Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (139 page)

It could not and did not last long, but I needed only a moment or two.

Encroaching upon my respite was the need for haste. Some intuition within told me I had to get moving. Clarinda had a plot to acquire the money she wanted, and I had to stop her before she could carry it out, whatever it might be.

Even as I reluctantly straightened, I felt the fresh blood had revived more than just my body. Plans for what to do popped into my head, demanding attention. I’d have to find Rolly—heavens, I’d have to find the servants here, if any were left. Surely not all had been bribed into betrayal. . . .

Dear God, I’d have to find
Edmond.
What had they done to him?

The anger that braced me up, anger for Clarinda and the others, flared to life once again. It burned bright and hot, closer than my own skin. In time, I’d hunt down and deal with the lot of them, this I promised myself.

I’d start with a search of the house and gather allies and information.

Those cries I’d heard must have been from two of the maids. Locked up somewhere, and no doubt terrified. There had to be others as well, but before looking for them I’d have to clean myself, having not been particularly tidy in my feeding this time. Appearance would have to take precedence over all else for the moment. The drying smears of blood around my mouth would alarm the servants far more than their imprisonment.

I quit the stables and went straight to the low rectangular structure in the yard that marked the well. The shape of the thing was disturbingly like a grave, being two yards long and over a yard wide. Its brick sides rose about a foot past the ground, the opening neatly covered by six-inch-thick oak timbers. A square cut into their middle was covered by a stout plank lid fitted with a lifting knob and simple latch lock. Fixed above was a sturdy winch and rope mechanism and the cranking handle, polished smooth by frequent use.

The lid had been left pushed up and open, with the bucket already at the bottom, which was odd, not to mention dangerous, but that would save me from having to do the work. I put a hand to the crank and gave it a turn. It moved but a little way, then mysteriously stopped. The crank was free of obstructions; perhaps the rope or bucket had gotten tangled on something. I caught the rope and tugged. It gave but grudgingly. I pulled hard, and it came up a few inches then sank again when the weight at the other end became too much. Far below I heard a soft splash . . . and a voice . . . a faint, faint voice?

Someone’s bound to sniff him out after the spring thaw. We’d put you in the same spot, but that would look just a little too suspicious. Once is an accident, but twice. . . .

Unbidden, Summerhill’s words ripped through my brain; gooseflesh erupted over my body. Oh, my God,
what
had those beasts done?

Bending dangerously over the edge of the opening I bawled Edmond’s name into the blackness. I could see nothing inside. The natural light from the sky was blocked by my
own form and hindered by the depth of the shaft. I
thought
I
heard a reply, but it could have been my own echoes. Hope and horror seized me. I stood and stared wildly about the yard and toward the house. Help might be there, but I couldn’t take the time to go looking for it. Could I do something myself? Possibly. But—and I shrank from the thought—could I even bring myself to
try?

The inky square of the opening looked like a gaping mouth, seeming to eat all the ambient light. My acquired fear of little dark places came roaring up in my mind like a storm, paralyzing me with its thunderous force. Waking in a buried coffin seemed but a triviality compared to descent into this hellhole. Here was a place where darkness was conceived, born, lived, and thrived, devouring everything that came near it. Though fully aware that little could ever really hurt me, imagination was the great enemy here, striking hard at my weakness. The reproachful awareness of my own vast abilities made the weakness even worse. I was a hopeless coward, dooming my poor cousin to a hideous death because I was too white-livered to—

Enough,
Johnny-boy. Stop whining and just
get on with it.

I allowed myself one uncurbed sob of pure shuddering terror, then brutally pushed it away. It rolled into a ball of ice somewhere between my throat and belly and held in place, trembling, but out of the way.

My mind was clear. Now, what to do?

The winch mechanism presented an obvious solution. Quickly I created slack by letting out the rope to the end of its length, praying this would work. Making myself go nearly transparent, I floated up over the short wall, and drifted inside the black mouth.

The wind ceased. My sight, ever limited in this form, perceived nothing but darkness unless I looked up. The square opening above became uncomfortably small. Every foot I went down was worse than the last, but I forced myself on. If Edmond was here and alive, his need far outweighed my childish dreads.

I moved blindly. My ghostly hands could just sense the impression of the bricks lining the walls and the rope in front of me. Then I was aware of the water immediately below. I reached toward it, trying to find him. Heart in my mouth, I had the sudden hope that he wasn’t here at all, that I’d made a hasty conclusion based on an error, that I could leave this awful place and. . . .

An object. Large. Bobbing heavily in the water.

And, unmistakably now, someone’s faint moan.

I caught at the rope without thinking. My hand passed through it. Damnation. There was no way around it; I’d have to go in, too, to get to him. Making myself more solid, I sank ever lower. First my feet touched the water, then did it creep up my legs and waist like grim death. Free flowing streams were a problem for me, but this tamer stuff was still perversely malignant. With cold. With excruciating, mind-numbing, body-killing
cold
.

Completely solid, my weight bore me right into it—and briefly under. Black on black, freezing, smothering, it closed over me, shutting out everything. Disoriented, I lashed out wildly to find the surface, cracking a hand against a slimed wall. It hurt, but the pain jarred me out of the impending hysteria. I
forced
myself to hold still until natural buoyancy made me sure of my direction. A push, then my head broke free of the water. I spat and blew the stuff from my nose and mouth, sucking in cold, dank air I did not need, but instinct drove here, not intellect. Indeed, I was hard-pressed to maintain a solid form under these conditions and had to fight the impulse to vanish and escape.

Kicking to keep afloat, I cast frantically about for the rope, blessed link to the world above. My hands slapped instead against sodden material. My fingers closed on I know not what.

“Edmond?”

No reply.

If I could only
see.
I felt around, then unexpectedly touched flesh. It was his hand, and it was holding hard to the only other thing floating in this pit, the wooden bucket. There was no warmth to him, but that meant little in a place like this. Tracing up his arm, I found his face. It was above water, but only just. With the splashing and distorting echoes I couldn’t discern anything as subtle as his heartbeat or breathing. The moan I’d heard was proof enough of lingering life, though.

Trying not to disturb his grip on the bucket, I found its handle, then the chain on the handle, then the rope tied to the chain. The slack was around me, but drifting and dangerous if it should twist about us in the wrong way.

I drew rope through my grasp like a fat thread through a needle until I came to the knots that tied it to the bucket’s chain. Fumbling badly from the cold and fright, I got my folding penknife from its usual pocket, clutching it hard lest I drop it. Carefully, with rapidly deadening fingers, I opened it, made a loop in the rope and began sawing desperately away with the blade. The soaked fibers were thick, tough, and I was uncertain about the sharpness of my tool. But just as frustration set in and I began to think my teeth would do a better job, the thing finally parted.

Cramming the open knife back into a pocket, I crowded close to Edmond. Another loop, larger, this time threading the rope under his arms and around his back. Not easy, he kept drifting away, and all the time I was trying to keep both our heads above water. Though in no danger for lack of air, I’d be damned before I let that blackness close over again.

I made knots centered over his chest, talking to him, babbling waterlogged assurances that everything would be all right and not to worry and God knows what other nonsense. It was more for my benefit than his. He made no sound or response; I still couldn’t see a damned thing and rapidly losing my sense of touch.

One last knot. Time and past time to leave. With a singular lack of control I disappeared completely and shot up from the well like a ball hurtling from a pistol barrel. The little protective roof was in my way, and I sieved right through before regaining command of myself. In too much a hurry to be vexed, I touched upon the earth and went solid again.

Water running from my clothes, I put both hands on the well crank and began turning. Easy at first as it took up all the slack, it halted as Edmond’s weight became part of the load. I prayed the thing would support him and put my back into the work. Round and round, the wood creaking, the rope coiling about the dowel and my heart in my mouth, I pulled him slowly up, trying not to think of all the things that could go wrong.

Then from the square of darkness his head emerged. It lolled backward, jaw sagging; there was a nasty-looking graze seeping red along one side of his scalp. I gave another turn on the crank until his shoulders were visible. He swung to and fro ponderously, a man on a gibbet. Not trusting the ratchet pawl to hold, I reached across with one hand while bracing the crank with the other as he swung toward me again. I snaked my arm under his and around his chest, then let go of the crank. He abruptly slumped away, threatening to drop back in. I got my other arm around him in time and
pulled.

It was a hard hauling. He was a big bear of a man, wet right through, and utterly motionless. His clothes snagged on the sides of the opening. I heaved him as high as I could and finally lugged him past the edge. He’d have scrapes and bruises—if he lived. I lay him flat on the cold ground and pressed an ear against his chest. For a terrible moment I heard nothing, then nearly crowed with relief when a near-indistinct
thump
announced he was still on this side of the veil.

Determined to keep him here, I slapped his white face, shouting at him to wake up. He was past responding, though, and not like to do so soon unless I got him out of this winter air and inside next to a fire. More lifting and dragging, this time toward what I hoped was the scullery door. Cursing like a heathen, I had to stop once to find the knife again and cut him free of the rope. It had played out like a leash and we’d reached its limit.

The door did turn out to be the scullery entry and had been left unlocked. Clarinda and the others must have come this way to get to the carriage house. That simplified things. I pulled Edmond up the step and inside, bulling through to the kitchen, the warmest room in the house owing to the need for a constant fire. I blundered inside with my sodden burden, for once was glad to have the stink of cooked food assaulting my senses.

The fire was little more than a mass of glowing coals, but easily remedied. I lay Edmond on the warm stones of the hearth and threw on fresh dry kindling, knocking over the fire tongs and other things in my shivering haste.

The noise attracted notice. I heard a sudden loud banging and a chorus of calls for help coming from behind a solid-looking bolted door.

Edmond’s missing servants.

* * *

It’s amazing how much calamity can be turned about in a quarter hour’s time. And what a wonderful, luxuriously wonderful relief it is to turn one’s cares over to others and let them deal with the work.

Most of Edmond’s people had been locked up in one of the pantries, except for two women who were found shut away in an upstairs cupboard. Fortunately, the pantry door had been bolted, not locked with a key, so I soon had everyone out, blinking in the growing firelight after being in the dark, and asking a hundred questions at once. All were agitated in one form or another from red-faced anger to teary-eyed fear, but were otherwise no worse for wear. I determined a middle-aged woman named Kellway was in charge, told her who I was, and after one glimpse at her master’s desperate condition she forgot about her own difficulties. She instantly set things in motion, shouting orders for brandy, bandaging, blankets, and hot water, sending people scurrying in every direction.

Evicting all female members of her staff but herself from the kitchen, she commanded two of the footmen to strip off Edmond’s wet clothes. By the time things reached the point where she would be forced to leave as well the blankets arrived, preserving decorum. She made me strip down, also, which I did not mind, and questioned me closely over what had happened, which I did mind. It worried me at how easily I took to lying and improvisation when forced to by the demands of an uncomfortable situation. Hardly honorable, but necessary.

Wrapped in dry blankets and with a perfectly smooth face I told of my appointment with Edmond and of being surprised by Summerhill and knocked unconscious.

“I woke up lying on the ground next to the well. In want of water to ease my injury, I tried to draw some, then discovered Mr. Fonteyn was inside.”

A general murmur of dismay went around.

“He’d tied the rope about himself to stay afloat, so I managed to haul him up. The poor man collapsed as I got him out.”

This inspired a general murmur of approval. Considering my cowardly delay in getting started, I did not allow myself to bask in their admiration.

“But how did you get so wet, sir?” one of them asked, having observed my own drenched and half frozen condition. I’d been too thoroughly saturated for them to think I’d gotten in such a state merely from dragging Edmond around. At least the immersion had cleaned all the blood from my face.