Jane was dumbstruck. She’d never in her life been in an establishment that was solely for vampires. “But how—” she said.
“Times have changed, Jane,” said Byron. “We don’t have to hide all the time, especially not in a town like this one. Why do you think Charlotte stayed?”
“Hear she got herself burnt up last night,” Emmeline said. “Can’t say she’ll be missed round here.”
“See?” Byron mouthed to Jane.
“You’re wanting the crawfish,” Emmeline said. Without waiting for an answer she disappeared into the back of the restaurant.
“This is all very peculiar,” Jane said to Byron.
“You’ve been away from your own kind for too long,” said Byron. “You see through human eyes.”
Jane began to object, but Byron cut her off. “It’s not an insult,” he said. “Well, perhaps it’s a little bit of an insult,” he admitted.
“I don’t see what’s wrong with trying to retain some humanity,” Jane said tartly. “After all, it’s what we were.”
“Were,” Byron repeated. “But not now. Aren’t you tired of hiding? Wouldn’t you like to live in a world where you don’t have to worry about being exposed?”
“I don’t really worry about it,” said Jane. “Besides, I have Lucy now. And Walter,” she added quickly.
“Yes, Walter,” Byron said. Jane couldn’t tell from his tone whether he was mocking her or just agreeing.
Emmeline reappeared, carrying an enormous metal bowl, which she dumped on the table. A mound of potatoes, sausage, corn, and crawfish spilled out, threatening to slide off the sides. Jane looked at it as Emmeline put down two bottles of beer, an empty bowl, and a thick stack of napkins. “Teach her how to suck heads,” she said to Byron.
Jane picked up a crawfish. Its shell was a dark red, and its little black eyes stared unseeing back at her. “What do I do with it?” she asked.
“Like this,” said Byron. He held up a crawfish, gripped the head between his thumb and forefinger, and twisted it off. He set the head aside and peeled the shell away from the body, then pinched the tiny fan at the bottom of the tail, pushing the meat up and popping the exposed flesh into his mouth. “And now for the best part,” he said, picking up the head he’d set aside. Putting it to his mouth, he sucked loudly on it for a moment before tossing it into the empty bowl.
“And that’s how you suck the head,” he said. “Go on. Try it.”
“I think not,” said Jane. “It’s very rude.”
“It’s rude not to,” Byron corrected her. “If you don’t suck the head, then everyone will know you’re an outsider.”
Jane contemplated the crawfish in her hand. Although no one in the restaurant was looking directly at her, she had the distinct impression that she was being watched. Here goes nothing, she thought as she attempted to copy Byron’s movements. The tail and head separated readily enough, and getting the tail meat out was fairly easy. It was also incredibly delicious.
The head was another matter altogether. She placed it in her mouth and sucked. Instantly her mouth was filled with a spicy blast of butter and a lump of something squishy She choked, just managing to swallow it down. She reached for a bottle of beer and drank deeply.
“What is that?” she asked, looking at the now empty crawfish head with distaste.
“Head fat,” Byron explained. “It’s the best part.” He twisted another crawfish apart and ate it. “Pinch the tail, suck the head,” he intoned. “Try another one. You’ll come to love them, I promise.”
“I’ve been on the wrong end of your promises before,” said Jane. She picked up one of the half ears of corn and bit into it. “I’ll stick with something safe.”
They ate for a while in silence. Jane decided to try another crawfish, and this time she found it much better. She ate several more, then saw that Byron was looking at her.
“I think that first one was off,” she said defensively.
“It’s nice still being able to eat, isn’t it?” said Byron. “It’s one of the few human things I still treasure. That and making love,” he added.
“I prefer being in love, thank you,” Jane retorted as she stabbed a piece of sausage with her fork.
“You seemed to enjoy it with me that night I paid you a visit,” said Byron. He sucked meaningfully on a crawfish head, licking his lips afterward.
“That was only to keep you away from Walter and Lucy,” Jane reminded him.
“So you didn’t enjoy it?” asked Byron.
Jane peered closely at the crawfish she was about to behead. “I didn’t say that,” she said.
“Then you did enjoy it?” Byron tried.
“Is there meat in the claws?” Jane asked him, looking at the crawfish’s pincers.
“I’ll take that for a yes,” said Byron. “I enjoyed it as well.”
“Of course you did,” Jane said. “You’d enjoy it with … with …” She tried to think of someone suitably unpleasant. “Oscar Wilde,” she concluded.
“Don’t know,” said Byron. “I never tried. But I don’t think it would be all that nice.”
“What if I did enjoy it?” Jane said. “What of it?”
Byron licked his fingers. “Perhaps you should ask yourself that question,” he suggested.
“Perhaps I have,” said Jane. “And perhaps what I’ve decided is that it means nothing. You mean nothing.”
“I’m hurt,” Byron said, putting his hand over his heart. “I thought we meant something to each other.”
Jane ignored him and concentrated on her dinner. Byron was once again getting her all riled up. Why was it so easy for him to do this? Why are you letting him do this? a voice in her head asked.
“I don’t know!” Jane said loudly. Realizing she’d spoken aloud, she felt her cheeks flush. “When did you start writing romances?” she asked quickly.
“Several years ago,” Byron replied. “It’s just something to do. And it brings in a little money.”
“Now that everyone knows you’re Penelope Wentz, what will you do?”
“I haven’t decided,” Byron answered. “Perhaps Penelope will write a few more novels. Perhaps she’ll disappear.”
“She won’t disappear,” said Jane. “You crave the attention. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have revealed yourself today.”
“Yes, well, there are certain advantages to being who I am,” Byron said. “My fans are very faithful.”
“Have one for lunch, did you?” Jane asked.
“You’re being petty,” said Byron. “It’s unbecoming.”
Jane ate the last of the crawfish and wiped her hands on a napkin. “Why am I here?” she asked. She was ready to be done with the evening.
“I want to apologize,” Byron said.
Jane looked at him suspiciously. “For what?”
“For how I behaved toward you,” said Byron. “All those years ago. It was wrong of me.”
Jane cleared her throat. “It was,” she agreed.
“I took your virginity and I made you what you are,” Byron continued.
Jane looked around to see if the other customers were listening. She feared they would think poorly of her if they overheard.
“I took advantage of you,” Byron said, apparently not caring if anyone heard him. “A sad, lonely old woman who—”
“I was not old,” Jane objected.
“For the time,” said Byron. “But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I behaved badly. For that I’m deeply sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”
Jane picked a bit of crawfish shell from under a fingernail. “I don’t know,” she said. “You really were horrible. And after all of the nice things you said in your letters too. It was fairly shocking to me, you know.”
“I was young,” Byron said.
“You were twenty-eight,” said Jane. “That’s old enough to know better.”
“I meant in our years,” Byron said. “It hadn’t been that long. Besides, I was ill, and there was
the divorce from Anne, the nastiness over the child, the business with Claire.” He waved his hand around his head. “It was all too much. You seemed to be the one bright light in a storm of misery.”
Jane wished she had a toothpick, as there was a bit of corn stuck in her fang. She only half listened to Byron. She’d fallen for his flowery speeches before. “All right,” she said.
Byron, who was still talking, stopped. “All right?” he said.
“All right, I forgive you,” said Jane. “Anyway, what’s done is done. It’s not like you can unmake me.”
“You’re sure?” Byron asked.
“If you keep asking, I won’t be,” said Jane. “Let’s just move on. One thing I’ve always wondered—who turned you?”
Byron leaned his chair back, resting his back against the grimy wall. “Now that is a story,” he said. “You know that I traveled widely in the years before 1816.”
Jane nodded. “I do.”
“Much of that time was in Greece,” Byron continued. “While I was there I met a young man called Ambrose. He was a soldier.” He paused, and a sad smile crossed his face for a moment. “You should have seen him,” he said. “He was beautiful. I fell in love instantly.”
“Shocking,” Jane remarked, although not unkindly. She was seeing another side of Byron, and it was rather touching.
“The only thing that troubled me was that Ambrose would never spend the night with me,” said Byron. “Every night, after we ate and made love, he would leave my house. He wouldn’t tell me where he was going. I assumed there was a woman, perhaps a wife and child. At first I didn’t care, but as the summer went on I became jealous.” He looked at Jane. “I know that’s difficult to believe.”
Jane said nothing, sipping her beer. Given how many women Byron had stolen away from their husbands on a whim and then just as carelessly discarded, the idea that he could love someone enough to care in who else’s bed he slept was intriguing. This Ambrose must have been something special, she thought.
“One night I could take it no longer. I followed him. He roamed the city, finally ending up at the harbor. There, under the docks, I saw him kiss another man. At least that’s what I thought he was doing.”
“He was feeding,” Jane said.
Byron nodded. “I watched, horrified, as he killed the man. Then he turned and saw me. I wanted to run, but even more than that I wanted him to love me.”
Byron grew quiet. He seemed lost in thought, rocking his chair back and forth slowly. “You let him turn you, didn’t you?” Jane asked.
Byron looked up. His eyes were filled with tears. “Yes,” he said. “It was the only way we could be together. And for a while we were.”
“But you left him?” Jane suggested.
Byron shook his head. “He was killed,” he said. “After I was turned, Ambrose taught me to hunt. One night, I seduced a local girl, beautiful but foolish. It was my first time attempting a glamor, and I was overconfident. The girl woke up while I was draining her, and she managed to get away. She’d seen my face. I ran back to the house and told Ambrose what had happened. When the girl returned with help, Ambrose glamored her into believing that he was the one whose face she’d seen. He’d already told me to leave through the back and escape into the hills.”
Jane felt her skin grow cold. She feared what Byron would say next. The story would end badly, she knew, and she didn’t want to hear it. But she listened nonetheless, anxious for it to be over.
Byron took a deep breath. “They dragged him to the center of town, drove a stake through his heart, and threw him from the cliffs into the sea,” he said. “There was nothing I could do. No one could have survived such a thing. Afterward, I did as he’d told me to. I went into the hills and made my way back to Italy, where I began my new life.”
Jane wasn’t sure what to say, so she reached out and took Byron’s hand. He remained still. “Do you know what the name Ambrose means?” he asked after a moment. “‘Immortal.’ Ironic, isn’t it?”
“I never knew,” said Jane.
“Nobody did,” Byron said. “Until now I’ve never spoken of it. But I owed you. Perhaps now I’ve repaid that debt a bit.”
“You don’t owe me,” Jane told him, taking her hand back. “I came to you that summer looking for an adventure, and that’s what you gave me.”
“Yes,” Byron said. “But I should have asked whether or not you wanted to be taken on it.”
Jane started to say something but was interrupted by the arrival of Emmeline. She had with her a young man, muscular and glassy-eyed. He wore an AC/DC T-shirt and his neck was covered in bruises.
“Did you save room for dessert?” Emmeline asked.
Chapter 30
That night she read to Charles for the first time, stumbling over the words, then finding her footing and continuing on, anxious yet elated. All the while she secretly watched his face for any reaction. When finally she saw him smile, she felt that her heart might burst with joy.
—Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript
JANE WAS RELIEVED WHEN THE PLANE TOUCHED DOWN. SHE WAS even more relieved when she saw Lucy waiting for her at the baggage claim.
“If it isn’t Jane the vampire killer,” Lucy said, hugging her.
“That’s not funny,” said Jane.
She looked around for the oversize baggage area and saw Jasper’s kennel. “I was convinced he would freeze in the hold,” she told Lucy as she dragged her over to where the dog waited. When he saw Jane, Jasper pawed at the cage door and whined. Jane let him out, and he jumped up on Lucy.
“Hello, handsome,” said Lucy. Jasper licked her nose. “I think I’m in love,” Lucy said to Jane.
“It’s your fault he’s here,” Jane replied. “If you hadn’t insisted I go back for him—”
“If you hadn’t—you know—then you wouldn’t have had to go look for him,” Lucy interrupted.
Jane ignored her. “I wonder where my bags are,” she said, scanning the conveyor belt filled with arriving luggage.
“I already got them,” said Lucy. “See?” She pointed to two bags that had Jane’s name tags tied to the handles. “I noticed them in the unclaimed luggage area, and assumed they’d come on an earlier flight.”
Jane growled. “Those are the original bags I checked in on my way to Chicago,” she said angrily. “They must never have put them on the plane in the first place.”
Lucy laughed. “Well, now you have more clothes,” she said.
Jane left Lucy with the two bags and went in search of her other ones. She felt a sense of déjà vu as she watched the belt circling and all of the other bags were picked up. Once again she heard the grinding of gears as the belt stopped.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she said to Lucy. “What did I do to anger the luggage gods?”
“Vampire slayer,” Lucy whispered.
“Stop that!” Jane insisted.
“Sorry,” said Lucy. “Let’s go get in line.”
Jane shook her head. “I’m calling it a wash,” she said, taking her two original bags in hand. “Besides, there was nothing in there I want.”
As they headed toward the exit, Lucy walking Jasper and rolling his kennel behind her, Lucy said thoughtfully, “Just think. Some baggage handler could be fingering Jane Austen’s panties right about now.”
“Keep it up,” Jane said, “and I will bite you.”
They made their way to the parking garage, where they loaded everything into Lucy’s car. Jasper, sitting in the back, whined until Lucy rolled down the window for him. He immediately stuck his head out.
“I wonder what it was like being Charlotte Brontë’s dog,” Lucy said as she pulled out.
“Can we not mention that name again?” Jane asked.
“You’re in a foul temper,” said Lucy. “What happened at that conference, anyway? Besides setting Char—”
“Byron is what happened,” Jane told her.
“Byron?”
“It’s a long story,�
� said Jane. “Suffice it to say we made up.”
Lucy looked at her, eyes wide. “You didn’t sleep with him?” she said.
“No!” Jane said. “We just had dinner. Then he walked me home. I hate to admit it, but he was a perfect gentleman. It makes me think he’s up to something.”
“But why was he there at all?” Lucy asked.
Jane told her the whole story.
“Penelope Wentz?” Lucy said when Jane was finished. “Her books are awful.”
Hearing it gave Jane some satisfaction, for which she immediately felt guilty. “She’s apparently very popular,” she said by way of apology to Byron.
“Sure she is,” Lucy said. “We sell a ton of her books. His books,” she corrected. “Haven’t you noticed?”
“I confess I don’t always pay attention to what people are buying,” said Jane. “And since you’ve been doing most of the ordering for the past year or so, I’m not entirely up on what people are reading. Frankly, I’m a little tired of the whole thing.”
“I never get tired of books,” Lucy said as they exited the airport and drove onto the Thruway. “Anyway, tell me more about Byron.”
“I feel sorry for him,” said Jane. “I know how that sounds, but you should have seen his face when he talked about his friend.”
“His friend?” said Lucy. “You sound like my mother when she talks about my brother’s boyfriend.”
“All right, his lover,” Jane said. “In my day we didn’t talk about it at all.”
“You also rode around in dogcarts,” Lucy reminded her. “But go on.”
“He was really in love with Ambrose,” said Jane. “To be honest, I never thought he was capable of it.”
“Sounds like Ambrose’s death killed something in him,” Lucy remarked.
“I think you’re right,” Jane agreed. She fell into silence, watching the dreary landscape of upstate New York pass by.
“It made you think about you and Walter, didn’t it?” Lucy said after a few minutes.
“Yes,” Jane admitted. “I wonder if I haven’t been foolish in that regard.”
“Maybe it’s time to take a chance,” said Lucy.
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