by Mary Balogh
“But you couldn’t have told anyone what you really wanted.”
“It is possible to turn such work in certain specific directions if one is subtle.”
“You’re not always subtle,” I murmured.
“Not where certain subjects are concerned.” He kissed me lightly. I pulled him down. Sometime later I said, “What made you decide to give BL the grant?”
“Need you ask?”
I sighed. “You’re too good to me. And Jane… You gave your blessing to Charles, didn’t you?”
“I was a fool. My misjudgment of their mutual affection was egregious. Charles never suspected my deliberate interference. I made known to him my mistaken impressions of your sister’s intentions, and he was eager to go to her again.”
“If you were wrong, so was Charles. He should have stuck with the woman he loved. I wish I could have given him a piece of my—”
Darcy silenced me with another kiss. “That is all in the past. It is the future that concerns us now.”
The future. A future in which I would grow older, and Darcy would stay exactly the same. I knew he’d love me even when I couldn’t walk or see or hear. But the idea of giving him up, ever…
“I want you to bite me,” I said suddenly.
He sat upright. “Now?”
“Why not? I have to get used to it sooner or later.”
“I will not impose—”
“I’m marrying a vampire. ‘To love, cherish and donate.’ All those other women will just have to wait in line.”
He pulled me around on his lap and gazed into my eyes. “There are certain dangers inherent in repeated donation.”
“You mean I’ll become a vampire.”
“Theoretically, every strigoi can control the process according to his will. But instinct can be very strong, especially where affection is involved.”
“Is that such a bad thing?”
“Think about what you are saying. You may not feel so sanguine once you are changed.”
“Sanguine. That’s a good one.” I grew serious again. “I don’t want to have you for one lifetime, Darcy. I want you for eternity.”
He gave me a dubious look, and I quickly convinced him of my sincerity.
Darcy, Jane, Charles and I flew back to New York a week later. Jane could hardly contain herself when I told her I was to be Elizabeth Bennet-Darcy. Georgiana begged us to be married at Pemberley, and Darcy immediately offered to fly my whole family to England.
Dad had tears in his eyes when I told him about Darcy’s proposal, though I wasn’t yet ready to tell him just what kind of proposal it was. He seemed to sense that Darcy was behind BL’s unexpected salvation. Darcy insisted on asking him for my hand, and he gladly agreed.
Mom was ecstatic. “Oh, my sweetest Lizzy! Oh, Lord, what will become of me? I think I’m going to faint!”
LITTLE TO HEX HER
JANET MULLANY
For Pam Rosenthal, my partner-in-crime.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Susan, Mary and Colleen; and Tracy Farrell and Lucienne Diver.
Dear Reader,
When Susan Krinard invited me to participate in this anthology, I knew immediately which Austen I’d choose, pretty confident that no one else would want it. As Austen said, Emma really is “a heroine whom no one but myself will much like,” and therein lies both the genius of Austen and the pitfalls for a lesser writer putting her own spin on the novel. What’s amazing about Emma is that everyone in the novel likes her (with the exception of Mrs. Elton), at least for some of the time. I don’t mind so much that she’s a provincial, meddling busybody (oh, go on, Janet, tell us what you really think) but I knew I couldn’t sustain interest—mine or yours—in a heroine who’s so blissfully unaware of what’s under her nose.
And then there’s Mr. Knightley, the only Austen leading man who you know is going to be a massive bore in bed; even virtuous Edmund Bertram has the promise of more friskiness between the sheets (but then I love Mansfield Park, too).
The answer, I decided, was to give both Emma and George I-hate-my-first-name Knightley a twenty-first-century awareness of themselves and, dare I say it, some acknowledgment of their shortcomings—Emma is very conscious of her situation as the not-so-big fish in the not-so-small pond; Knightley is a success in some but not all areas of his life.
What I took mainly from Austen was her setting of the idiosyncratic village and its social strata, which in this case is the city of Washington, D.C. Perhaps the White House really does need a witch on retainer, and we all know Capitol Hill is full of bloodsuckers….
I hope you enjoy this anthology and my take on Emma, which I had so much fun writing.
Best,
Janet Mullany
CHAPTER 1
Present Day
Washington, D.C.
Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever and temporarily rich, with a comfortable (borrowed) apartment and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-nine years in the world with very little to distress or hex her.
“SHE TURNED ME INTO A FROG.”
I bit back the comment that he seemed to have recovered.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Elton. I know it’s no excuse, but it is almost full moon, and Harriet tends to be…” I paused and added a description of my assistant that seemed lame as soon as it was out of my mouth. “Difficult.”
“Difficult!” Elton’s shout almost drowned out the sound of early-morning traffic on K Street.
I winced. Harriet, heading for her werewolf time of the month, must have been an intimidating mix of horniness and ferocity.
“I’m so sorry. The agency will give you a full refund and free membership for the next year—two years. We’ll also pay for any dry-cleaning costs or—”
“At least. Look at this shirt! It was blue yesterday.”
“I believe it’s residual frog. It will wear off. I’m pretty sure it’s gotten more blue since we’ve been sitting here…”
Elton was staring at a fly that had landed on the table to investigate a crumb from my croissant. His tongue flickered at the corner of his mouth. He drew back, his chair clattering on the sidewalk.
“Oh, Christ!”
“Can I get you another latte?” The waitress, who had been hanging around nearby, wandered over, gazing at Elton as though she wanted to have his pointy-eared offspring then and there. She probably did; it’s the traditional relationship between elves and humans. I generally cast a mild protective spell over myself when one-on-one with an elf.
Elton waved her away and dropped back into his chair, a horrified expression on his face. I thought he was about to burst into tears.
“Did you see that?” he whispered. “I nearly— I wanted to—”
I patted his hand, hoping the embarrassment of temporary frogness would prevent him from considering legal action. The last thing I needed was some sleazy vamp lawyer sharpening his canines on the agency. “It will wear off, I promise you. I’m so sorry, Elton.”
“Is that all you can say?” He glared at me. “It’s your fault.”
“Of course I take responsibility for—”
He leaned forward, stabbing a finger for emphasis, the tips of his ears quivering. “I only dated Harriet because you wanted me to, Emma. I thought you were interested in me and you were so insistent I agreed.”
“But I never date clients. I—” That’s what Isabella had said. Never, never get personally involved with clients, Emma. It gets sticky. Right. They end up wearing frog-green polo shirts and nearly eating flies blocks from the White House.
“You’ll be hearing from me,” Elton said. He stood. “You’re not doing very well with the agency, are you? You should have stuck to teaching jocks History of Witchcraft 101. I’m sure Isabella would be distressed by this.”
I stood, too, and held out a hand which he ignored. “May I say again how very sorry I am and if the agency can make it up to you in any
way—”
But he’d turned and strode away from me, while the waitress chewed her lip ring and glared at me as though I’d ruined her life, too.
MY ASSISTANT CHEWED ON a piece of beef jerky and made a sound that might have been a growl as I entered the office.
I placed my laptop on the desk and was tempted to growl back. Instead, I logged on to review any new memberships that had come in overnight, and considered how best to confront Harriet in her delicate condition.
Once again, I wished that my sister, Isabella, had not left when her husband was invited to join a European magic think tank in Brussels, leaving me to run her dating agency for a year. I’d been quite happy holding down a succession of postgraduate magic lab positions (“cauldron washing,” as my family referred to it) and, as Elton reminded me, teaching a few undergraduate magic courses to jocks who needed the credits. I couldn’t say I was serious about an academic career, but I wasn’t frivolous about it, either. I just needed…time to sort out who I was and what I wanted to do, and that’s what I was still saying five years after my master’s.
One thing was for sure. I absolutely didn’t want to make a career of matching lovelorn paranormals and I found Washington, D.C., with its cliques and rituals and stuffiness, unwelcoming and unfriendly.
I flipped my laptop shut. “Harriet, we must talk about last night. How are you feeling?”
She slurped on a cup of some horrible werewolf brew. “Okay. He was a jerk. I thought he liked me.”
“So did I. I’m sorry. But I lent you my spell book to look at, not to use. You said you were interested in going back to school.”
“He said bad things to me. Like he thought I was stupid.” She hung her head and mumbled something about having a photographic memory at her time of the month.
“Oh, Harriet, you know that’s not true. You’re very bright. But, please remember that turning a client into a frog, however rude or aggravating or insulting they are, must never happen again. I’m afraid Elton may sue us. He was very angry and unpleasant and upset, and I don’t blame him. What if something had eaten him?”
She bared her teeth. “I would have eaten him.” Then her eyes filled with tears. “He said he only dated me because you wanted him to. He liked you, Emma.”
I patted her shoulder and handed her a tissue. “Yes, I know. That’s what he told me, too, and I had no idea.”
“He said he took those pictures of me with his cell because you were next to me.”
I saw that she was about to analyze every episode, every conversation with Elton, and cause herself more pain. “We have to move on, Harriet. I expect Elton will leave the agency—I’ve offered him a full refund, and I hope he won’t make trouble for us. I think he mentioned something about going on vacation soon, so at least he’ll be out of town for a bit and he’ll cool down.”
She sniffed. “You know what elves are like. Bloodthirsty.”
She was right, even if it was the pot calling the kettle black. Elves swarmed through the Pentagon and populated defense contractors; if Peter Jackson got one thing right in The Lord of the Rings, it was the elves, armed to the teeth and marching in military formation; so much for frolicking in the woods wearing pretty jewelry.
Harriet and I set to work, routine stuff of creating pairings on the database for our next gathering and processing new members—our clients got a five-minute “date” with each other at our mixers, at which they’d grade the people they’d met as possible friends (really a polite way of saying they weren’t interested) and possible people they’d like to meet one-on-one. We, of course, would effect the introductions and make sure that compatible people, or rather beings, since the clientele consisted of more than humans, got to spend time with each other.
I wasn’t terribly efficient that morning, replaying my meeting with Elton in my head. I’d missed a major vibe from Elton to myself, and wasn’t my job to detect that sort of attraction? Harriet, with her werewolf nose, could sniff out pheromones (particularly at the full moon), which was particularly useful, but even she’d missed Elton’s real object of desire.
And God, no, I wouldn’t date an elf. All that ego, and his hair products cluttering up the bathroom, not to mention the bloodthirsty instincts and the talent for holding grudges for centuries.
Yes, I was glad Elton was out of town.
To cheer us both up, I suggested a walk along the Mall at lunchtime, and Harriet became quite puppyish at the idea. We strolled down to the Tidal Basin where the cherry trees were preparing for their big showcase of the year and said hello to a few former clients. We, or rather Isabella, had had some particularly spectacular successes with cherry tree dryads and Tidal Basin and Reflecting Pool naiads.
My cell rang. “Hartfield Dating Agency.”
“Oh, Emma. Emma? Sometimes I don’t—I was thinking to myself, I must call Emma and tell her the news, because I know she’ll be so excited and—you’ll never guess what—remember when I told you about my friend, Jane—it was when we had that thing—”
Missy Bates, I mouthed to Harriet as the flow of words on the line spilled out like beer foam down a frat boy’s glass.
“—and she sent me that cute e-mail about what cats would—I sent it to you—wasn’t it darling—and the other one, I hope you sent it on to eight of your best friends for luck—”
“Missy, I’d love to chat, but I’m in the middle of something—”
“Oh, I won’t keep you a moment—but I have to tell you because you’ve always been so interested in Jane and we—Knightley gave me a ride home after that concert at the Kennedy Center and it was so—and then there was a text on my cell saying she—but I forgot the funniest bit—and she says she’ll be here in two days and I’m not sure whether she’s allergic to cats or—so I thought I must introduce her to the agency and then I’ll get three months, or is it four, I don’t remember—because she doesn’t know anyone in town and—Knightley said she was very—but when I—”
“Jane Fairfax? She’s coming to D.C.?”
“Yes, oh, silly me, didn’t I say? I knew you’d be excited—she’s looking for a job at—I had to laugh—when I told Knightley, he—”
“Terrific. And of course you’ll get your additional three months for bringing in a new client, Missy. That’s wonderful. I’d better let you go—”
I stanched Missy’s flood of words with firm promises to extend her membership, cursing the day that I had ever come up with what I had considered a brilliant piece of promotion. My head banged gently, the way it always did after a conversation with Missy, and I took a few deep breaths.
“Jane Fairfax is coming to town?” Harriet asked. “I didn’t even think she was real.”
“In some ways she’s far too real.” I sank into gloom, remembering disjointed tales of out-of-town gatherings and trips, my e-mail bombarded with invitations to view photographs online or follow links to Jane’s latest activities. Even worse, at events Missy pressed me into a corner to relay, word for word (embellished with many odd diversions and comments), conversations with Jane, while I bleated feebly about other clients who might feel neglected.
“Grrr,” said Harriet.
AS WELL AS INHERITING my sister’s job for a year, I’d also inherited her apartment in a gem of an art deco building a stone’s throw from the zoo at Woodley Park. At first I’d thought the strange whooping sounds that woke me at dawn were the gargoyles, until I realized they were the gibbons greeting the new day. I loved the apartment with its huge windows and elegant parquet floors.
I loved the marble and mosaics and gilding of the lobby, the wrought-iron splendor of the dignified slow elevator. I even loved the gargoyles, particularly after I’d drawn the blinds.
There was only one problem with the place, and here he was ambling across the lobby, sporting a toolbelt and carrying a toilet plunger.
“Yo, Woodhouse,” said George I-hate-my-first-name Knightley. Despite his disguise as a janitor, he was the owner of the building. He enjoyed the
occasional spot of maintenance as relaxation from the world of high finance—it keeps me humble. Humble! As though any member of that renowned and ancient family of wizards even knew the meaning of the word.
“Hi, George,” I returned, and had the pleasure of seeing him scowl.
“How’s matchmaking?” he asked.
“Pretty good. Mostly. Uh.” Nothing had changed in the ten years since our awkward (on my part, at least) college relationship. I still lost most of my vocabulary around him.
The toolbelt, sitting low and easy on his hips, clad in snug faded denim, was giving me some inappropriate lustful thoughts.
“Was something clogged up?” I asked and wished I hadn’t. Dumb, dumb, Emma. The plunger probably wasn’t a fashion accessory.
“Three-C. Their kid threw his teddy in the can. Is everything okay in Isabella’s? I know she had some problems with the garbage disposal. I could come up—”
“No, no, it’s fine. Really.” Images of him splayed on the kitchen floor, the muscles in his bare arms flexing as he rummaged beneath the sink, flew into my head. I took a deep breath.
“Gargoyles behaving okay?” he asked.
“Yes, fine, thanks.”
“You need to be firm with them.”
“Right.” I backed away. “I’ll be— Good to see you, Knightley. I’ll just, uh…”
He smirked.
I changed direction smartly and headed toward the elevator, not away from it. A vampire, dressed in fuck-me shoes and the sort of dress I wouldn’t dare bend over while wearing, if I dared wear it at all, joined me.