“But Luke is my Bearleader. Where else should I go?”
Margaret shrugged. “He is your Bearleader because he pities you and because your Creator has more important concerns. Do not flatter yourself that it is anything more.” She rose to her feet in one long, sinuous movement. “Be careful, Miss Jane Austen. You have no power here. You should go.”
“Go where?” Jane produced the words with difficulty. She was so tired. It would be easier to just agree with Margaret, to leave the house, to … “Stop!” she said, gathering the last of her strength, and it was as though she took a long, refreshing draught of clear, cold water.
Margaret briefly showed her fangs and left the bedchamber in a swirl of drapery and a waft of perfume that now seemed rank and bitter.
Jane must have fallen asleep, for in the next moment, it seemed, Clarissa was shaking her awake. The fire had burned down and the daylight was fading, the room filled with shadows. Jane‧s former self would have found the room gloomy, but now the shadows were friendly and warm, an invitation to the night and its pleasures.
“More hunting tonight,” Clarissa said with relish. “Up with you, sleepyhead.”
Yawning, Jane sat up and reached for the men‧s clothes, now cleaned and pressed and accompanied by clean linen, that Clarissa had laid on the bed.
“What do we hunt?”
“You‧ll find out. I can promise you better fireworks than anything Sydney Gardens can produce.”
Downstairs, where they gathered in the dining room, Jane was aware of a subtle shift in regard toward her; Margaret, who stood quietly to one side, was silent but showed none of her earlier venom.
William bowed, one gentleman to another. Luke stepped forward and retied her neckcloth for her. “Much better,” he said, and turned her toward the mirror over the fireplace.
“Much better,” Luke said again, although this time he referred to her fuzzy and faded reflection. George‧s reflection was barely visible and Margaret‧s showed only as a faint shimmer.
William poured wine and handed glasses to them all. “To Jane, who is now one of us, and to good hunting tonight.”
Luke touched her wrist. You‧re making nearly as much noise as that great oaf George.
I heard that, came a petulant reply in the dark.
She was tempted to giggle.
I‧m hungry.
George‧s complaint startled her into a breath of nervous laughter.
Hold your tongue, said several silent voices at once.
She was hungry too. Luke had smiled with his usual charm and assured her she would dine after the night‧s mission had been accomplished. They would work better hungry than if they were stupidly sated. She had to admit there was a definite logic to it, but was disappointed. Under other circumstances her stomach would have growled, but as she was now she experienced a nervous alertness, senses magnified and highly tuned, aware of the unspoken currents that passed among the Damned as they quietly made their way through the dark streets.
William, leading the way, made a small gesture with one hand, and they melted into the shadows, into doorways, and down a dark alley as a troop of French cavalry passed them, clattering down the street. Several of the horses seemed to be aware of their presence, sidling and showing the whites of their eyes before their riders took charge, gathering the reins and collecting their mounts.
The sound of the hooves died away.
Luke moved forward and conferred with William in a series of gestures, then waved the company back into the shadows.
The streets here were unfamiliar to Jane but she could smell the river close by, and the scents of tobacco and coal. She knew they must be near the Methodist chapel the French used to stable their horses, and to the west of that lay their destination, the quay on the Avon.
Sure enough, the troops gathered outside the chapel, the breath of men and horses steaming in the night air. Most of the cavalrymen had dismounted, some gathering around a brazier, hands held out to the warmth, making conversation.
Luke led them down another narrow dark alley and the smell of the river became stronger, the stars bright overhead despite the city smoke. They had reached the quay, which was scattered with barrels, a small crane, and piles of rope. Fragments of ice floated gray and crackled on the river. He made a small gesture with one hand and the vampires sank into the shadows. He and Jane settled into a space between two barrels.
A rat nearby stopped and raised itself on its hind legs, snuffing the air, then dropped to run in a panicked circle before darting away.
They sense us, Luke said.
Why are we waiting?
You‧ll see. A guard came into view, beating his arms against his sides. He passed within a foot of the concealed vampires, bringing with him a scent of tobacco, sweat, and blood. Count. One, two, three …
The guard reached the end of the quay, turned, stamping his feet against the cold, and passed them again. Another guard approached, and they passed, pausing to nod and exchange a few words. Jane couldn‧t understand what they said.
I wouldn‧t expect a lady, however educated, to understand that. They speak in vulgar terms of the weather. Keep counting.
As she counted, the guards passed and each turned to march down the side of a small stone building. In all, four men kept guard, their paths crossing every few seconds.
What is in that building?
Powder. Luke laid his fingers on Jane‧s wrist and conferred with the others, mainly William. His touch dulled the others’ comments—they both knew she was too inexperienced to interpret all the voices.
He nodded. We wait until William gives the signal before we take them.
They watched as the soldiers circled, disappeared, returned, passed, creating an uneven, lumbering pattern.
He laid a hand on hers again. It is time. Luke slipped away from her into the shadows, moving closer to the padlocked door. For a moment he was exposed as he ripped the hasp and padlock apart, fangs extended, before slipping into the warehouse.
Two of the soldiers reappeared, marching toward each other. They would cross at the doorway and they might notice the broken fastening and the slightly open door. They paused as they approached each other, and stopped to exchange a few words. One of them became alert. He pointed to the door but before he had a chance to speak, the dark figures of Margaret and William emerged from the shadows. The struggle was brief and insignificant, but left the two men broken and limp on the ground.
Now, Jane and George. At William‧s order she slipped through the shadows the way they had come. At this point, the two other guards would notice a break in their rhythm and hurry back to see what had happened to the other two.
Sure enough, a soldier, bayonet fixed, ran toward her.
She leaped from the shadows, knife at the ready, and slid the blade up and through his ribs, her other hand over his mouth. Her vampire strength and speed proved true. Blood spilled, hot and steaming, and the soldier staggered and then fell, his weapon clattering on the ground, hands clutching at her and then at nothing. She licked a little warm blood from her hand and ran on to join Clarissa and James, who had been sent to deal with the sentries who kept guard in front of the stable. There were only two of them, and they were dead by the time she arrived, the brazier felled and bright coals fading on the cobbles.
They retreated back into the shadows. This was the dangerous moment; if any more soldiers arrived, William and Luke could be trapped in the explosion.
Then she heard the sound of approaching hooves, the jingle of harness and soldiers.
We should take them, Margaret said.
Too many, James responded. They‧ll run us down. A dozen, at least.
We‧ll run, draw them off. Clarissa glanced down the street. No use, they‧ll know something‧s afoot, Jane said. She remembered the response of the rat, and of how animals sensed and feared the Damned. The horses. We must show ourselves to the horses.
The cavalry approached, the horses at a canter approaching
their stable, reins loose, and then the group tightened and became an orderly group once more at the sight of the corpses. They slowed, tightened, and at a command from their leader, drew their swords.
Jane, from the shadows, revealed herself to the leading horse, delving deep into the creature‧s mind, her fangs lengthening. The horse squealed and shied away from her, while the rider cursed and tried to get his mount under control once more. The efforts of the other vampires turned the group of cavalry into a roiling disorder, hooves sliding on the icy cobblestones.
Go. Are we all together? As Luke and William joined them, a great whoomph of sound arose and for a moment the street became as bright as day, and then they were running as flaming debris rained down, running back into the shadows and darkness.
The journey back to Queens Square took some time, the streets crowded with French soldiers. Luke led them on a twisting, complex route through mews and alleys and narrow streets in the older part of the town, choosing always the darkest and quietest places.
In the drawing room of the house on Queens Square a group of guests clustered at the window, exclaiming at the lurid orange of the sky. The others from the night‧s mission stood in a cluster, still carrying the scent of smoke on their clothes. Footmen served glasses of champagne.
“To our fledglings!” William raised his glass to Jane and George. “Well done, both of you. Tonight you were assigned tasks that, had you failed, would have threatened our whole enterprise, yet you triumphed. Jane, your quick thinking with the cavalry was well done indeed.”
“Now may we dine?” George asked. He eyed a pretty woman, who blushed and giggled behind her fan.
William smiled and raised a hand. “Not so fast, George. As a reward, you and Jane may choose your dining partner for the night, Damned or mortal.”
There was a murmur of surprise in the room, followed by applause; an invitation to dine from a fellow member of the Damned was a high honor, particularly for a fledgling.
“Most obliged,” George said. “Clarissa, will you have me?”
Clarissa smiled and held out a hand to him. They retired to one of the curtained alcoves.
Across the room Jane received waves of hatred and resentment from Margaret and an attempt to once more plant seeds of doubt and divisiveness in her mind. Elated by praise from her Creator, Jane pushed Margaret‧s jealousy away.
“I choose Luke.”
Chapter 17
A silence fell on the room at Jane‧s request. She discerned rapid reactions of shock, amusement, and anger, most of the latter from Margaret.
“This is a somewhat unusual request.” William spoke quietly to Jane. “He is your Bearleader.”
“My Bearleader by adoption, sir, as you well know.”
“There is also the matter of a former association with another of our company.” William‧s gaze shifted from Luke to Margaret.
Despite the formality and the careful avoidance of names, all of the Damned present, and possibly some of the mortals, would pick up on the undercurrent, the unspoken. Jane felt for Margaret: how dreadful to have your humiliation revealed to all, to see your affections spurned. On the other hand, it could be Jane‧s own humiliation that was to follow. She waited.
“The lady in question and I no longer have an understanding,” Luke said. “I have renounced her as my Consort.”
“Margaret?” William addressed her directly.
Margaret let out her breath in a long hiss. “Vows were made, sir.”
“Ah, yes. Your vow to Mr. Cole.” Luke‧s lips parted slightly to reveal his fangs.
“We have long accepted that the rules of mortals do not apply to us, Luke. Margaret, what say you?”
She bowed her head. “I defer to the gentleman. If he wishes to make a lowborn and bastard fledgling his Consort, I shall not stand in his way.” With one last, venomous glance at Jane, she left the room.
Luke bowed to Jane. “I‧m honored.”
She had thought his affections engaged when they first met at the Pump Room—certainly he had admitted to an attachment, but now, with a greater knowledge of the Damned, Jane recognized that his wish for a reconciliation with Mrs. Cole was for her to be with the others as much as with him. For the Damned must cleave to one another, their bonds as strong as love or death.
It is true. He reached for her hand. We were Consorts, but that is a lesser loyalty among us.
“You mean I cannot expect constancy from you?”
“Certainly. As much as I can give and so long as love lasts. Maybe our love shall prove immortal.” He drew her toward a curtained alcove where a low divan stood, heaped with velvet and satin pillows. “But our greater loyalty—yours and mine—is to all of the Damned.”
She surprised herself with a delighted giggle. “And so I am your Consort!”
“And I yours.” He knelt on the pillows and extended his hand to draw her down to him.
“Like royalty.”
He shrugged. “Some of us are royalty. Or rather, we were.”
“Were you?”
“Jane. Dear Jane, I have all of eternity to tell you of myself.” He raised his hand to his neckcloth and untied it.
“Yes, and you have all of eternity to distract me when I ask.” And she was distracted, watching the slow uncurl of the cotton cloth, its fall and spill onto the dark blue of his coat, and the gradual unveiling of the tender skin of his throat.
“Your trouble, Jane, is that you speculate upon what will or may be.” He paused, the neckcloth half loosened, to unbutton his coat. “You observe, you weave stories.”
“Once I did,” she said. “No longer.”
He traced her neck with one finger. “It is the mortal in you still that experiences regret. It shall pass.”
Hurry up! I‧m hungry!
His actions slowed, his fingers stilled on a coat button, and he gave a slow, satisfied smile. Mortified, she realized he had overheard her thoughts.
“I beg your pardon,” she muttered.
“On the contrary, I am most flattered by your ardor.”
“I regret it‧s mostly hunger.”
“So you may like to think.” He slid the coat from his shoulders and began, with excruciating slowness, on the buttons of his waistcoat.
She, meanwhile, dispatched her own coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth in short order, fangs aching, and toed her boots off. “I should like to wear something pretty for you,” she said with a sudden burst of sadness that came from a place that was now far distant. Once she and her sister pored over fashion papers and labored at endless small adaptations to their gowns, for when they found love at a provincial assembly, they would want to remember every detail, every ribbon and trim and embellishment, of what they wore at the moment their lives changed.
“You‧re dressed as prettily as I am,” Luke said, “although my waistcoat is finer, I think. Is that not enough? I suppose you could ask Ann to dress you up. Or maybe not.”
Jane followed his gaze to another alcove, where George and Clarissa now tangled with Ann, down to her stockings and garters and little else. “I think quite definitely not,” she said. “I shall manage as I am.”
She pulled at one end of his neckcloth and drew it from his neck, tossing it aside, where it lay abandoned in creamy loops on the bloodred velvet pillows.
She woke to a tinny, clinking, repetitive sound and rolled over and stretched, well pleased and her hunger sated. Luke was gone; she remembered him slipping away some time in the night. By the light it must be afternoon, at least. She pulled on breeches and shirt and stepped out, ready to investigate the strange noise.
The Prince of Wales sat at the pianoforte, slumped and dejected, wearing only a shirt. One finger tapped a key, over and over.
“George?”
“Beg your pardon, did I wake you?”
“What‧s wrong?”
He shook his head. “It‧s foolish. I‧m having the time of my life, all this debauchery and blood and fighting, but …”
S
he sat on the bench beside him and slipped an arm around his shoulders. “Don‧t be sad, George.”
“It‧s gone, Jane.” He tapped the note again. “It‧s not music. It‧s just a sound.”
She reached for a book of music that lay on the lid of the instrument. “Have you tried …?”
He flipped the pages. “Ah, I think I used to play this one.” He set the book on the music stand and smoothed the pages flat. He placed his hands on the keyboard and shook his head as he produced the opening phrase of the sonata.
“No good. It‧s strange, there‧s something missing; it‧s all empty noise. I remember you said something similar about your writing. Is it the same?”
“I fear so.”
He closed the book and laid it on the instrument again. “It will come back, I suppose, when I … you know. I hope so. It‧s foolish of me to be so downhearted. And you? Now you‧ve taken up with Luke, do you still plan to take the cure?”
“Let‧s go downstairs for a cup of tea.” She was not ready to consider that question, not after last night.
He brightened. “Excellent idea. I wonder how long we‧ll enjoy tea.” He stood and offered her his arm. “If you do, ah, return, Jane, I trust we‧ll remain friends.”
“I‧d like to think we will, but we‧ll be vastly separated. And we may not like each other so much.”
“I suppose you‧re right.” He sighed again as he opened the drawing room door. “You mean you won‧t like me.”
She was about to ask him if he really believed the Prince of Wales would care to associate with an obscure country parson‧s daughter, when something crashed through the window and bounced on the carpet.
“Good God, a stone! Is there a riot?” George asked.
“I trust you won‧t call upon the French to subdue it—” She pulled him out of the way as another missile followed the first.
“Damned fornicating blasphemers!” someone shouted from the street. “Go to hell, where you belong!”
Jane picked her way across the broken glass and, flattening herself against the drawn-back shutters, peered out of the window. A group of people, mostly men, were gathered in the street below, preparing to throw more stones.
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