“Silence.” William glared at her. “He‧ll hang tomorrow. You and Clarissa shall attend and bring the corpse back here.”
“But—” No gentlewoman would attend a hanging.
“You‧ll dress as a man.”
“Very well.”
“It wasn‧t Jane‧s fault.” George cast a nervous glance at William. “Damn it, why not just bite Renard and have done with it?”
“I did not expect such vulgarity from one of your breeding,” William replied. “It is obvious, surely. If Renard was found drained of blood, suspicion would fall on us; besides, he is too well guarded for anything other than a bullet. And you, Jane, your task was to stay with your family. You disobeyed, seeking to hunt and dine instead.” With a final black-browed glare, William left the room.
***
Jane spent what was left of the rest of the night in the drawing room, with George lounging nearby on a sofa. He offered sympathy and the occasional clumsy comment that it wasn‧t her fault, by God, and if William and Luke were not so high in the instep, then things might have turned out differently.
“Do you think the hanging will kill Luke?” Jane asked.
He shrugged. “I don‧t know. He‧s old, you see, even by their standards, which means he‧s running out of luck—like a cat with nine lives, you know. Still, if his neck isn‧t broken, he might come out of it. But things will not go well for you if Luke does not survive.”
“Indeed. To lose one Bearleader is misfortune; twice is assuredly carelessness.”
George fiddled with the golden tassel on the corner of a pillow. “I meant Margaret. She will be honor bound to destroy you. She‧s jealous enough already.”
“She has nothing to fear from me. Luke is merely my Bearleader from a sense of duty.”
“Ah, but there‧s the problem, you see. If he were your Creator, by tradition he could not become your lover. But as it is … William created you, didn‧t he?”
“It is so obvious? And, Luke, my lover? Pray do not be so absurd.”
“Oh, yes. The way you look at him—William, that is. And the way he won‧t look at you. He was on his way to fetch me, you see, so he couldn‧t stay. He succumbed to your, ah, charms—he‧s only human, you see. Well, no, he‧s Damned, and sometimes their—our—nature gets the better of them, I mean, us, and what‧s a fellow to do? You know what I mean. I‧m not saying it was your fault. If anything, I‧m partly to blame.”
“No, you are not to blame, George!” She rose and unlatched the shutter of one of the room‧s tall windows. A slight lightening in the sky indicated that dawn was not far off.
She tried to reach out to Luke. She was sure he too watched the sky; he who had seen so many sunrises must know this could be the last, and according to Christian belief he was bound for hell. She wanted to pray for him, but would a prayer from another of the Damned count as anything other than blasphemy?
A world without Luke, her adoptive Bearleader, was unthinkable. No more of his blood, his sardonic wit. She remembered the circle of his arm as he taught her how to feed; his jaunty stride, swordstick in hand, as he strolled the streets of Bath; the lithe weight of his body as they fought; the tenderness of his lips. Speak to me, Luke.
George came up behind her and laid his hand on her shoulder in silent sympathy.
“I killed a man tonight,” she said. “I beg your pardon, I burden you with my concerns.”
“Not at all. You drained a man?”
“No, he was the man who Luke shot. He was there because of me. I liked him and he was too young to die.”
“William told me it is not advisable to form attachments with those from whom we dine. It can get damned awkward, rather like falling in love with your cook.”
The analogy made Jane smile despite her sorrow. She went upstairs to seek out some men‧s clothes. Clarissa and Margaret lay on the bed, Ann between them, slumped and smiling, eyes closed.
“Revive her, if you please,” Margaret said to Jane, and then, as she hesitated: “Good God, did that fool Luke teach you nothing? Pour a glass of wine and add a drop or two of your blood and give it to her to drink. Otherwise she‧ll be good for nothing all day, dropping trays of crockery and ruining our gowns.”
Jane made no reply, chilled by the venom in Margaret‧s voice, and did as she was ordered. Glass in hand, she knelt on the bed and shook Ann awake. The girl smiled when she saw the dark coil of blood dissolving in the wine, and drank it down, smacking her lips. “Why, you do taste nice, miss. Would you like—”
“Enough,” Clarissa said. “Help Miss Jane dress.”
Grumbling, Ann slid from the bed and smoothed her skirts. In a very short time Jane was changed into men‧s clothes, hat on head and hair smoothed back in a queue.
“It‧s high time you lost your reflection,” Clarissa commented. She opened a chest of drawers. “Here‧s a pass for you. You‧re an apprentice to a hatmaker, so please try to assume a vulgar swagger. Ann, brush our coats, if you please. Excellent. Come, we need to get there early to get a good place.” She paused and adjusted Jane‧s neckcloth. “I will show you how to tie an elegant knot another time, for you do not have to look like a gentleman today.”
They left the house. The air was chill with frost, a light layer of rime on the railings in front of the houses. A boy with a barrow stood in front of the house, blowing on his hands to warm them, the tips of his ears red with cold.
Clarissa nodded and strode ahead, tugging on Jane‧s arm. “You do not need to acknowledge him, unless of course you wish to dine. He is far below us.”
“Is that how you see people? As servants or sustenance?”
“How else would I see them?” She stared at Jane in amazement. “You have much to learn, but I suppose your birth is not your fault. But consider, if you had not been created, but you had married well, would you not learn to behave fittingly to your station?”
“I suppose so. I hope I should not divide the world so rigidly.”
“But we must. We are what we are. It is only by keeping ourselves apart, by staying with our own, that we have survived for so long—even in England, which has long been a refuge for us.”
A group of soldiers stopped them, demanding their papers, which they read, or pretended to, with great thoroughness, while making vulgar comments about the two young men‧s lack of beard. Jane and Clarissa maintained a bland politeness, for apprentices would not know French.
There were more soldiers in the streets than she had seen before, bayonets fixed, warily regarding the crowd that streamed toward the Pump Yard.
“They fear an insurrection,” Clarissa murmured. “As though we should be fools enough to attempt an heroic rescue. I wonder how the crowd will react; whether it is the French‧s idea of bread and circuses, or whether there will be an outcry.” She took Jane‧s arm. “You know it is not your fault, whatever William has said. We could not anticipate that your mother would get in the way, but we will not share everything with fledglings, for you probably could not withstand torture.”
A cold shiver went down Jane‧s spine. She swallowed as they turned into the Pump Yard, the crowd moving slowly now as people jostled for good places. The scaffold was set up in front of the Abbey, where only a few days ago Poulett had surrendered the city. The tricouleur flew from the flagpole atop the Abbey.
The boy with the barrow, whom Jane learned was named John, turned it over and offered places on it to bystanders, who would pay a penny for the advantage of extra height.
“Certainly not!” Clarissa cuffed him. “If you break it you won‧t get your shilling. You may stand on it if you wish.”
He did so, despite complaints from behind that they could not see through him, although he was small enough that even on his perch he was still shorter than Jane. Men and women moved through the crowd selling pies and gin, and a ballad singer did a roaring trade in a new song, “The Last Confession of the French Murderer Luke Venning.”
A man next to them who had bought a pie spat it
out, cursing. “What did you use in this? Cat or rat?”
“And crust made of sawdust!” another disgruntled customer shouted. “I want my penny back!”
The pie seller made an obscene gesture and threaded his way through the crowd where more customers, undeterred by his critics, bought his wares.
A woman, her face painted garish red and white, brushed up against Clarissa. “Sixpence against the wall, young sir. ‘Twill pass the time while you wait.”
Clarissa shook her head. “Not now, my pretty.”
“While he swings, then? For a shilling?”
Clarissa shoved her away with the hint of a snarl. “I should not have used two stockings in my breeches,” she muttered to Jane.
“Why does she want a shilling when …?” She could not bring herself to repeat the whore‧s words.
“It arouses some, to see a man die.”
Jane noticed spectators stuffed into the top windows of the surrounding buildings, craning their necks for a better view of the gallows, many armed with telescopes.
The tightly packed crowd thinned out to make space for a fiddler and his dancing dog, a terrier wearing a frilled collar. But the fiddler had scarcely played more than a few measures before the dog scented Jane and Clarissa, dropped to all fours and ran away, tail between its legs. The fiddler snatched his hat from the ground, where he had placed it to collect coins, and, fiddle under his arm, set off in pursuit of his dog.
The Abbey bells pealed the quarters and struck the hour of eight.
A great shout arose as a troop of French soldiers, bayonets lowered, marched in formation, the crowd parting before them. Luke stood on a cart, hands tied behind his back, and was greeted with a hail of stones and a few rotten potatoes.
“Traitor!” a few called out. Jane wondered whether the French had planted them in the crowd.
“Fool for missing him!” someone else shouted, creating a flurry of boos.
Renard and a group of officers, Garonne among them, had appeared from the opposite direction, taking advantage of the crowd‧s attention elsewhere. More French soldiers marched into the Pump Yard and threaded their way into the crowd.
“They take no chances,” Jane commented to Clarissa. “They do not know which way the crowd will turn.”
The cart jolted to a stop, and Luke stepped out. He looked at the cloudy sky and briefly at the crowd. If he saw or even recognized Jane and Clarissa he gave no sign.
A couple of officers followed him onto the gallows. One read a statement in French that was almost drowned out by boos and catcalls, followed by a translation read haltingly in English that was obliterated by the crowd‧s roar.
Luke leaned toward him and spoke.
The two officers conferred. One of them spoke to Renard, who, astride his horse, shrugged and waved his hand in irritated submission.
“The prisoner will speak!” one of the officers shouted.
The crowd erupted again. A few called for the hanging to take place immediately, but the consensus seemed to be that the condemned man‧s speech was a necessary and enjoyable part of the procedure.
Luke stepped forward and a hush fell over the crowd.
“Friends, I have but one regret—that I have failed. Yet I promise that my end shall be one small setback in a greater journey. I shall fall but others shall rise in my place, and others in theirs, until the French tyrants shall be driven into the seas. Rule Britannia!”
A few shouts of “Vive la France!” were overwhelmed by a massive outcry of “Rule Britannia!” and “God save the King!” with various comments on the paternity and maternal activities of the French in general.
Renard raised and then lowered his sword, and the two officers nodded to the hangman. Luke‧s head was shoved into the noose and the hangman pushed him off the edge of the platform. The crowd howled and yelled as his body writhed and danced at the end of the rope. Jane watched in horror and clutched at Clarissa‧s sleeve. How long could it take him to die?
“Courage,” Clarissa said in one of her rare moments of kindness. “You can‧t swoon here. Breathe deeply.”
Finally Luke hung limp and still, his body twisting slightly as the rope straightened. It was over.
Despite the soldiers stationed at the foot of the gallows, the crowd surged forward to be first in line for souvenirs—fragments of the rope or his clothes and locks of hair—yelling for the corpse to be cut down.
“Now!” Clarissa, with her vampire‧s strength, pushed through the crowd, pulling the boy and his cart and Jane with her. She waved a document at the officers on the scaffold. “I have a warrant to take my brother‧s body.”
One of the officers took the paper and frowned at it, squinting, yet Jane recognized the relaxed, soft-eyed look of one under the spell of the Damned. “Ah. Very well. It is all in order, citoyen. Take the body.”
Around them the crowd groaned and muttered, disappointed that the body was to be taken so soon and that there would be no reason to continue the merrymaking. Sure enough, soldiers urged the crowd to disperse.
Clarissa scrambled onto the cart and began to saw through the rope with a small pen knife. Only Jane was able to see the lightning quick flash and snap of her fangs, before Luke‧s body, apparently lifeless, slumped into her arms, the noose still around his neck. Jane‧s quick, discreet bite took care of the noose, revealing an ugly purpled welt around Luke‧s throat. Jane flung the rope into the midst of the departing crowd, who roiled and fought over it, with the French soldiers attempting to keep order.
She and Clarissa eased Luke‧s inert body into the cart.
“Is he gone?” Clarissa trailed her fingers over Luke‧s cheek. She stilled and Jane sensed her urgent entreaty. Come back, Luke. Speak to us.
“We must return home.” Clarissa grasped the handle of the cart, motioning to Jane to do the same. “Come.” Clarissa set a fast pace, running through the streets, dodging the remnants of the crowd, some of whom tried to follow, begging for a lock of hair. The boy who owned the cart ran behind, asking them to slow down, sirs, slow down, and when would he be paid?
As they arrived at the house, William and James emerged and carried Luke‧s body inside. Clarissa flung a handful of coins at John, who, red-faced and breathless, fell to his knees and scrabbled for his money among the dirt of the cobbles.
Jane followed them inside. They had laid Luke on the dining table, the nearest flat surface, and removed the rope from his wrists. But his hands lay at his sides, still clenched in the agony of death.
William shook him. “Wake, damn you!” He bent and breathed into Luke‧s mouth, then straightened, shaking his head. They all watched, waiting for Luke to move.
“Drip some blood into his mouth,” James said. “Yours, William?”
“Certainly, if you wish to kill him. William‧s blood is too potent.” Margaret stood in the doorway, misery and rage flowing from her. “One weaker but close to him may be able to do it.”
William stepped aside and gestured to her.
She stepped forward and slid an arm beneath Luke‧s head, murmuring to him in a language Jane did not recognize, as intimately as though they were two lovers alone. She caressed his face and pressed her lips to his.
When she raised her head, his rolled aside, his body still. Tears ran down her face. “I cannot.”
“Then who else?” William‧s voice cracked. “If neither Creator nor Consort can rouse him, what then?”
“So I am no longer his Consort, and you created him too long ago. There is but one hope. His fledgling.” She bit the words out as though they were poison to her.
“Jane?” William took her hand and drew her forward, the first time he had touched her since he created her.
She laid her hand on Luke‧s, cold, inert. Dead. “What must I do?”
“Try to reach him with your mind,” William said. “Breathe into his mouth.”
Jane stood at Luke‧s side, and touched the fine bones of his face and the silky spring of his hair. Luke, c
ome back to me.
She bent and lowered her face to his. His scent, the taste of his blood, lingered like a faint memory around him. You created me, Luke, as sure as if you breathed me into being. Now I create you. Come back, friend, teacher, lover.
Chapter 13
Luke‧s lips did not move beneath hers. His skin was icy cold, far removed from the normal chill of the Damned.
She straightened. “I have failed.”
The others were silent, their attention shifted away from her. Something slight nudged in her mind, like a small ripple in still water.
William moved, grabbing a candle from the mantelpiece and plunging it into the fire. He brought the candle to the table and raised it high, spilling golden light over Luke‧s inert body.
Jane saw now the livid circle on Luke‧s neck pale and disappear into his normal ivory skin tone.
Speak to us, Luke. Come back.
The cotton of his shirt shifted as he took a breath, and his fingers uncurled and slid on the dark polished mahogany of the table. His eyelashes fluttered and a small sound emerged from his throat, a sigh.
She saw now other bruises and scratches change, dissolve, heal. He raised one hand and scratched his chest, a small, everyday gesture.
Hurts.
What hurts? She was fairly sure Luke spoke to her alone, aware of a babble of voices from the others that bounced around as if in a room full of echoes.
Everything. Every time I do this.
Every time you‧re hanged?
When I‧m close to dying. This is the last time.
“Luke—” William stepped forward.
Jane snarled at William, her fangs extended, and with a small, amused smile, he retreated.
Luke‧s eyes were still closed, but she could see movement beneath the eyelids as though he dreamed. She raised her wrist to her mouth and bit.
As soon as her blood touched Luke‧s lips he came to life, snarling, fangs extended, and ripped at her neckcloth with one hand, the other digging into her hair, securing her. His fangs broke the skin of her neck, searing her with shock and relief, pain and pleasure mixed. She screamed as he bit into her.
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