Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (27 page)

“Who be ye?” he demanded, pulling on the reins. There was a long rifle propped next to him on the bench, and he seemed ready to reach for it.

“I’m Mr. Barrett, at your service, sir. I live near here.”

“Good e’en to ye,” he replied cautiously, looking me over. “Have a spot of trouble?”

I fought down the urge to laugh. “Yes, quite a lot of it. I suffered a fall and am trying to get home.” Close enough to the truth.

“Musta been a prodigious fall, young sir,” he said agreeably “I can give ye a ride if ye c’n tell me if’m on the right road to Glenbriar.”

“That you are, sir. And no more than a mile from my own gate.”

He took the hint. “Good, commun up, then.” He made room for me on the seat and I readily joined him. “Name’s Hulton. ’M on my way to sell goods to the soldiers.” He got the horses moving again. “Sun go down, but thought I’d push through.”

“You’re welcome to spend the night at my home. Or, if you stay on this road you’ll pass The Oak. They’ll put you up there right enough. I’d be careful about dealing with the commissaries, though.”

“They not payin’ good coin?”

“Even worse.” I explained in detail about the blank receipts and the theft of Finch’s property. Hulton took it all in with a stone face, then shook his head.

“’F that be how things stand, then I may as well go home ag’in as go on. Least ’f the rebels steal from me I c’n get the soldiers to hang ’em, but who’ll hang the soldiers?”

“The rebels, if they win,” I said.

His eye sharpened. “You one of ’em?”

“Good God, no. My family are all loyal to His Majesty, God bless him.”

“Amen,” he said, amused by my wholehearted sincerity. “Still, can’t ’ford to lose m’ goods to anyone, be they soldiers or rebels. This’ll take a bit of figgerin’. Can’t figger like this. Need grease for the wheels to turn, y’see.” He reached under the bench and pulled out a jug. Though one hand was busy with the reins, he expertly removed the cork and treated himself to a hearty. “Care for a bit? Best applejack on the Island. Make it m’self.”

I balanced my thirst against the ill effects drink would have on my empty stomach. The latter growled threateningly against the restraints of good sense. “Perhaps just a sip. . . .”

The stuff felt both warm and cold going down. I expected it to be unsettling and wasn’t disappointed. I also expected it to go straight to my head; instead, it roiled in my guts like too many fish crammed into a small bucket.

Hulton grinned, taking my expression as a compliment to his skill as a distiller.

I hiccupped. Rather badly. The applejack wanted to come back up again. Hand over my mouth, I apologized and explained that I hadn’t eaten all day.

“Shoulda said somethin’,” Hulton gently scolded and produced a basket from under our seat. “Go through that. My missus cooked me a chicken to eat on the way. Take what ye please.”

I unwrapped the greasy cloth covering. The applejack rumbling inside was most certainly affecting my senses. The chicken, which might otherwise have set me to ripping at it like a starved mongrel, smelled repulsive. There was a fat loaf of bread squashed in next to it. I tore off a piece and bit into that instead. It was crusty, tender, obviously still fresh, but tasted wrong. I forced it down. It immediately went to war with the drink.

Hulton took another swig from his jug and offered it to me again. This time I politely refused. As I worked to chew through another piece of bread, he asked for more details about the commissaries. I offered them, but the flow of talk was interrupted by my frequent swallowing in order to keep the food down. Hulton noticed.

“Not settin’ with ye?”

I shook my head.

“Then don’t eat it.”

What a practical suggestion. I’d been cramming the bread in because I thought I needed it, not because it was good. Hulton wrapped the basket up and put it away “Not sick, are ye?”

I wished he hadn’t mentioned that. The aftertaste of the applejack in my mouth was absolutely vile. As for the bread, I concluded that Mrs. Hulton must have been a perfectly awful baker. “Perhaps I’ve been without food too long,” I said aloud.

“Aye. Go without ’n’ ’tis best to start up ag’in easy. Maybe soup.”

Soup. Ugh. I nodded to keep my lips sealed tight. Hulton thankfully did not produce any. I gulped and pressed a hand hard against my belly. It was beginning to cramp.

“Gate here. This be your place?”

Thank God. “Yes. Thank you, Mr. Hulton. You’ve been very kind.”

“ ’M well paid ’f you saved me from losin’ m’ stuff. Thank’e for the offer to stay, but I’ll be on to The Oak. I want to hear the talk ’n’ figger that’s the place for it. Mebe summun else thought this through ahead a’ me so I won’t have to a’gin. God speed to ye, Mr. Barrett.”

When the wagon fully stopped, I dropped down. The hard landing stirred my guts up to new rebellion. Pausing only long enough for a final wave of farewell, I stalked straight to the gate, but at the last moment veered to one side. The cramp was worse, doubling me over. Arms clutching my middle, I retched the bread and applejack onto the grass. There wasn’t much, but I kept spitting and coughing as though my body wanted to rid itself of even their memory. Finally done, I weakly straightened and staggered over to rest against a tree.

I was
still
hungry.

But not for bread or soup or fowl or anything else that came to mind. Not milk or fruit or cheese or wine or . . . .

Nora always and only drank
blood
.

I now recalled our conversation about it. How strange a talk that had been to me at the time.

She lived on blood, taken a bit at a time from dozens of young men.

But how was I to . . . acquire it?

The despair I thought I’d left behind in the graveyard seized me once more, mixed with sheer terror of what must come if I wanted to live. I sank to the ground, unable to move.

Sweet God, Nora, what have you done to me?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Life-magic
, Mrs. Poole had called it as she let a few drops of beef blood slip between Nora’s lips.

I could conclude from that example there was no need to seduce or assault any innocent lady for my own nourishment. After all the time spent with Nora, I knew better. The taking of blood from another human had an entirely different significance for her than just to keep her body fed. I wasn’t remotely ready to consider the complications of that aspect of my changed nature yet. Like a thousand other things, it would have to wait until later.

With a sigh of either resignation or acceptance, I got to my feet and opened the gates just enough to slip through. The weariness I’d noted before was much more pronounced. Manifested first in my bones, it had spread to the muscles and outward to drag at my very skin. I could lie down and rest, but knew that wouldn’t help. Every moment streaming past stole away a little more strength. The time would eventually come when none remained. I trudged along the drive, shoulders slumping and head down to watch where my steps fell.

But my mind was wide awake and in need of distraction from the body. Unable to supply answers about my immediate future, I fell to speculation over my past. Without a doubt I had become like Nora, but
what
—and I used the word in the most literal sense—was Nora? What had I become?

Most definitely not a ghost, I wryly concluded, not unless ghosts got hungry. I also had doubts that they expended much worry on whether road dust would permanently ruin the polish of their best shoes. (Yes, it was a foolish bit of diversion, but in my unsettled state of mind I needed it.) Anyway, I’d never believed in ghosts since I was a child. Even then, such lapses of reason had been limited to foggy nights when the normal atmosphere thickened by sea mist lent itself to imaginings of supernatural creatures.

A demon, then? Since I believed in God, I knew there was also a devil. Had some fiend from hell taken possession of my mind and body, sending me forth from the grave to trouble the world? That did not seem likely, either. Besides, I’d had no difficulty calling upon God for help earlier when I’d panicked while trapped in . . .

How
had I escaped that damned box?

For every other change within me I had some memory of Nora to serve as a pattern to follow, but this was a most singular exception. My recollection of what had happened was confused. The moment had been dominated by a solid and sour-tasting fear that was yet powerful enough to raise a groan and set me shuddering as though from fever . . .

If I continue to give in to fear I’ll never learn anything.

By force of will I straightened my shoulders and made myself stop trembling. Decisively, I shoved the fear away; an unwieldy thing, but controllable if I put my mind to it. Tempting as it was to sink to my haunches and wail like an infant, I would not surrender to it this time. There was too much to think about.

One last shake of the head to clear out the remnants, a deep breath, and I was in command of myself again and not a slave to outside forces or inner alarms. Measured against the rest of the wide world it wasn’t much, a small victory, but it was mine, and I held it close and tight.

That was better. I resumed my walk toward the house.

Now I would have to try to assume a detachment from the experience. A doctor must do much the same thing to allow him to proceed with the more unpleasant aspects of his art when they became necessary. If Beldon could do it, then I would, too.

In my mind’s eye, I placed myself back in the ground once more. Without fear to obscure things, I was able to form a clear picture of that awful time—if one may make a picture from absolute darkness. Between the onset of panic and my sudden roll off the heaped earth, I found it. There had been a blank instant when I felt as though I were falling.

No . . . that wasn’t quite it. Close. It was more like floating in water; except that didn’t really describe it, either. A bit of both, perhaps? The result was that I had ceased to be trapped in my coffin and somehow came to rest on the ground some six feet above it.

The line from Revelation about the sea giving up its dead recalled itself to me, and I toyed with the thought that that great and terrible prophecy had come to pass in some way. Only toyed, mind you. To assume that I alone had been singled out in such a manner struck me as being the height of folly-filled arrogance.

My recollections of other passages of the Bible and how they related to my situation were not very encouraging. There were some firm laws against the drinking of blood, at least in the Old Testament, and some mention made of it in the New. Well, I could let myself starve in an effort to deny the necessities of my changed nature, or I could yield to its demands and, like many another poor sinner, ask God to forgive me and hope for the best.

Moral questions at rest for the moment, I returned to my original puzzle of how I’d escaped the grave. Reason dictated that answers lay in some other direction than divine intervention, most likely within myself.

If Nora had been able to survive a sword thrust into her heart, what other seeming miracles might she have been capable of carrying out? In this light, my physical rising from the grave could be . . .

I paused in my tracks, feeling a hot burst of excitement within. Would I be able to repeat that escape?

I did not know.

And I was too apprehensive to even consider an attempt to try. Also, too hungry.

Intuition and appetite, having taken temporary precedence over reason, told me that I had no time to spare for experimentation, fascinating as it might prove to be.

Get moving and keep moving.

It was a great relief to me when the high white walls of my home loomed into sight amid the trees. It was a great hardship not to rush straight up and start hammering on the front door. Before undergoing any happy reunion, I would most definitely have to feed myself first. I couldn’t possibly face the many questions and tide of emotions to come in my present state. Nor did I wish to suddenly acquaint them with the peculiar dietary needs my change required. One shock at a time.

How I was to satisfy those needs gradually became apparent as I walked around to the back of the grounds. The two points on my upper jaw where my canine teeth emerged felt decidedly odd. Exploring the area with my tongue and finally my fingers, I learned that these teeth were longer than before. Nothing strange there; I’d seen Nora in the same condition often enough. Experiencing it for myself induced a mixture of anticipation and dread, not unlike losing one’s virginity. I couldn’t help but compare it to that first night with Nora, for though I was certain of having an extraordinary time, I had misgivings about botching things.

But whatever might lie ahead, this involuntary alteration of my teeth was—in its unique way—indisputably pleasurable.

I skirted the house and minor outbuildings and headed for the stables. Chores done and their own stomachs filled, the lads had long since retired to their quarters above. Some were well asleep, others still settling in for the night. I felt both wonderment and charm that I could hear them, for like my eyes, my ears had likewise undergone a tremendous improvement over their original condition.

One bedtime conversation persisted; the two speakers were also the youngest, the only ones with enough energy left at the end of a long day to put off their slumbers a little longer. Their talk was filled with speculation on how long the rebellion could last and whether or not they’d have a chance to join up with Howe’s men before it ended. They certainly stretched my patience before exhausting the subject to begin drifting off to their dreams of soldiering.

My belly ached painfully over the delay, but the pauses between comments began to lengthen, and finally went unbroken. I gave them another quarter hour, then eased through the door for a cautious look around.

The first members of the household to greet me were our dogs. We had an even half-dozen hunting hounds that slept where they pleased. Two of them favored the stables year round, probably because of the vermin there. The smallest was a talented rat catcher. He now bounced to his feet and joyfully rushed me. His brother roused and followed and the two of them knocked me right over and halfway out the door again. I was buried under wet tongues, stub-clawed feet, and small whines of eager welcome. They ignored my hushed pleas for silence. I gave up and let them have their way Though terribly distracted by hunger, this was a homecoming to cherish. They, with their own heightened senses, could discover no evil fault within me. I found that reassuring. Perhaps the rest of the family would follow their example.

The dogs eventually calmed down to go sniffing about the yard, and I reentered the stable on tiptoes, listening for signs of disturbance from the lads above. Nothing but the occasional snore. Good.

The first stall I came to was Rolly’s. God, but it was good to see him again. He seemed to think the same as I moved inside and patted him down. He bobbed his head and exhaled a warm blast of breath into my face. I ran a hand along the sleek line of his neck, taking in his scent as well, then stopped. Through the great curved wall of his chest I could hear the very beating of his heart.

Oh, but that was a tantalizing sound. And the smell. More than the ordinary, comforting fetor of stable and horses was here for me. One scent alone caught my full attention, drew me toward it, quelled any feeble protests. Dark and heavy and irresistible, it leached right through his skin and crashed against my spinning brain with the force of a nor’easter. I made hushing, soothing noises to Rolly, telling him to be quiet, then sank to my knees. And he did remain quiet, even as I felt out one of the big surface veins in his foreleg. He didn’t once flinch as I brought my lips to the best spot, then used my teeth to cut through his thick flesh.

It welled up fast and though I swallowed as quickly as possible, some overflowed and dribbled past my chin. I ignored it.

The warmth of Rolly’s living blood washed into me, spreading from my empty belly to saturate my limbs. It was though I were drinking summer sunlight. My flagging strength returned in full, increased, doubled, tripled.

As the aroma was more enticing than any solid food I’d ever had, the taste was a thousand times better—not at all what I’d expected. During our exchanges, Nora’s blood had certainly possessed a unique and erotic quality that enabled me to drink it without the least revulsion, but for all the sensual pleasure imparted, it still tasted like blood. That which I now consumed was wholly different, as was its effect on me. Instead of being engulfed in a blaze of red fire whose heat invariably took me to a supreme climax, I was inundated with the kind of sweet contentment that a starving man must feel when, after years of privation, he at last eats his fill.

I don’t know how much I drank; it must have been quite a lot, perhaps as much as a tall beer flagon, perhaps more, but some inner perception told me when no more was needed. A little blood continued to seep from the wounds I’d made, but I pressed them with my hand until they clotted over. This was very messy, of course, but I’d take care of that soon enough.

Sitting back in the clean straw of the stall, I considered what I’d just done and decided that this sort of feeding was something I could not only put up with, but actively enjoy. I also considered what it might be like should the time come for me to take some lady to bed. The intuition I’d given free rein to tonight told me that that experience promised to be no less than incredible. As wonderful as it had been to be on the receiving end of Nora’s kisses, how much better might it be to be the one giving the kiss—in this, my changed state?

Well-a-day
, as my good cousin Oliver would have said. Perhaps I would eventually find out.

Quitting the stable, I started for the well, but changed my mind. Drawing water would be too noisy, and I didn’t want to rouse anyone until I was presentable again. There was a clear sweet stream not a hundred yards from the house, better to use it, instead. As though spoiling for a footrace, I trotted lightly toward it, my previous exhaustion forgotten.

I startled two rabbits and a bush full of dozing birds along the way The birds squawked and fell into guarded silence, but the rabbits dodged swiftly away into cover. I followed them for the sheer joy of movement. Had it been open ground, I thought I’d have had a chance of catching them, too. I’d never been so fresh and alive before; had Nora also felt this? She’d been so serene and sedate; I wanted to turn Catherine wheels, to leap, to fly to the moon.

I had to settle for kneeling by the stream and cupping up water to wash away the stains of drying blood. Though comfortable enough splashed against my face and neck, it was extremely cold on my hands as I dipped in, biting cruelly as though it were mid-winter. They’d gone blue and were starting to shrivel before I’d finished. On the walk back I had to rub hard to revive feeling in my fingers. Very odd, it seemed, but having suffered an excess of odd experiences in so brief a time, the matter was hardly worth notice.