Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  “I’ve a special reason, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He’s courting my sister.”

  “Lucky girl, then.”

  “He’s likely to marry her, too, so I’m curious—”

  “What, you want to know what he’s like with me so you can tell your sister?”

  “Ahh, no! I mean, that’s not— Good God!”

  Molly’s giggles for my shock finally subsided. “Oh, I do like you, Mr. Barrett, and I understand why you want to look out for your sister, but I can’t just tell tales whenever a gentleman gets curious.”

  “Perhaps I’ve not been as liberal with you as I should be . . . .” I dug into a pocket with some spare coins in it.

  She gave a firm shake with her head. “It’s not that at all. I have my rules and I stick to ’em.” Her manner indicated she was not be moved on the subject.

  But there were ways around this. At least for me.

  I looked right into her eyes. There was enough light. “That’s good of you, but you can make an exception this time.”

  Which she did. Not that I gave her a choice in the matter. But now that she was willing to answer my questions, I wasn’t sure what to ask. Her thought that I might inquire about Norwood’s habits in bed struck me as being far too personal, though I wouldn’t deny the temptation was there. No . . . I’d let that one go. Better to find something else.

  “Molly, tell me what you think of Lord James.” That was the way to do it: ask for an opinion she might have offered anyway if not for her damned rules.

  “He’s a nice enough sort,” she intoned, a little flat, slurring her words.

  “Do you like him?”

  “Well enough.”

  “Anything bother you about him?”

  She made a face. “ ‘E does like to haggle the price. Spends more effort trying to save a penny than ’e puts into ’is bedding. Must think I don’t lave to work lard for it, but I do. ’E won’t find no better than me for the price. Skinflint.”

  Interesting. From this I might deduce that Elizabeth need not worry about him squandering her dowry, though too much thrift can be just as burdensome.

  “How does he treat you, Molly?”

  “Well enough,” she repeated. “ ’E’s nice as it suits ’im. Not as nice as my Johnny-boy, but all right.”

  “Thank you. Do you like him?”

  “ ’E’s a nice sort. . . ”

  “Do you like him?”

  Her answer was long in coming. “Not really,” she said with some reluctance.

  “Why not?”

  She shrugged.

  “Then why see him?”

  “I need the money, love.”

  A foolish question, that. Like any person in trade, Molly would have to deal with all sorts of customers and be polite no matter what. I could certainly respect her dedication to her work. “Think he’ll be coming back to you?”

  “S’pose ’e will when ’e’s a mind for it.”

  “Think he’d have a mind for it were he married?”

  Another shrug. “Won’t be able to tell that ’til it ’appens. Wouldn’t be the first time, nor the last.”

  I wasn’t about to question her experience there.

  * * *

  Molly woke out of things gradually, unaware of what had happened, ready to pick up where we’d left off as though no time had passed. My influence had put her into an even more receptive mood than before, but my own was considerably dampened. I’d fed heavily and had a lot on my mind. It took a bit more effort on her part to drag me back to the business at hand, but we eventually made a consummation that satisfied us both. She’d had a long day, though, and the extended pleasure my nature provided for us only added to her exhaustion. She was asleep almost as soon as I pulled my lips away from her firm, sweet throat. I dressed quietly, made sure the covers were pulled up and tucked about her, put out the candles, leaving my usual payment next to them on the table, and departed.

  The wind was worse than before, harsh and gusty. Better not to vanish and travel on the air in these conditions. I’d tried enough before and found myself carried along out of control, which is a vile feeling. I got my flapping cloak wrapped tight around me, held my hat in place and started down the road leading home.

  Miserable stuff, wind. It roars in your ears, deafening you to all other sounds. If cold, it cuts through your clothes with more surety than the sharpest knife. It buffets the body, stealing your balance, and it makes harmless things like trees and grass seem more alive than they should be. When it’s really strong it makes them whisper and laugh to one another, mocking and vindictive to all who pass them.

  I felt their rancor, or fancied I did, while trudging along. The road was full of ruts and icy, but easier going than the banks of snow on either side. There was no point complaining about any of it, and it failed to keep my mind off the intrusive problem of Norwood. It was one matter for me to be seeing Molly, but quite another for him. The basic unfairness of my judgment was of fleeting concern. My worry was that Elizabeth should somehow discover his out-of-house activities and be wounded by them. That was not to be. Something would have to be done about him, but for the moment annoyance had the upper hand over reason. I grumbled and mumbled my way through it, my voice a small and fragile distraction.

  Then another sound intruded upon my preoccupation, at first so faint and uneven that I wasn’t sure I heard anything. It was behind me, that was certain; the wind saw to that. I waited, listening, and finally caught the jingle of bits and the crunch of wheels and hooves going over the frozen ground. There was a slight bend in the road, and soon a wagon came around into sight.

  There were no lanterns showing, which was understandable. As unsettled as things were in the area, it was a wise course not to draw attention to oneself.

  Though going at a good pace afoot, I hoped the rough conveyance might stop long enough for me to get a ride to my gate. It would be a poor Christian indeed who would deny so small a favor to another soul on such a night. I walked a little more, but slowly, and let it catch me up.

  The driver crouched over his reins, urging his horses forward. He was not much more than a shapeless hump. He wore a heavy coat and his hat was tied to his head by a rag of a scarf, the ends of which snapped in the wind like tattered banners.

  “Hallo!” I called, when he was near enough to see me.

  He must have understood what I might ask of him, for he pulled on the reins.

  “Commun over,” he called back.

  I wasted no time and scrambled up next to him. “Very kind of you, sir.”

  “Aye. M’name’s Ash. Who’re you?”

  “Jonathan Barrett.”

  “Y’sure o’ that?”

  I thought it a strange question to ask, but made no comment since he was kind enough to give me a ride. “Yes, I’m quite sure.”

  “Barrett as lives down the road? This road?”

  “Yes—”

  His face split in a big grin and he made a sudden move with one hand. Before I knew it the muzzle of a pistol was in it with the business end shoved into my belly.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “My God, man, what are you about?” My indignation was genuine. I was too surprised to be afraid.

  He ignored me. “Now, boys!” he shouted in my face.

  When reason fails, instinct takes over, if you’re lucky. I ducked blindly, but a fraction too late. Dark shapes, I don’t know how many, erupted up from the back of the wagon, hands reached for me. I fought futilely. They were too fast and too many. One of them caught me by the hair and strongly dragged me backward and down. My head cracked solidly against the wagon seat, and for the first time in months I saw the sun. It seared through my skull and out the other side in an instant and was gone, leaving behind the most horrendous pain I’d ever felt in my
life. It crowded out all thought, all motion, all sound. Nothing else was in my world but that hideous, explosive agony.

  “Ye’ve killed ’im!” someone cried as I went heavily limp. My sudden stupor was as profound as my daytime trance, without the oblivion that grave earth provided.

  “Nay, ’e’s but stunned. Git ’im in so we can go.”

  Helpless, I felt myself hauled into the back of the wagon; at least that’s what I worked out somewhat later. At the moment I was too dazed to know what was happening or to care anything about it.

  “I got me a fine new ’at!” one of them sang out.

  “Cloak, too,” added another. “See what’s in ’is pockets.”

  Hands, prodding and rough, made a thorough search of me and grabbed away prizes, winners crowing in triumph. I didn’t care, didn’t have enough awareness to care. I wanted only to scream from the pain, but was too paralyzed to do it.

  Ash whipped up the horses. The wagon lurched forward at a smart pace.

  If I could have moved, I’d have been sick, but nothing moved, nothing, at all. I might as well have been a corpse, but being drearily and inescapably shackled to my body, I knew I hadn’t died.

  Not yet.

  We rattled quickly over the ruts. I lost track of time, drifting in and out of consciousness, perhaps. There was no way to tell. Some things were clear, others less so. The clear bits hurt.

  “Easy now,” said Ash. “Hessians quartered in a barn hereabouts, remember? Keep ’im quiet.”

  “ ’E ain’t movin’.”

  “Good.”

  Barn? Our barn. We’d passed my gate. I was being carried away from my home . . . safety . . . rescue.

  The wagon rumbled on, the men heedless of my silent objections.

  Why? The question bobbed up in my mind like a piece of cork. Why had they done this to me?

  The answer took a bit longer, for I’d faded out again, or so I assumed, since I was all too aware of waking up. The pain dampened enough that I was able to think, but only in a disjointed sort of way. I understood that I’d been attacked and had been robbed and was in the process of being kidnapped.

  Why?

  They’d been after me, not just any unlucky traveler on the road, but me.

  Wh—

  Then I didn’t care why, couldn’t think why. All I could do was . . . wake up again, some time later. How long . . . ?

  My eyes were open. They’d been shut before. I could blink. For the small good it did me.

  My hands were cold. Couldn’t move them. I’d forgotten to put on gloves again. Jericho would have something to say about that. No matter. The fellows here would have probably stripped them from me by now.

  Now. What now? What was the time? I tried desperately to read the sky. It seemed lighter, but that might have been a normal reflection of the snowy fields on the low clouds. I didn’t know the time, which was almost as hard to bear as my injury. Maybe they were linked. Whatever clock I had ticking inside me had been thoroughly shattered when my head struck the wooden bench of the wagon.

  Head. I could have done without the reminder. It ached abominably, and I felt sick all over again, hot and cold at the same time. Salty bile pooled at the back of my mouth, but I couldn’t spit it out. Couldn’t move yet.

  Why hadn’t I vanished?

  This injury hurt far worse than getting shot. I should have disappeared at the first shock. Were there splinters in my head where I’d . . . no, it didn’t feel like that. This was different, duller, but no less forceful when it came to discomfort. I tried to vanish. . . .

  Nothing.

  The effort left me shivering. Well, that was some kind of movement. But I was sicker than before. Overwhelmingly so. I lost track of time again, finding it I don’t know how long later when the wagon gave an especially sharp jolt.

  This waking was a little better than the others. I knew what had happened to me, but still not why or . . . .

  Where were we?

  Couldn’t see anything but the sky and skeletal branches when we passed under an occasional tree growing by the road. Couldn’t tell if we were even on the same road. If we were, then I was being taken to Suffolk County. Despite the presence of all the troops, the place was crawling with rebels, absolutely the last spot on earth one of His Majesty’s loyal subjects would want to be. I couldn’t think of a worse place, unless it was in the middle of General Washington’s camp.

  Raving. Get hold of yourself.

  Not raving. Righteously terrified.

  Get hold of yourself anyway.

  Unable to move my head yet, I couldn’t see much of the others. The first reckless feeling of victory had passed and now they huddled against one another, feeling the cold. No one spoke or paid notice to me. Only one face was visible, familiar, but still a stranger. I’d seen him . . . at The Oak . . . one of the other patrons.

  Not that that was much help. I stared hard at him for any useful clue or memory.

  He ignored me and remained silent. Who were the others?

  They were also strangers to me and I to them, else they wouldn’t have had to be so sure of my name before attacking.

  Why? What had I done? Why should these strangers . . . . Oh, God.

  Now I did become sick. The pool in the back of my mouth filled and thickened into a foul mass. My guts went watery as the realization seized me like a giant’s hand. A nasty, bubbling sound issued from my throat like a death rattle. I shut my eyes tight and let the first wave of panic rush over and drown my thoughts. Fighting it wouldn’t have done any good; better to let the body finish with its reactions, then let the mind take charge.

  The wave passed. Slowly. It left me weak and worried, but not utterly frozen with terror. I swallowed and was surprised that the bile went down. And stayed there.

  Better. I felt marginally better. The pain was less crippling than before. I could move my fingers; that was something.

  I had also, with this small recovery, grown angry. Instead of the burning heat or frosty chill running over my skin, it was warming. Comforting, like the taste of blood.

  Blood . . . . I could smell it. My own, of course. There was a cold patch on my head where the skin must have broken and bled when that fool had smashed my skull. God, they might have killed me with that blow, though maybe it wasn’t as bad as I . . . no. It was bad. Bad enough as I found when I tried to move more than my fingers.

  “ ’E’s come ’round,” said one of the men, having noticed my feeble attempts to master my body again.

  “Just keep ’im quiet,” said Ash.

  “Drummond got ’im good. Thumped ’is ’ead like a summer melon.

  “ ’E ain’t goin’ to make no trouble.”

  The big fellow closest to me laughed at the compliment. Drummond. He would pay dearly for this, I promised.

  “When do we get there?” whined another man from the back.

  “Soon, Tully,” came the weary reply. From that brief intonation I got the impression that Tully whined rather a lot.

  “It’s been hours. I’m freezin’ sittin’ ’ere like this.”

  “Then get out and walk.”

  The suggestion was not received well, but it shut Tully up for the time being.

  Arms. I could shift my arms a little. Legs, too, after a moment of concentration. Didn’t want to try vanishing just yet. Too weak. Better to wait.

  As some of the pain receded, other discomforts cried out for attention, like the ride itself. I was on the unprotected wood floor of the wagon and its hard, harsh surface bumped and jolted me with every uneven turn of the wheels. No wonder I was so sick. My head was bad enough, but combine that with the motion of our travel . . . ugh.

  I gulped again and tried to think of something else.

  Like the cold. Apart with the other discomforts, I began to feel its bite. Even the warmt
h derived from my anger wasn’t up to fighting it off now. The damnable wind clawed my exposed skin and slithered damp beneath my clothes. I wanted my heavy cloak back. Which one of the bastards had taken it? Couldn’t see him from this angle.

  I silently cursed them and prayed to God for an ending to our journey. Almost as though in answer Ash turned the horses to the left. The clouds spun overhead, and my gut lurched until I shut my eyes. The road became much worse, and I had to hold my teeth hard together to keep from crying out at the change. Pity I couldn’t have slept through it; I would rather have missed this part.

  We creaked to a halt and the men stiffly crawled from the back of the wagon. I had another instant of panic, thinking they’d leave me to die out in the cold until someone grabbed my ankles and pulled. All in all, I’d have preferred freezing to death to this. I was just able to lift my head to spare it from scraping over the worn boards, but that was the extent of my control. The same hands that had thrown me in now carried me out, this time with much grunting and complaint about my weight.

  I briefly saw the walls of a poor-looking house, then we squeezed through a door and there they sorted and settled themselves. A big grumbling man was sent to take care of the horses and wagon. I was hauled to a rough bed and dropped into it. The mattress was sparsely stuffed and so thin that I felt the supporting rope lattice beneath. My captors would get no objections from me; it was heavenly compared to the wagon. I was out of the wind and though the house was cold, it was not numbing.

  A wretched place it was, to be sure. It seemed to have but one room and the fireplace could have been larger. Tully got busy there with a tinderbox, muttering to himself while another man offered unwanted suggestions. A table teetered in the middle of the dusty floor, surrounded by a long bench and crude stools. Those things and the bed were the only furnishings. The walls were stripped of decoration or tools, indication that no one actually lived here. My guess was that these men had simply found the place and taken it over.

  Ash found more success with his tinderbox and lighted two lamps. He brought one over to have a better look at me. I took the opportunity to have a better look at him. I’d want to remember his face, all their faces. His was hardened by both the weather and a difficult life and possibly an even more difficult temperament. He grinned down with an evil satisfaction that might have been comical but for the grimness of my situation. I did not find him remotely amusing.