Jane Bites Back

by Michael Thomas Ford

  “You wrote a novel?” Walter asked. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jane. “I guess I was afraid I would look foolish if it didn’t sell.”

  “A novel,” Walter said again. He was beaming. “Well, congratulations! I’m so proud of you.”

  He scooted over on the couch and gave Jane a hug. “What’s it called?” he asked her.

  For a moment Jane couldn’t remember. “Constance,” she recalled finally.

  “Constance,” Walter repeated. “When does it come out?”

  “May, I think,” Jane answered.

  Walter clapped his hand on her knee and gave it a squeeze. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “Here you had me thinking we were going to have some big talk about how we’re incompatible because of our religious views. Unicorns. Werewolves.” He laughed. “You really had me going there.”

  “I did, didn’t I?” Jane said. “Well, now the secret’s out.”

  “How long have you known?” Walter asked.

  “Not long,” she told him. “A few weeks, really.”

  “Is that why you went to New York?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Jane murmured.

  Walter shook his head. “You’re certainly a sly one,” he said. “Wow. A novel. That’s amazing, Jane. Really amazing. I can’t wait to read it.” Then he gave her a serious look. “Are there any other secrets you’re keeping from me?”

  “I don’t think so,” Jane said. She took a sip of wine and choked as it went down the wrong way. “No, I think that’s it,” she added when she could speak again.

  “Does anyone else know?” Walter said.

  “Just you,” said Jane. “And I’d like to keep it that way for now. I don’t want people making a big fuss about it. It’s just a book.”

  “It’s not just a book,” Walter said. “It’s your book. And that is a big deal.” He grinned. “You’re a published novelist,” he said.

  And an immortal blood-drinking monster, Jane thought as she flashed what she hoped passed for a smile. “That’s me!” she said cheerfully.

  Over dinner Walter grilled her about the book. She fed him details as if they were morsels of food, enough to keep him satisfied but not so much that he knew everything. Now that she’d revealed her impending publication, she found that it was actually a welcome distraction from her real problem. That still lingered in the back of her mind. She had not told Walter her most important secret, the one that would likely result in his death if she withheld it for much longer.

  “We’ll have a big launch party at the store,” Walter said. “Oh, and you’ll have to do a reading.”

  By the end of the evening, Jane was exhausted from listening to Walter talk about her novel. At half past eight she thanked him for dinner, kissed him good night, and left with an enormous sense of relief coupled with a growing burden of guilt. She’d done nothing to improve his situation as far as Byron’s threat was concerned.

  The house was quiet when she entered. She’d half expected to find Byron seated in her living room again. She would almost have preferred it if he were. At least then she would know that Walter and Lucy were safe for the moment.

  “I don’t think he’ll do anything for the present,” she said aloud as she walked upstairs to the bedroom.

  “I won’t, will I?”

  Jane, startled, gave a small scream. On her bed Byron was stretched out, his hands behind his head, completely naked. Tom was perched on his stomach, looking at Jane without interest.

  “What are you doing here?” Jane demanded.

  “Waiting for you,” said Byron. “I assume your talk with your boyfriend went well. He seemed to take the news surprisingly well.”

  “I don’t know if I’d go quite that far,” Jane replied. Then a thought occurred to her. “You were watching us,” she said.

  “Guilty,” said Byron. “To be honest, I was expecting more of a scene. It was really rather disappointing.”

  He saw us, Jane thought to herself. But did he hear us? If so, then he would know that she hadn’t really told Walter about herself. But if that was true, why wasn’t he mocking her for failing to do it? Did he know she was bluffing?

  “Walter is surprisingly open-minded,” she said.

  Byron rolled onto his side, pushing Tom off the bed. The cat padded from the room, leaving them alone. Jane tried to avoid looking any lower than Byron’s face, but he was making it difficult.

  “And have you told young Lucy?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” said Jane.

  Byron rubbed his fingers over his chest. “Then I can still pay her a visit,” he said. “That’s certainly an … appetizing possibility.”

  “Don’t you dare!” Jane exclaimed. “I’m going to tell her.”

  “Ah, but you haven’t,” said Byron. He sat up and reached for his pants, which were on the floor.

  Jane grabbed his arm. “No,” she said. “Please.”

  Byron stroked her face with his free hand. “Sweet Jane,” he said. “My beautiful, sweet Jane. For you I would do most anything.”

  “Then leave Lucy alone,” Jane pleaded.

  “Very well,” said Byron. “But if I’m not to share her bed, then I require a substitute.”

  Jane, understanding all too well his meaning, started to pull away. Then Byron’s lips parted to reveal two sharp fangs.

  “I’m hungry, Jane,” he said, his voice low and seductive. “Oh, so hungry.”

  Jane imagined Lucy asleep in her bed, Byron looking down at her. He had already fed from her once. Another bite and she was likely to turn. Unless he killed her. And the thing that would decide the matter was whatever words Jane next spoke. She closed her eyes and pictured Lucy laughing and smiling.

  “All right,” she said. “Stay with me.”

  Chapter 16

  She wondered if there really was such a thing as atonement. Would Charles, if he knew who she really was, forgive her?

  —Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript

  BYRON WAS GONE IN THE MORNING, THE ONLY PROOF OF HIS HAVING been there the pounding in Jane’s head like the clanging of church bells. Her whole body ached, and she could barely stand the light. She’d forgotten what it was like when two of her kind joined together. All of their senses became heightened, but the drawback was that their frailties did as well. Jane was ravenously hungry. She hated searching for food in the morning, but she would have to if she wanted to get through the day.

  First, though, she had to make sure that Byron had kept his end of their bargain. She reached for the phone and dialed Lucy’s home number. As she listened to it ring, she scratched idly at the tiny bite marks on her thigh.

  “Hello?”

  “Lucy?” Jane said. “It’s me.” She realized then that she had no excuse prepared for why she was calling Lucy at—she glanced at the clock—8:22 in the morning.

  “Hey, Jane,” said Lucy. “What’s up?”

  “Well,” Jane replied, trying to get her foggy brain to work, “I, um, just wanted to see if you’d like me to pick you up a bagel on my way to the store.”

  “Oh,” said Lucy. “Sure, I guess.”

  “Great,” Jane enthused. “What kind?”

  “How about raisin?” said Lucy. “With plain cream cheese.”

  “You got it,” Jane said, much too enthusiastically. “I’ll see you in about an hour. Oh, say, how are those spider bites?”

  “Gone,” Lucy said. “No more itching.”

  “And you slept well?”

  “Like a baby,” said Lucy. “Anything else, Mom?”

  “Very funny,” Jane said. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

  She hung up, feeling like a complete fool. What must Lucy think of her? “And you slept well?’” she said, mimicking her own voice. “Honestly, sometimes you’re a right fool, Jane Austen. Jane Fairfax,” she corrected herself. Her head resumed pounding.

  After a hurried shower she drove to the deli and picked up some bagels and cream cheese. T
he smell of the food made her queasy, and she knew she couldn’t hold out much longer. She had to feed, and soon.

  The problem was that there wasn’t enough time for her to drive to any of her usual places. She would have to hunt locally. That was a huge problem under the best of circumstances. In the daylight, with only twenty minutes before she had to be at the shop, it was almost impossible. But she had no choice.

  She drove around for a few minutes, hoping against hope that breakfast would fall into her lap. She considered and rejected a jogger, a drunk asleep at a bus stop, and a man delivering fruit to a grocery store. She was just about to go back to the drunk when she found herself in front of Our Lady of Perpetual Peace. A sign outside said: GOD IS ALWAYS READY TO LISTEN. CONFESSION ALL DAY.

  No, she told herself as she stared at the sign. You can’t. That’s just not right.

  Despite this, she found herself driving around the corner and parking the car in a spot reserved for patrons of the hair salon that had yet to open for the day. Reaching into the backseat, she retrieved her bag of hunting clothes and selected from it a short blond wig, which she pulled on and arranged as best she could. She was already wearing sunglasses to shield her increasingly sensitive eyes, and she added a scarf so that her face was almost entirely concealed.

  Getting out, she walked quickly to the church and up the steps. Inside, she scanned the sanctuary. It was empty. The confessional was to the right. The curtains on the penitents’ chambers on either side were pulled back, but the one covering the central priest’s chamber was closed.

  Jane went to the left-hand chamber and pulled the curtain shut behind her. Kneeling on the narrow padded rail, she waited until the small window in the wall separating her from the priest slid back. She could just make out the outline of his face as he said, “What have you to confess, child?”

  Focusing her mind, Jane spoke in a voice very unlike her own. “Forgive me, Father,” she said, the words sounding more like an incantation than a confession. “I have sinned.”

  She seldom used her glamoring ability. Usually the men she chose were already otherwise incapacitated. But occasionally she had to use more esoteric means. She did so now. She knew that as she spoke, her words were fogging the priest’s mind.

  “Yes?” the priest said. He sounded confused.

  “I have lied,” Jane said. “Forgive me.”

  “You are forgiven,” said the priest, although he did not sound at all sure about this. “You must…” His voice trailed off.

  Jane exited the confessional and slid soundlessly into the priest’s compartment. He sat on an ordinary folding chair, looking straight ahead with a peaceful smile on his face. Jane bent and removed the collar from around his neck. Then, holding his head gently in her hands, she fed.

  Almost immediately she felt better. Within a minute her head ceased to ache and her eyes no longer burned. She took only a little more blood from the priest before releasing him. Taking a tissue from her coat pocket, she held it to the two small punctures on his throat. When she was satisfied that there was no more bleeding, she replaced his collar and fastened it.

  “Forgive me, Father,” she said as she turned and fled from the church.

  She made it to the bookstore just as Lucy was unlocking the front door. Lucy waited for Jane to get out of the car. “What’s with the cut-and-dye?” Lucy asked.

  Jane, not understanding, said, “I didn’t get my hair cut.”

  “It sure looks like it,” Lucy replied.

  Then Jane remembered the wig. She’d forgotten to remove it. “Oh, that,” she said. “Right. I was just trying it out. What do you think? You know what they say about blondes having more fun.”

  Lucy looked at the wig, biting her lip. “Honestly?” she said. “It makes you look like a soccer mom.”

  “I think you’re right,” Jane said as she opened the door and went inside. “It was a bad idea.” She set the deli bag on the counter and pulled the wig off. Her real hair was a rat’s nest, but she could deal with it easily enough.

  Lucy opened the bag and took out a bagel. As she unwrapped it she said, “Is everything okay?”

  “Of course,” Jane said. “Why?”

  Lucy shrugged. “You just seem a little bit… I don’t know. Edgy,” she said. “You’ve never called me at home before. Not in the morning, anyway. And the wig. That’s not you at all.”

  Jane busied herself with removing her coat and fixing her hair. She wasn’t sure how to respond to Lucy’s question. She couldn’t exactly tell her that she’d spent the night with Lord Byron in order to save Lucy from joining the ranks of the living dead, then seduced a priest in order to drink a bit of his blood. But she had to say something. For all she knew, Byron was watching them as he’d watched her and Walter the night before.

  “You’re right,” she said. “Everything isn’t okay.”

  Lucy chewed the bite of bagel that was in her mouth and swallowed. “So what is it?” she said. “Problems with Walter? The store isn’t doing well? Did I do something wrong?”

  “No,” Jane said quickly. “No. You haven’t done anything. And Walter and the store are both fine. It’s something else entirely.”

  “Is your Aunt Flo visiting?” asked Lucy, sounding sympathetic.

  “I don’t have an Aunt—” Jane began, then realized that Lucy was using her favorite euphemism for getting her period. “No,” she said. “There are no houseguests at the moment.”

  “Well, I’m all out of guesses,” Lucy told her. “Oh, unless you’re pregnant. I forgot about that one.”

  “I am most definitely not pregnant,” said Jane.

  Lucy wadded up the wrapper from her bagel. “Then I give up,” she said.

  Jane started to say something, paused, then looked Lucy in the eye and said, “Brian George is a vampire. And as it happens, so am I. He’s threatened to harm you and Walter if I don’t run away with him, and frankly, I don’t know what to do about it. Oh, and he paid you a visit the other night and bit your neck. It wasn’t spiders.”

  She and Lucy stood staring at each other for what seemed an eternity. Now that she’d actually told the truth, Jane felt much better. Of course Lucy was going to think she was mad, but there was nothing she could do about that. Unless you tell her you’re playing a joke, she reminded herself.

  She was actually on the verge of saying just that, if only to break the quiet, when Lucy said, “That still doesn’t explain the wig.”

  “The wig,” Jane said. “Right. Well—”

  “It’s okay,” said Lucy, interrupting. “I don’t need to know. Anyway, I already knew about the vampire thing.”

  Jane wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “What? You knew? But how?”

  “Brian told me,” Lucy replied. “Yesterday. Well, actually, last night. He took me to dinner.”

  “And he told you that he and I are vampires?” said Jane.

  Lucy nodded. “He didn’t mention coming into my room the other night, though. I’m a little pissed about that.”

  “Wait,” Jane said, holding her hands up. “You believe him?”

  “You just said yourself—” Lucy began.

  “I know what I said,” Jane broke in. “That’s not the point. The point is that you don’t seem at all upset about any of this.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” said Lucy. “There’s that whole breaking-into-my-room thing.”

  “Let’s set that aside for a moment, shall we?” Jane said. “Let’s start with the part where you actually believe that he and I are vampires. Vampires,” she repeated. “As in the undead. Drinking blood. All of that unpleasantness.”

  “I have a general idea of what it means,” said Lucy.

  “Yes, but you’re telling me that you actually believe that they—we—exist,” Jane said.

  “Why not?” said Lucy. “A whole bunch of people believe that some invisible dude in the sky created the world. My Uncle Todd believes he was abducted by aliens and has a tracking device implanted
in his head. Besides, they’re always finding new stuff we’ve never seen before. Last week some scientist in the Amazon discovered a frog that kills its prey using sound. If you ask me, that’s way weirder than vampires.”

  “You’re being awfully rational about this,” Jane said. “You’re not at all afraid of what it means?”

  “Maybe a little,” Lucy admitted. “But it’s kind of romantic too, you know. Like Vivienne Minx.” As soon as she’d said the words she clapped her hand to her mouth.

  “You read Posey Frost!” Jane exclaimed.

  “Just the first one!” Lucy said. “I swear. Okay, maybe the first two. Or three. But that’s it. I couldn’t help myself.”

  Jane shook her head. “How could you?” she asked.

  “Me?” said Lucy. “Who’s the one who forgot to mention something about being a vampire?”

  “You’re right,” Jane said. “You’re right. I apologize.”

  “Besides, they’re not that bad,” Lucy added. “I mean, I’m sure there’s stuff she gets wrong, but I wouldn’t be able to tell.” She hesitated a moment, then asked, “So, are werewolves real too?”

  “We’ll talk more about that later,” said Jane. “The important thing is that you need to stay away from Brian.” She didn’t know if Byron had revealed his true identity to Lucy. More important, she didn’t know if he had revealed her identity to her assistant. She suspected not, as Lucy would hardly be able to keep quiet about it.

  “It’s okay,” Lucy said. “We’re good. All I had to do was say I’d let him make me a vampire.”

  “What?” Jane practically yelled the words. “You agreed to let him do what?”

  “Make me a vampire,” Lucy repeated. “He said it was no big deal.”

  “Oh, I’m so going to kill him,” said Jane. “First he lied to me to get me to let him stay over last night, and now you’re telling me he’s talked you into letting him turn you?”

  “He stayed at your place last night?” Lucy asked. She sounded hurt. “He told me he had to work on his novel.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Jane. “Lesson one—don’t trust vampires. Male ones, anyway. Especially that one.”