Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (26 page)

* * *

The storm passed.

Eventually.

My temper was not such as to leave me in the depths for long. Sooner or later we must all emerge and deal with mundane practicalities.

I wiped at my nose and swollen eyes with the lower edge of my shirt. They’d dressed me in my best Sunday clothes. I’d even been given a proper shave. Poor Jericho would have had to do it. I swayed where I sat, nearly plunging into the darkness again by thinking of how he must have felt.

Later. I would worry about it later.

Levering stiffly to my feet, I kicked away the shroud and brushed at the earth clinging to my breeches.

What next?

Go home, of course.

It seemed a good idea. Then it soured. They thought me dead. I’d terrify them. What would they think? How could I possibly explain myself? How could I explain Nora?

How—I looked at the undisturbed mound of my grave—in God’s name had I escaped
that
? The flat marks where the spades had tamped the dirt down were still there, blurred a little where I’d rolled off. There were footprints all around, men’s and women’s. I had no difficulty imagining the mourners standing by it, listening to the service being read and weeping through the words.
They
were the real ghosts of this place, the living, with their grief twining about the low stones like sea mist. The dead were at peace; it was the ones they left behind who suffered.

Where did that leave me, who was neither alive nor dead?

Later. I would think on it later.

My bones felt leaden; I was worn out by sheer emotion yet questions continued to pop into my head. I ignored them and trudged out of the churchyard. One foot before the other for a time, then I could rest. A little sleep in my own bed and I’d sort it all out for the others in the morning.

God, what would I
tell
them?

Later. Later. Later.

Forsaking thought, I walked and let my senses drift. The road dust kicked up by my steps, the night insects at song, wind rustling the trees, these were most welcome distractions. Normal. Undemanding.

“’Oo’s there?!”

The intrusion of a human voice jerked me back to myself.

“Speak up! I’ve a pistol on ye.” Despite the man’s bold declaration, there was a decided quaver in his tone.

“Is that you, Mr. Nutting?” I called back. Something like relief flooded me as I recognized Mervin Nutting, the sexton. He was sheltered beneath the thick shadow of a tree, but I had no trouble spotting him. The puzzlement was that he could not see me standing not fifteen yards away in the middle of the road.

“’Oo are ye?” he demanded, squinting right at me, then moving blindly on. He held a pistol, and his hand shook. “Stand forth and declare yerself!”

“I’m right—” Oh, dear. Perhaps this was not such a good idea after all: confronting the man who had most likely dug my grave and filled it in again. My mouth snapped shut.

“Come on! Show yerself!”

I backed away a step. Quietly. Took another. My shoe crunched against a stone. Nutting swung in my direction with his pistol. He looked terrified, but determined. His clothing—what he wore of it—suggested that he’d recently been roused from bed. His house was close to the church; he must have heard my ravings and come to investigate. No wonder he was so fearful.

“Come on!”

Not this time
, I thought, moving more carefully. Better to leave him with a mystery and to speculate at The Oak about hauntings than to reveal the truth and frighten him to death.

“Vat is it, Herr Nutting?” A second man came up behind him, shrugging on a Hessian uniform coat while trying to keep hold of his lantern. He must have been quartered at Nutting’s house.

“Thieves or worse,” was the reply. “Hold it high, man, so we can see.” He joggled the Hessian’s arm.

“
Vorsicht! Das Feuer!
” the soldier yelped, worried about dropping it.

The lantern may have helped them, but I perceived no real difference for myself. It was like a candle against full daylight. My eyes were used to the dark by now, but surely my vision should not be as clear as this.

Emboldened by having company, Nutting advanced them onto the road. I saw every detail of their faces, even the colors in their clothes; in turn, they were limited to the radius of their feeble lamplight. I kept backing away, but was unable to judge the right distance to avoid its most outside reach.

“
There!
” the Hessian cried. He pointed straight at me.

Whether Nutting understood German or not was debatable, but he got the idea and brought his pistol to bear. He shouted an order. Or started to. I didn’t wait for him to finish and pelted down the road faster than I’d ever run before. The pistol roared behind me and I nearly fell flinching from it, terrified of being hit.

Thank God Nutting was better at disposing of ale than shooting straight, and his companion was thankfully unwilling to proceed without more arms. I gained distance. Far behind, but still visible to me, they shouted for me to return. A most foolish request.

Well, that had woken me right up. I slowed to a walk, albeit a quick one. I was not breathing hard. Good God in heaven, I wasn’t breathing at all.

I groaned at the reminder.

What was to become of me?

All the questions returned, full force, and I had no answers. Time would take care of most, no doubt, but the encounter with Nutting made me realize what awaited when I got home. Not that I’d be facing another pistol, but my return from the dead would certainly inspire the most dreadful fear at first. Was I ready to do that to them? Would it not be better to . . .

I didn’t care. I
needed
them. They . . . they’d just have to hear me out. That was all there was too it.

The last mile home is always the longest, and I fearfully tired. My eyes hurt. I’d ask Beldon to look at them and prescribe some drops to soothe things. Heavens, but it would be good to see even Beldon the toad-eater again. How dreadful he had looked that last time. He had so desperately tried to help me, the poor fellow.

The sun would be up soon. My eyes burned like coals from the growing brightness. This sensitivity was not normal. Common sense suggested that it would be better to avoid true daylight when it came, at least until I got used to it.

Nora. She
NEVER
came out during the day
.

She’d slept—slept the day through however long the seasons made it. It had been her one unbreakable rule. We’d almost had an argument about it once. We’d gone to a party that had lasted all night. I wanted to watch the sunrise with her and she’d flatly refused, insisting on going home once she’d realized the time. I’d been stung by this, offended that she couldn’t give up an hour of sleep for me, but she’d talked to me in that way of hers until it ceased to matter.

I’d forgotten that until now. She’d made me lose so much. Every memory that returned possessed both comfort and pain and no small measure of unease. I’d accepted—or had been made to accept—her differences from other people as eccentricities, but a serious purpose must lay behind each. It was to my best interest to imitate her.

I needed shelter from the sun, then, and soon. Even now I had to shade my eyes against the glare stealing above the horizon. It was much worse than during my morning ride with Beldon yesterday.

Had that only been yesterday? Or today? Had I been truly alive just this morning? How long had I been in the—

Later
, I said firmly.

The house was too far away to reach in time; I’d have to settle for the most distant of our outbuildings, an old unused barn. It had once been the property’s main barn and close by had stood the original house. That had burned down decades earlier and the remaining stone foundation and chimney had become a childhood playground. We’d been forbidden to go into the barn, but had explored it anyway. Children either have no concept of mortality, or honestly believe they will live forever. We’d come to no harm, though I later shuddered at the risks we blithely took then. The place had been filled with discards and old lumber, rats and snakes.

The doors were gone, but I’d expected that. Dodging a growth of ivy that had taken over the walls, I walked in, cautious of where I put my feet. The trash I remembered had long ago been hauled away and probably burned. Just as well. The stone floor was still in good condition, though clumps of grass and weeds grew in cracks near the entry as far as the sun reached in. They would serve as a guide to judge where the deepest shade might be found. It was noticeably darker inside despite the gaps in the high roof. Birds and other small animals had found refuge here. Hopefully, I would be safe until my eyes adjusted.

Outside the light grew unbearably bright. Perhaps I was unrealistically optimistic about being able to shortly leave. I fled to the most protected part of the place, a horse stall in a far corner. The brick walls were high; what must have been a dark and cheerless spot for the former occupant offered a unique comfort to me.

“But I want to go home,” I whispered, peering over the wall. I had to shield my eyes with my arm. The light was utterly blinding.

My limbs stiffened. No pain, but they became horribly difficult to move. So much had happened; the fatigue must be catching me up. Rest. After a little rest I would feel better.

I was reluctant to sit. The floor was filthy with dust and other rubbish I preferred not to think about, but no other choice presented itself. My legs folded on their own. My knees struck with a jarring double crack. I pitched over and landed on my side. My thoughts were as stiff and sluggish as my bones. I felt no fear. I’d had a surfeit of it in the last few hours and could produce no more.

Dragged down by the natural pull of gravity, I rolled flat on my back. My eyes slammed shut on their own. The world may have spun on about its business with a fresh new day, but I was not to be a part of it.

* * *

Hardly an instant later my eyes opened again.

I lay as I’d fallen, but this awakening was far superior to the last one. My mind smoothly picked up its previous thread of though as though I’d only blinked rather than dropped unconscious to the floor. I felt alert and ready to deal with whatever the dawn brought. Fluidity returned to my limbs. I easily stood to take note of my surroundings.

Changes had taken place. Important ones.

Though the strength of the outside light was about the same as before, it now fell from a different direction. The west.

By God, I’d slept the whole day away. How could that have happened?

Things were yet painfully bright, but gradually dimming to a more comfortable level with each minute as the last of the sun’s glow retreated. Soon it would be fully dark—at least for other people. For me, well, at least I should be able to avoid accidentally running into anyone out for a late walk on my way—

Home. I desperately wanted to be
home
.

Supper was over by now. They’d be in the drawing room: Mother and her guests to play cards, Father to read, Elizabeth at her spinet. Perhaps not. The house was in mourning, after all. My heart ached for them and for myself. I would hurry. Once there I would somehow find the right words.

Futilely, I brushed at my clothes. As if how I looked would matter to Father and Elizabeth when they saw me. I couldn’t wait to see their faces, all of them; once over the shock it would be better than Christmas. I’d ask Mrs. Nooth about food first thing, because I felt quite starved for . . . heavens, I was too hungry to know what I wanted to eat, though doubtless anything left from the last meal would suit just fine.

Swiftly, I marched from the barn and down the overgrown path leading to the road. The lack of food had me somewhat weak in body, but strangely sharp in mind. The strength of last night’s terrors and doubts and worries had faded. I even found myself smiling about the encounter with Mr. Nutting. He’d gotten a bad fright, though; I’d make it up to him at The Oak later, the Hessian, too, if he liked ale. I’d be the talk of the county, the Lazarus of Long Island.

My confidence faltered. I’d been shot in the heart. This was no case of a cataleptic fit leading to a premature burial. I had indeed died, been miraculously healed, and somehow escaped my grave without disturbing the earth over it.

How would the congregation of the church receive this particular resurrection? Even the most well-educated and reasonable among them could be reduced to a superstitious dread. The common folk I hardly dared consider. Would I be viewed as a heavenly miracle or an infernal mockery?

Later
, I reminded myself once more and kept going.

Had they caught Roddy Finch? I’d been so occupied with my own immediate sorrows that I’d had no thought to spare for the man who had . . . killed me. No thought to spare and, until now, no anger. Murderers were hanged and rightly so, though in this case there was sufficient mitigation to prevent it. You can’t hang a man for murder if the victim turns up to call things off, but the pimply-faced bastard would pay for this if I had to flog him myself. I was definitely prepared to do it as my anger was not just for me but for the awful grief he’d caused my poor family.

On the other hand, he would hang anyway, for the horses he’d stolen back from the Crown.

My mind started to spin at the complications. I’d have to talk with Father, sort it all out with him. Later.

Less than a mile from my gate, I became conscious of a wagon rattling up the road behind. I saw it long before the driver could see me and debated whether or not to take cover until it passed. Sooner or later the news would spread of my return so I supposed it would make no difference to wait for him. Besides, he might be obliging enough to give me a ride. My feet dragged as my empty belly snarled to life. I consoled myself that soon Mrs. Nooth would ease things with her excellent cooking.

The driver was a stranger, though obviously a farmer or worked for one. I waited until certain the lighted lamps hanging from his wagon had picked me up from the general darkness, then gave him a friendly hail. He was startled, for the times were unsettled and a man out after sundown was subject to justifiable suspicion.