Bespelling Jane Austen

by Mary Balogh

  “Lizzy!”

  Lydia, in one of her typical rapid changes of mood, had grabbed hold of my arm and was bouncing up and down so energetically that I was afraid her huge, dangling earrings would poke out my eye. “You have to come this time. George won’t if you don’t agree!”

  “Agree to what?” I asked, prying her fingers from my arm.

  “Come to New York, of course. This weekend. You can stay with me and Kitty…we’ll find room for you somehow.”

  “And why would I want to come to New York?”

  Lydia gave me an incredulous look. “Because Wickham has promised to take us to Brighton.”

  “What does a city in England have to do with New York?”

  My youngest sister had eye-rolling down to an art form. “Brighton Palace! The new Club in the East Village. It’s almost impossible to get in unless you know somebody, but George—”

  “I thought George was just a simple country lawyer.”

  “Oh, God. Can’t you tell when someone’s joking?”

  So there was more to George than met the eye. “I’m no clubber. Why would George want me to come?”

  “Don’t ask me. He’d have a lot more fun with just me and Kitty.” She grinned slyly. “Or just me.”

  If George was interested in having “fun” with Lydia, I’d take back everything good I’d thought about him. But the fact that he wanted me along suggested that he didn’t find my sisters adequate company.

  Going with them would give me a chance to see George in another environment, which wouldn’t be a bad idea. I hadn’t danced in a long time, but I wasn’t dead yet. It might even be fun.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said.

  “Good! I’ll tell Georgie. Come on Thursday, and we’ll have time to find you something to wear.”

  “That’s not necessary. I have a couple of—”

  “I’ve already looked through your closet. I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing any of your stuff.”

  Right back atcha, I thought. But I knew this was a battle I couldn’t win. “I don’t have a lot of money to spare, Lydia.”

  “Oh,” she said airily. “I can get you discounts.”

  And that was that.

  I spent the next few days going over my accounts and inventory, assisting my handful of customers—one of whom, fortunately, bought a very expensive first edition—and then did an online search for a special order. When I was closing up on Wednesday night, I saw the shadow of a man just outside the window, silhouetted against the light of the streetlamp. I knew without even thinking about it that this guy, in his long black trench coat, was no last-minute customer.

  Instinctively, I reached for the can of pepper spray I kept in my desk drawer.

  “We’re closed!” I yelled.

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t leave. He looked in the window, and there was just enough glow from my desk lamp to reveal his features and a strange reddish reflection in his eyes.

  Darcy.

  I slammed the can down on the desk and charged for the door, my stomach bubbling with an uncomfortable stew of fear, anger and excitement. When I yanked the door open, he was gone. There were several people on the street, hunched against the drizzle, but no sign of a tall, brooding guy in a black trench coat.

  I closed the door and leaned against it, breathing fast. What in hell had he been doing here? Why had he been hanging around my window like some…some deviant, instead of coming in?

  Shaken as I was, I finished locking up and walked as fast as I could to BL. Everyone except the janitor had already gone; Dad had taken to sending everyone home early—just more proof of his dejection at the prospect of losing the company he’d worked so hard to build.

  Making my bad mood worse, the bus was late and crammed full, forcing me to sit next to a guy whose idea of cleanliness would have made a fourteenth-century privy-cleaner proud. It was pouring by the time I reached my stop. When I finally got to sleep, Darcy insisted on slinking through my dreams with a mustachio-twirling leer on his face. He was leaning over my bed, grinning maniacally with a mouth full of pointed teeth when my alarm went off.

  I sat straight up, reaching for my neck. I didn’t know why, but I was sure something had bitten me. A spider maybe, or even a hardy mosquito.

  But when I stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom, I couldn’t find so much as a red spot. I groaned, splashed water over my face and wandered into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. I jumped at every sound, half expecting Darcy to sneak up behind me with a swirling cape, tall black hat and subtitles.

  Damn. Apparently, I really did need a night out, dancing myself senseless with cute, nonthreatening guys who never thought about anything but their hair and abs.

  I arrived at Lydia and Kitty’s tiny apartment at two-thirty that afternoon. Kitty seemed genuinely glad to see me, but Lydia was furiously texting and barely looked up when I set my bag down on the sofa. I’d just finished my glass of water when she came roaring into the kitchenette, made a scathing comment about my cords and oxford shirt and hauled me out the door.

  At least she hadn’t been exaggerating about the discounts. I managed to get out of the last store with a total bill under $250, though I couldn’t believe that I, Elizabeth-the-boring, would be wearing such a short dress or such high heels. Lydia pronounced me acceptable, and we spent that evening and the next day catching up, though Lydia did most of the talking. On Saturday, after dinner at one of Lydia’s favorite sushi bars, we went to meet George at the club.

  The line stretched around the block. The muscular guy whose job it was to pronounce sentence on the cowering supplicants didn’t so much as glance at us as we waited outside the rope.

  “Where is Georgie?” Lydia asked irritably as Kitty shivered in her thin, cropped jacket. “He said he’d be here by—”

  “There you are!” George appeared before us, arms spread as if he planned to embrace us all together. “Lydia, Kitty…you look fantastic.” His gaze settled on me, and I smiled weakly. “But Elizabeth…you’re gorgeous!”

  So was he. I had the feeling that his jeans, jacket and silk shirt had cost multiples of what I’d spent on my dress and shoes, but I couldn’t really blame him; he wanted to make the most of his good looks, which was only natural, and I had a feeling he had a bright future ahead of him.

  I expected him to escort us to the back of the line, but he herded us right to the front and spoke quietly to the bouncer. The man nodded, and—much to the obvious displeasure of the people on line—let us in.

  The place was as noisy and garish as I would have expected. Lydia was in her element; she grabbed George and ran into the very thick of the crowd, gyrating wildly. Kitty, unwilling to be left behind, followed more diffidently. I wandered to the bar and ordered a light drink, content to observe the tribal mating rituals of twenty-first-century Homo sapiens Manhattansis.

  Fifteen minutes later, as my eardrums were exploding, Lydia joined me at the bar, red and breathless. “Why aren’t you dancing, Lizzy?” she asked, waving to the handsome bartender.

  “I’ll get to it eventually,” I said. By which I meant one more drink and I wouldn’t care if I made a fool of myself. The seething crowd opened up for a moment, and George emerged like a butterfly from a neon cocoon.

  “Elizabeth!” he said, plopping down on the vacant stool between Lydia and me. “Why aren’t you dancing?”

  “I was waiting for you,” I said with a smile.

  Lydia, anxious to be included in the conversation, made a face of eloquent distaste. “Darcy would be the perfect partner for you, Lizzy,” she said. “He probably can’t even—”

  “Darcy?” George repeated. “God, no. He probably hasn’t danced since the gavotte was all the rage.”

  “What’s a gavotte?” Kitty asked, joining us.

  I didn’t answer. I thought it was interesting that both Charles and George had made reference to Darcy’s being not only old-fashioned, but actually from another century.

  “You so
und as if you know Darcy pretty well,” I said, “but you’ve just started working for Mr. Mason’s firm. Have you met before?”

  George picked up his whiskey and soda. “I’ve had that misfortune,” he said.

  “Do you mind my asking…”

  The whiskey was gone in a swallow, and George ordered another. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell it to you sometime.”

  And that was that. George knocked back his second drink, seized my hand and pulled me onto the dance floor.

  For the next couple of hours I actually forgot to be self-conscious about my very short dress. Lydia flirted with anything in pants; Kitty followed her lead, as always; and I found plenty of willing partners, one of whom made a suggestion that sent me scurrying into the adjoining alley for air.

  I found clouds of smoke instead, the stench of rotting garbage and a half-dozen sullen kids sucking on cigarettes. I pushed through them and discovered a very small area where some trick of the atmosphere provided the means to breathe. I was enjoying the respite when the kids suddenly disappeared, leaving the alley deserted.

  All the little hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I’m not exactly the most streetwise girl in the world, but even I could tell that something was wrong.

  Wrong turned out to be three unpleasant-looking guys of indeterminate age wearing hoodies and low-slung jeans. They definitely weren’t clubbers; in fact, they looked like they’d rather do some “clubbing” in the more traditional sense of the word. What they were doing in the alley I didn’t know, and I was much less interested in speculating than in escape.

  I was halfway to the door when they saw me. They didn’t say anything. They didn’t need to. One of them grinned, showing a wide gap between his two front teeth. The other two were chillingly casual as they strolled toward me.

  They wouldn’t try anything here, I told myself. They’d be crazy if they did. As I backed away, kicking off one shoe and grabbing the other to use as a rather pitiful weapon, the door burst open and George walked into the alley.

  Suddenly I was in one of those old movies where they would speed up the film to make fights look faster than was humanly possible. I blinked, and George was on the nasty guys like a spider on a juicy fly. He sent the grinning gangbanger spinning away like a Frisbee. Another landed at the other end of the alley, and I heard the crack of breaking bones.

  The last one was pinned to the opposite wall about two feet off the ground, George’s fists clenched in his hoodie. There was real terror in the kid’s eyes, and I knew George was going to hurt him. Badly.

  “George!” I yelled. “It’s all right. I’ll call the police. You don’t have to—”

  Without letting the kid down, George twisted to face me. His eyes were swallowed up in black like someone on heavy drugs, and his teeth…

  They were pointed. And red.

  CHAPTER 5

  IT WAS A MOVIE. A VERY BAD MOVIE.

  I scrambled back against the wall, sucking garbage-scented air through my nose. George snarled and dropped the kid, who fell in a heap at his feet. He glared at the grinner, who scuttled crabwise toward the mouth of the alley, grabbing his moaning friend on the way.

  The third gangbanger crawled on hands and knees until he was out from under George’s feet and staggered after his homies. A dreamlike silence settled over the alley.

  “Elizabeth?”

  Going by the usual script, I should have screamed and flailed helplessly as the monster ripped open my chest and tore out my throat. But I was too stunned to move, and George looked more sheepish than batlike.

  “I’m sorry, Elizabeth,” he said, holding out very ordinary-looking hands in a gesture of apology. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

  The rational part of me noted that his eyes were back to normal, and he didn’t have any blood on his mouth.

  But I’d seen what I’d seen. A crimson smear on the kid’s neck. And George with his teeth sinking into flesh…

  “Tell me I’m dreaming,” I gasped.

  “I’m afraid not.” He sighed, and I got another glimpse of his…fangs. “You have every reason to doubt your senses, but in this case they did not deceive you. I am not human.”

  “Did you just…drink that kid’s blood?”

  He hung his head. “I did. But I assure you he was not hurt as a result of that.”

  At times like these, all you can do is pretend you’re still sane. “You’re a…vampire?”

  “Strigoi is the preferred term. Most vampires—”

  “Most?” I squeaked. “You mean there are more like you?”

  He became more serious than I’d ever seen him. “Not all are like me. I would never harm you, Elizabeth, or any human who did not attempt to harm me first.”

  That’s very comforting, I thought, clinging frantically to my sarcasm as if it were the last lifeboat from the Titanic. “Well,” I said aloud, “I guess I should thank you.”

  He glanced up, a convincingly contrite look on his face. “I’m ashamed that I resorted to such violence, but I could not let them attack you.” His eyes caught mine, sincere and full of pain. “You can’t imagine what it’s like, Elizabeth. I would give anything not to be what I am.”

  I gulped. “You, uh…drink blood regularly?”

  “Unfortunately, it is necessary for my survival.”

  “But you said you don’t hurt anyone.”

  “The process is not normally harmful for the donor, and can actually be very pleasurable for both parties.”

  Donor. What a civilized word. It hadn’t been very pleasurable for the homeboy.

  I touched my neck. “You aren’t thinking of… I mean—”

  “No, Elizabeth. Never without permission.” He took another step toward me, and I saw something a little less benign in his gaze. “My control over this curse is the only thing that keeps me from ending my life.”

  “It’s literally a curse?”

  “I wish it were that simple.”

  It was hard, in spite of my dazed state of mind, not to feel sympathy for his obvious distress. My world had turned upside down, but his…

  “How did it happen?” I whispered. “Is it like the legends say?”

  He looked up into the glare of the Manhattan night, and his shoulders sagged. “You asked how I knew Darcy,” he said. “It was he who did this to me. He converted me against my will.”

  A dozen thoughts bounced around inside my head, whipping my brain to the consistency of strawberry Jell-O. Converted. That was the word I’d heard Caroline Bingley use when she’d been dissing me to Darcy. Something about when he planned to convert…

  Me.

  I have to admit that I got a little dizzy then, and might have fallen if George hadn’t caught me. His touch felt warm and safe, not dangerous at all. “Yes,” he said, “Darcy is also strigoi. But he delights in what he is.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Some strigoi wield unusual influence over mortals and even other strigoi. Darcy possesses such abilities. That power, in addition to virtual immortality and greater strength and speed, are features of this condition he exploits to the fullest.”

  That explained a great deal, but certainly didn’t ease my mind, especially when I thought about my own unwilling obsession with him. Charles seemed to be defying Darcy’s wishes, but he clearly considered Darcy a good friend as well as an advisor. What had Charles said? “I don’t think even Mendelssohn was around when Darcy was born.”

  He’d meant it literally. He knew.

  “Whatever you may believe, I care about you, Elizabeth,” George said into my silence. “Being strigoi does not destroy all emotion or loyalty. I know Darcy wishes you only ill. I do not think it likely that he will take any direct action against your family, but I will do everything I can to protect you.”

  Direct action. I didn’t even want to think what that could mean. But now I had an immediate choice: trust George, or not. I chose trust…for the time being. I had a thousand questions, but I knew this wasn’t the time or the pla
ce to ask them. I had to get Lydia and Kitty home first.

  By unspoken agreement, George and I returned to the club. I could see right away that Lydia had drunk far too much, and it took some effort to pry her away from the bar. She complained loudly when George and I dragged her out of the building, Kitty trailing in her wake.

  Lydia was still whining when we bustled her and Kitty into their walk-up and deposited her on the sofa. I asked George if he wouldn’t mind waiting outside while I sat with Lydia and made sure she wouldn’t go out again. The very ordinariness of the activities, and the knowledge that George had done no harm to anyone but the bad guys, gradually calmed my apprehension.

  Once both Lydia and Kitty were asleep, I went outside to join George. He was pacing back and forth on the landing and looked up as I closed the apartment door.

  “Is she all right?” he asked.

  “She’ll get over it,” I said. I wondered if I would. “I think we should talk.”

  “By all means…if you feel able to accept what you’ve seen.”

  “I don’t know if I’m able to, but I don’t think I have any choice.”

  He flashed me the old-George grin, and I wondered why I hadn’t noticed the pointed incisors before. It was really true what they said: you don’t look for something out of the ordinary unless you have reason to.

  Did I ever have reason to now.

  “We haven’t much time,” George said, walking toward me as if he planned to take my arm. At the last minute he must have seen me flinch, because he backed off. “Strigoi are not fond of sunlight.”

  I imagined him burning to a crisp and felt a little sick. “What does it do to you?”

  “Some exposure is acceptable, but too much—”

  I remembered that I’d never seen Darcy actually walking outside in daylight. “Does it take a stake through the heart to kill you?” I joked.

  I immediately regretted it, but George took it well. “More than that, I’m afraid,” he said.

  Warning duly noted. “Where should we go?”

  “I know a place,” he said, and turned for the stairs.

  After we’d gone a few blocks, I began to really accept that George didn’t intend to waylay me and suck me dry. He led me into a twenty-four-hour coffee bar and found a small table in the back. I ordered an espresso, figuring I wasn’t likely to get any sleep for what remained of the night. George ordered one, as well.