizing that they might be sought in turn; pursued, desired, taken. The heady tang of blood drifted across the privet hedges as she moved forward with the quiet, deliberate tread of a hunter.

  Nearby, a woman sighed in pleasure or surrender and a man laughed.

  She knew that voice. She followed the twists and turns and came across them, the woman‧s head flung back as William feasted at her throat.

  He spun around at her approach, fangs extended and bloody, eyes bright, and growled.

  Jane stepped back. She should not interrupt, she knew. While it was accepted that one of the Damned might show interest as another took his or her pleasure, she must observe the etiquette of the situation. She bowed her head in a deferential greeting as courtesy demanded.

  The woman moaned and reached for him but William held her away. Her blood trickled, pooled in the hollow at her collarbone, and spilled into the depths of her bodice.

  “Why are you not with your family?” He glanced at the woman‧s throat. “Find them.”

  “But I—”

  “Go.” He licked the blood from between the woman‧s breasts up to its source, the small wound in her neck, as she sighed with pleasure.

  Jane backed away, her hunger increased by watching William dine. She wished Luke were with her to counsel and console her. She had sensed him earlier, but now he was silent. The dark, mysterious paths of the maze and its inhabitants called to her, soft murmurs and rustles invited her to find a willing source of blood.

  With great reluctance she turned back and threaded her way through the maze and out into the gardens again.

  She should find her family—after all, had not Luke and William both told her to attend with them, as though she were once again ordinary Jane Austen, the obedient, youngest daughter of that bright and witty family? Perhaps they merely intended that she should have some time with the people who had once been dearest to her of all; for once her family knew her true nature, they would regard her as a monster, inhuman, unwomanly. Lingering remains of her mortal condition made the alienation from them, particularly her father and sister, painful; but how long would she feel that way? How long before she no longer cared, before she succumbed to her nature as one of the Damned?

  “I beg your pardon, ma‧am.” The waiter swung his tray of glasses and dishes aloft to avoid collision, brought them neatly back under control and sidestepped to allow her to pass. He stopped and stared at her. “You—you‧re one of them, aren‧t you, ma‧am?”

  She nodded.

  “I‧ve never seen one of you so close. I‧ve been scared. You‧re all too pretty.”

  “Oh, please do not say I am pretty; that is so commonplace. Witty or fascinating, possibly, but mere prettiness eludes me.”

  He balanced the tray on one hip, considering. “No, you‧re not pretty, ma‧am. You‧re … well, I don‧t have the words.”

  “I‧m hungry,” she said. Her admission reminded her too much of George‧s usual complaint and she burst into laughter.

  He stared at her mouth, at her extended canines, admiration on his face. “Would you like … I mean, I‧d be willing, miss, but I‧ve never seen one of you laugh before. You‧re all haughty and fashionable.”

  “I‧m not very fashionable, then.” It was a relief to have almost a normal conversation with this boy, whose voice held a soft Somerset burr and who gazed at her wide-eyed, his fascination winning out over fear. And she wasn‧t even trying to entice him, that was the odd part of it, yet he‧d offered himself; and she found she enjoyed the conversation almost as much as she anticipated sating her hunger.

  “What‧s it like then?” he asked. “Being Damned, I mean. How old are you?”

  “I‧m about your age. I haven‧t been one for long, and there‧s a lot I don‧t understand. I‧m not highborn, you see, and so I‧m at a disadvantage. My name is Jane. What is yours?”

  “I‧m Ben.” He smiled, a sweet, shy smile, and laid his tray on the ground. He took her hand and peeled off her glove.

  “Aren‧t you being rather forward, Ben?”

  But he put her cold hand on the warm smooth skin of his neck, where his pulse thudded, strong and enticing.

  “I would rather have you as a friend than my dinner, Ben.” Oh, how she wanted him.

  “I can be both, Jane. No reason why not.” He shivered. “May I touch them? Your teeth?”

  She guided his hand to her mouth and it was her turn to shiver as his fingers trailed exquisitely over her fangs.

  He gazed at her with heavy-lidded eyes. “Do you think I‧d taste nice?”

  “Very, I expect. You smell most tempting—of beer and wine and spices, and roast meat. But I shall not drink from you.”

  “I would like to warm you, Jane.”

  “I don‧t think you can.” She pressed her fingers against his. “I must return to my family. They will worry about me.”

  “I‧ll take you to them. It‧s not safe, wandering around on your own.”

  She smiled at his gallantry. She was stronger than he, probably stronger and faster and more deadly than most of the visitors to Sydney Gardens tonight. But she let him tuck her hand into the crook of his arm and lead her through the crowd.

  “Ask for me here at the Inn, if you need me,” he said. “They‧ll take a message. Ask for Ben.”

  “I shall.” She reached up to kiss his cheek.

  The skies lit up with bright flashes and cascades of color.

  His hand tightened on hers. “Don‧t be afraid,” she said. “It‧s fireworks.”

  “Those bangs,” he said. “It was like this when they took the town. I fought, Jane. I killed a man.”

  “So did I. I wish I had not done it, but I had to.” Another series of gorgeous flowerings against the sky was accompanied by stuttering explosions and drifting clouds of smoke.

  In the flashes of light, Jane caught sight of her family, accompanied by Garonne and Renard. They had left their table and sought a place to see the fireworks.

  At that moment, Mrs. Austen turned and evidently recognized someone in the crowd. In the pause between fireworks, her voice rang out loud and clear. “Why, Mr. Venning, you rogue, you told us you were engaged. Fie on you! But what—”

  Jane broke away from Ben; something was wrong, very wrong. The fireworks became deafening as a huge representation of a tricouleur, red, white, and blue, exploded into the sky, illuminating the crowd‧s aston
ished and wondering faces. By its light she saw Luke, pointing a pistol, and Mrs. Austen directly in the line of fire.

  The shot rang out as Jane darted forward. “Mama!”

  The scent of gunpowder gave way to that of freshly spilled blood, and exclamations of delight at the fireworks became shouts of rage and curses and demands for more lights. The music died away in a series of ragged notes.

  “Renard is dead!” someone shouted. “He‧s been shot!”

  But Renard was giving orders, while French officers converged on Luke and disarmed him. Others, swords drawn, kept the crowd at bay.

  Jane dropped to her knees beside Ben, who knelt, bent over, arms at his belly. Luke‧s shot had gone wide to avoid Mrs. Austen, or even herself, and he had not stood a chance of hitting Renard. Instead, the ball from his pistol had found its target in Ben.

  Blood soaked through Ben‧s long white apron. “Help me,” he gasped.

  “I‧ll make you better. My blood—” She bit into her finger and tried to feed it into his mouth, but he choked and sagged into her arms.

  “No. It‧s no good. Finish me.”

  She knew now what he meant: that the ball had ripped into his entrails and there was no hope, only a lingering and agonizing death. His breath, painful gasps, rasped against her neck. She could give him the only thing she could, a clean end.

  “Now. Please.”

  She bent her head to his neck again and took the last of his blood and his life, and was with him as his pain and terror turned to pleasure and sweet oblivion.

  “It is a disaster,” Clarissa said. She paced the drawing room of the house on Queens Square, fangs exposed. Jane had accompanied her and William back to the house, telling her family that Miss Venning would need comfort after the shock of her brother‧s arrest.

  “If I had known, I could have prevented this,” Jane said. “There was no reason to exclude me from the plans. I was told only to be with my family. I knew Luke was there, and I could have prevented my mother from getting in the way.”