Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (103 page)

He continued to wait, though. Perhaps he was a footpad, after all, or some highwayman sheltering behind the gates, hoping for a late traveler on the road outside to prey upon. I worked the catch on my cane, readying to draw forth its hidden blade. There’s nothing like a yard of Spanish steel for discouraging a man from breaking the law, unless it’s a six-shot flintlock revolver by Powell of Dublin. Unfortunately, I’d left that most useful weapon at Oliver’s house in the mistaken belief I would not need it while attending a funeral.

The intruder had not moved yet. I was nearly to the gate, close enough so that even ordinary eyes could see him. As it seemed pointless to extend the fraud of being ignorant of his presence, I slowed and stopped, looking right at him.

“Who are you, sir, and what business have you to be here?” I demanded, half-expecting him to run at my hail.

He made no reply.

His lower face was covered by the wide scarf wrapped ’round his head and hat; the brim of the hat was pushed well forward to further obscure things.

“I’m addressing you, sir. I expect an answer.” I stepped toward him and pulled the blade free of the cane.

That
got a reaction. He slipped away suddenly, moving to my right, where the trees offered a greater darkness to hide in. Because of the wind battering my ears, I couldn’t hear his progress, so he seemed to glide along fast in preternatural silence. Well, he wasn’t the only one who could show a bit of heel. I hurried after, almost catching him up until he reached a particularly fat tree and darted sideways. It was a feint, though. Instead of waiting to ambush me from there, he sprinted ahead, perhaps thinking its intervening trunk would conceal his progress. All it did was speed me up. I lengthened my stride, blurring past the tree—

And on the edge of vision glimpsed something scything down in a fearful rush.

Instinct made me throw my right arm high to shield my head. The thing, whatever it was, crashed solidly into my forearm, sending a shock through my whole body. My headlong pursuit immediately ceased as I dropped straight to the frozen earth like a block of stone.

I was aware of a terrible pain along my arm, as if a giant had seized me there and pinched it between finger and thumb. The agonizing pressure changed to an agonizing burning so great that the force of it left me immobile for several terrible moments. I could see and hear nothing, taste and smell nothing; the only sense I had was for the grinding torment that had fastened itself to my flesh.

What had they done to me?

They. On the dim borders of the mind between sense and nonsense, I was aware of two of them. Footpads or grave robbers, it mattered not. Whoever struck me might do so again. The panicked thought whipped through my mind.

Helpless. I was utterly
helpless.

I must get
away . . .
vanish . . . .

But the pain continued, and I lay there quite horribly solid.

Couldn’t move. Whatever the damage, it must be appalling to paralyze me like this. As bad as I’d ever known before. Worse than the time I’d broken my arm or when that bastard Drummond cracked my skull like a ripe melon.

I tried again to take myself out of the world, seeking near-instant healing, and damnation to whoever saw. This effort made the burning hotter than it already was, as if someone had stabbed a fiery brand into my arm. I instantly ceased trying and cursed instead.

“He’s alive,” a man above me said.

“Good,” said another a little breathlessly. The one I’d been chasing apparently.

Bloodsmell. My own.

It was all over me.

Ice danced with the fire as the wind struck the red outflow of my life, chilling it. The simple knowledge that I must have been bleeding freely was enough to raise another panic-inspired attempt to vanish.

Another flare of pain. I stopped and cursed again.

“How does it
feel
Mr. Barrett?” the breathless man taunted. “That’s more than a scratch from the look of it. You’ll not jump up so quick this time, I’m sure.”

I knew his voice now. Thomas Ridley.

“He’ll bleed to death,” his companion pointed out. Arthur Tyne.

“He’s going to die one way or another, but I’d rather it be me that dispatches him.”

Sweet God.

I was on my left side, exactly as I’d fallen. I saw their boots and little else. Couldn’t really move. Not at all. Just softly curse.

“Listen to him whine,” said Ridley, enjoying himself.

“You would, too, with something like that in you.”

“Then pull it free and see what other noise he makes.”

“We don’t want to wake anyone, Tom.”

“Who’s to hear? The house is far enough and closed fast for the night. Come and do it.”

Arthur bent and worked at something, and I madly thought he was tearing my arm from its socket. The fire plaguing me before were cold ashes compared to this. I couldn’t help but cry out. The sound itself was frightening, as though it had come from someone else. I did not know my own voice.

Ridley laughed, giggling like a young child over an evil and forbidden amusement.

No breath remained in me to curse. I could only lie inert despite the feeling that my arm had been thrust into a furnace.

“I think I’ve killed him,” said Arthur. He did not seem unduly worried over the possibility.

Ridley crouched next to me, turning me over. He was still swathed in his disguising scarf and cloak; the latter had slipped open enough to reveal his right arm in a sling. He moved carefully so as not to jar it. He put his left hand on my chest, but withdrew it when he saw me glaring at him, very much alive.

“Not yet,” he said, grinning. “He’ll last a bit longer, I think. Though I’ll lay good odds he’ll wish otherwise. Here’s a pretty souvenir.” He reached over to pick up my blade and scabbard.

“You won’t want to keep that. Someone’ll know it.”

“I’m not planning to keep it, but I’ll put it to good use.” He rose slowly. “Stand him up and let’s get on from here.”

Stand?
He must have been mad.

“Right, take this, then.” Arthur gave Ridley a sword he’d been holding. Not an ordinary dueler, but a heavy cavalry blade. Blood was all along its curved edge. My blood. My God, he’d hit me with
that?
It should have taken my arm right off. Maybe it would have, too, had I been an ordinary man.

Arthur was a strong lad. He had no trouble shifting me around like a sack of grain to hook my left arm ’round his shoulders. It didn’t matter to him whether I could walk or not, he’d drag me along regardless. As he hauled me upright, agony blasted through my body again. I bit out a grunt of protest, which was ignored.

With a heave, he boosted himself straight, taking me with him. The sudden shift from lying down to fully upright had its effect. My vision flickered, then faded altogether. For an instant I thought myself to be vanishing, but the feel of it was different this time. There was no ease from the pain, no continuation of thought. The world, all sense of it, of everything . . . simply ceased to be.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Too soon, the god-awful agony in my arm tore me from the comfort of unconsciousness.

I woke aware only of the hurt, lying on something hard and brutally cold. With no understanding of what had happened, I moved not a muscle. It seemed . . . safer.

Some battered portion of my mind that was not wholly consumed by the distraction of pain whimpered, feebly protesting something I was unable to comprehend.

It was afraid.

Things had gotten bad. They could get worse.

They will get worse. That’s why you’re afraid.

The thought seemed to take weight and size in my skull. I didn’t want it there, but hadn’t the strength to get rid of it. No other thoughts could raise themselves against it.

You have to get up. You must get away.

But I was hurt. I could not move. To move meant more pain.

To not move means death.

Very well, but something small first. Like opening my eyes.

High overhead, thick with shadows, stretched a broad slice of marble ceiling. Walls of the same pale stone seemed to rush straight toward me.

The hard and cold thing I lay upon . . . also marble, but not part of the floor; I was somewhat higher, as if floating above it. Where . . . ?

The
mausoleum?
How had I come to be here? They’d taken me . . . one of them had . . . .

First I’d been hurt, then helped—no, not right. One of them had struck me . . . .

Struck my arm. Struck to maim, kill.

The whimpering within increased, became a full-throated howl of terror, its echoes battering upon my inner ear.

Ridley and Arthur.

There, I’d put names to the dread shapes that had attacked, had taken me to his house of death.

They weren’t here. That was good.

I was quite alone.

And . . . lying on Grandfather Fonteyn’s sarcophagus.

Already frightened and not thinking rationally, I lurched up, instantly regretting the action. The fire in my arm blazed anew, and the top of my head felt as though it was coming off. I fell back the way I’d been, breathless, though I had no need of air.

Lying quietly did not aggravate the hurts, so I did that and tried to reason away the superstitious terror that had seized me. After all, the silent residents here were long past doing harm to anyone. It had just been a shock to realize I was on the old devil’s last resting place. It’s one thing to dance on it when one is in control, and very much another to waken on so harsh a bed, injured and frightened and trying understand what is going on.

I listened and watched, wanting to find some understanding. Ridley and Arthur, if they were still nearby, were out of sight of the mausoleum door and either keeping quiet or too far away to be heard. Nothing outside the structure moved, except the wind shivering against the trees. I hated the sound, the loneliness of it, as though God had abandoned us and the dead together forever in this bleak spot.

Steady, Johnny-boy. No need for that, you’re scared enough.

Right. Back to the problem at hand.

That Ridley was determined to avenge himself for the humiliation of losing the duel was obvious. He’d recruited a cousin to be his ally; for all I knew Arthur might even have been one of the Mohocks who had plagued me on my first night in London. I hadn’t seen their faces—

Oh, bother that. I wanted refuge. Healing. Mine, if I could but
vanish.

Cursing myself for a dolt for not thinking of it sooner, I tried to summon the gray nothingness. Why had it not helped before? Had that been an illusion? I should have shot straight into it ages ago.

This was not the swift, effortless leaving to which I was accustomed, but an imperfect and prolonged striving. My vision clouded, slowly, and did not quite depart, which meant that
I
did not quite depart.

Raising my left hand to judge my progress, I saw that it was only partially transparent and, no matter how hard I tried, stubbornly remained in that halfway state. Disturbed, I ceased and became solid again.

Much too solid. My poor body seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. I was as weak as an infant. My guts felt as if they’d been scraped out, jumbled, and dropped carelessly back, not quite into place. For several bad moments I thought I might faint once more.

Lie still, still, still. Let it pass.

Thus did I obey the soft dictate of instinct, not that I was able to ignore it.

Bit by bit, my strength returned, a ghost of it, anyway
.
At least I was able to move a little and not lie flaccid as a corpse.

Ugh. Shouldn’t think of such things.

Must have been my surroundings.

For all this, my arm . . . was improved. The furnace still raged, still seared my flesh, but its heat was focused on a single area rather than the whole limb. Healing had begun.

Cautiously I lifted up on my left elbow to take a look at myself. The right sleeve of my coat had been cut through; it and much of the rest of my clothing on that side was soaked with blood. I’d lost a terrifying amount of it. No wonder I was so wretchedly enervated.

And with that knowledge came the
hunger.

Now it awakened and surged, washing over me, colder than sea spray. My mouth sagged with need. My corner teeth budded, lengthened, fixing themselves into place. I absolutely had to feed. Feed immediately.

But how? I barely had the strength to sit, much less walk, much less seek out food. But to lie here like a starving dog in the gutter—

No. Not for me. I had to get up and would. The hunger would not let me do otherwise. I had to supply myself or go mad from it.

Heaven help anyone who crossed my path.

I pushed stiffly at the freezing stone slab, twisting at the hips to drag my legs around. They dangled off the edge of the sarcophagus. I shifted again and dropped, jolting as my feet struck the floor.

Swaying. God, but I was
dizzy.

I slapped a hand on the stone, desperately trying to steady myself. Falling would only complicate things further, and I had enough difficult tasks to occupy me.

Like getting to the doorway. If I could get to the house . . . Elizabeth would know what to do.

One step, another, teetering like a drunk. Two more steps and I was at the door, left hand flailing to grab for its iron gate. I caught it just in time, saving myself from dropping on my face.

None of this activity made me feel better. I paused to get a look at the source of my agony. The coat sleeve gaped wide over a fearful wound. Arthur’s blade had cut through the thick part of my forearm right down to the bone. The flesh was well parted here, revealing details about the layers of skin and muscle that I would much rather not have known. I looked away, belly churning, ready to turn itself out.

At least I wasn’t bleeding. My body probably had nothing more to spare.

Cold. Colder than before. Cloak useless against it, for this was from the inside.

Then
move.

It was a quarter mile to the house . . . less than that to the stables. All the blood I’d ever need waited there. I had only to walk to get it.

Walk.

Or crawl. I would crawl if need be.

I pushed on the gate, following its outward swing. The hinges squawked.

“Here! What’s this?”

God have mercy. Arthur stood five paces away. I’d given him a start. Fair enough, for he’d done the same and more for me. I couldn’t budge. What would be the point? I was caught and too weak to fight or run.

“Thought you’d gone and died on us,” he said, hurrying close. “Not that it matters, but Tom’ll be more than pleased. Come along with you.”

He’d just as much said that we were alone. Well and good, though if we’d been in the middle of Covent Garden on a theater night, I’d not have been able to stop myself.

With a frightening burst of starvation-inspired strength I lunged at him, reaching, clutching, bringing him down.

Instinct is a strange thing. Much of the time we ignore it, but in select and extreme moments, it can completely take us over, driving us to do extraordinary things that we would never otherwise attempt. Had I been in my right mind I’d have known it to be impossible to tackle Arthur the way I did. Nor would I have been able to knock him senseless, rip away his neck cloth and tear into his throat as I did.

But I was
not
in my right mind.

I was hurt and hungry and terrified and desperate, and he was my enemy.

And his body
flowed
with life. Red deliverance.

The stuff crashed into my mouth, the first swallow gone before I was aware of the act. This was not a leisurely feeding for refreshment, but a frantic gorging for survival. I drank deeply, not tasting, aware of little else other than the overwhelming necessity to keep drinking until the hurt ended and the vast hollow within was filled.

I woke out of spell I know not how long later, but it came as quickly as I’d succumbed. One second I was a mindless thing of raw need and appetite, the next, a man again, suddenly realizing what I was doing.

Dear God, I was
killing
him.

I broke away. Blood on my lips. Blood seeping from the wounds in his throat.

Arthur was deathly white and still, but I put an ear to his chest and detected the fluttering of his heart. It beat too fast, I thought, but as long as he was yet alive . . .. In truth, I was less concerned with the prospect of his death than the possibility of my being blamed for it. Callous? Yes, but I placed a higher value on my skin than his, and it would have been a damned shame to hang at Tyburn for the likes of him.

I found my feet and stood, the horrible dizziness fading. The burning in my arm was less pronounced. I’d have looked to see how far the healing had progressed, but decided to spare myself. Instead, I shut my eyes, concentrated, and felt the glad lightness slipping ’round me like a soft blanket as I vanished.

No burning. No pain at all. I felt the tug of wind, nothing more. How tempting it would be to let it carry me away through the woods and far from this place and its problems. So wonderfully, sweetly tempting.

But not the best thing to do, especially for Arthur. Like it or not, I would have to take care of him, which meant resuming form again and deciding how best to go about dealing with this disaster.

The next time I felt the wind it seemed as solid as myself, catching my cloak as if to sweep it from my shoulders. I grabbed the ends and pulled them close.

Using both hands.

Now I braved a glance at my wound and found it to be no more than a thick red welt of a scar halfway circling my arm, which was sore to the touch but otherwise fine. Overall, I was extremely shaky. The blood had saved me, but much of its good had gone toward my healing. I’d want more before the night was out, and this time from a source that could spare it in abundance. A trip to the Fonteyn stables was in order, but before that I had to decide what to do about Arthur Tyne.

He’d freeze to death out here. He’d need warmth and care, though God knows what Oliver could do for him. I winced at the thought of Oliver, of having to try to explain this. Elizabeth would understand, but then she’d had longer to get used to certain facts about my condition.

Later. I’d worry on it later.

Had I been up to my full strength I could have carried him back to the house, but I was not, being hard pressed even to drag him into the paltry shelter of the mausoleum. As he’d done before with me, now did I lay him out on the sarcophagus. I noticed bloodstains on the marble from my occupation of the same spot and wondered if they might prove permanent, then concluded I didn’t really care to know.

I further noticed my hat, lost when Arthur had attacked me, was at the foot of the thing, along with someone’s sword and my own sword-stick. The former’s presence puzzled me, the latter I gladly repossessed. It was still in two pieces, which I remedied, slipping the blade into the stick and engaging the catch. I’d find a good use for it as a simple cane again, until I could bolster myself with more blood.

The wounds I’d made on Arthur’s neck had ceased bleeding, but his skin had taken on a bluish cast. Whether from the cold or the damage I’d inflicted by draining him mattered not; with a grimace, I stripped off my cloak and drew it over him. It would be only a quick walk to the house, and I could stand up to the chill better than he for that long. As an afterthought, I pulled his neck cloth back and more or less into place, thus ensuring a bit more protection as well as covering the evidence of my madness.

“I’ll be seeing you shortly,” I muttered to him and turned to leave.

And alas, did not get far. Only to the threshold, just in time to see Ridley hurrying down the path from Fonteyn House with another figure behind him. A woman. What the—?

I would have liked to quit the business then and there, to vanish and pass them by and let them find Arthur and do as they pleased, but tired as I was, I was also recklessly curious.

And angry. I’d paid Arthur back for my injury, but not Ridley, who had decoyed me into it.