Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (96 page)

Some say to watch the other’s eyes or his blade or his arm, but the best fencing masters advise their students to watch everything at once. This had seemed an impossibility until my training advanced to such a degree that I abruptly embraced the meaning. To fix upon any single point put you in danger of missing another, more vital one. By focusing only on the blade, I could overlook a telltale shift of an adversary’s body as he prepared a fresh attack. Instead, I found myself moving into a strange state of non-thought, where I saw the whole of my opponent as a single coordinated threat, rather than a haphazard collection of parts, each requiring a separate reaction.

Ridley apparently followed the same school of training, to judge by his look of serene concentration. I took this in and left it at the door, so to speak. It was important, but only as part of the larger picture. My mind was empty of ideas and emotions; having either cluttering my actions could be fatal. As great as my anger was toward this man, I could not allow its intrusion, for it would only give him the advantage.

We danced and lunged and parried, playing now, taking each other’s measure and comparing it to our own best skills. He was surprisingly fast for so large a man, but I knew myself to be considerably faster. And though I did not look it, I was also much stronger than he, even if this was mitigated by the swords. Had we been grappling in the mud like base street brawlers, I’d have had the better of him without question.

Fencing is a physical form of chess, requiring similar strategies, but executing them with one’s body rather than through board pieces, and it is blindingly quick. Ridley knew his business and twice tried a gambit of beating my blade, feinting once, twice, thrice, retreating a step, then simply extending his arm to catch me on my advance. It worked the first time, but all he did was snag and rip my sleeve. No blooding, therefore no pause. The second time I was wise to it, but on the third attempt, he retreated an extra step, leading me to think he’d given up the ploy.

Not so. He grinned, caught my blade and flicked his wrist ’round in such a way as to disarm me. Even as he began the move, I divined his intent and backed off at the last instant. If not for my greater strength to freeze my hand to the grip, my sword would have gone flying into the darkness.

He must have fully expected it to work; there came a flash of frustration to his expression. He was sweating, too. It must have felt like a coat of ice on his skin what with the wind. I’d grown warm enough; it would be awhile before any cold could get through to me and by then we would be long finished.

He had an excellent defense; time and again I’d tried to break past it and failed, but he was starting to breathe hard. My mouth was open, but more for the sake of appearance than any need of air. If nothing else, I could wear even his endurance down to exhaustion. As he began showing early signs of it, I played with him more, subtly trying to provoke him into a mistake. Not that I resorted to anything dishonorable; all I had to do was prevent him from wounding me. For him that was quite sufficient as an annoyance. He was probably used to a speedy win and as each moment went by with no progress, his initial frustration looked to be getting the better of him. When that happened, he’d defeat himself.

The wind tore plumes of his sawing breath right from his lips, and he looked hard-pressed to continue. The pause between attacks grew perceptively longer; he was slowing. In another few minutes I’d have him.

I beat him back to tire him that much more. He retreated five or six steps, rapidly, with me following. Then he abruptly halted, beat my blade once, with much force, and as my arm shot wide, he used his long reach and drove in.

Catching me flat. I felt a damned odd push and tug on my body. I looked down and gaped stupidly. His blade was thrust firm into my chest, just left of my breast bone and inches deep. Sickening sight. I also could not move, and so we stood like statues for a few seconds, long enough for the shocked groans of the witnesses to reach me. Then he whipped the blade clear and stood back, waiting for my fall.

I stumbled drunkenly to both knees. Couldn’t help it. The crashing impact of pain was overwhelming. It was a though he’d struck me with a tree trunk, not a slim V -shaped blade of no larger width than my little finger. I let go my sword and clutched at my chest, coughed, gagged on what came up, then coughed once more, thickly.

Bloodsmell on the winter air.

Taste of heart’s blood in my mouth.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Oliver was suddenly there, his arm supporting me, halting my complete collapse.

“It’s all right,” he was saying over and over in a terribly thin, choked voice. Lying to himself. He’d seen. He knew. He called for Brinsley and for more light to be brought. The others crowded close to see.

The agony was stunning; I wanted only for him to let me alone. I gasped, feebly pushing him off. He would not budge. Instead, he tried to hold me still, just as Beldon had done before him when I’d fallen into that soft sleep one stifling summer day, my last day. Not again. Never again.

Panic tore through me. “
No!
Let me up!”

But Oliver told me not to move, to let him help. To get at the wound, he forced my hand clear. It came away covered with blood. The stuff was all over my shirt and waistcoat.

“You must be quiet, Jonathan,” he pleaded. I heard the tears in his words. Tears for me, for my death.

“
No!
” I
couldn’t say if I was shouting at him or myself. It wasn’t much of a shout. I had little enough air left to spare for it. To breathe in meant more pain. I doubled over—Oliver kept me from falling altogether—and coughed.

More blood in my mouth. I spat, making a dark stain upon the dead grass, then, strangely, the grass began to fade away before my fluttering vision.

Good God,
no.
I couldn’t . . . not here . . . .

I clung to Oliver,
willing
myself to stay solid in spite of every instinct wanting to release me from the fire tearing through my chest. It would have been so easy to surrender to the sanctuary of a noncorporeal state, to its soothing silence, its sweet healing. So easy . . ..

But I did not dare allow it.

I struggled to right myself, ignoring Oliver’s protests.

“We’ll take him back to the house,” Brinsley was saying. “I’ll have them fetch a cart.”

“No,” I said, raising a hand. The bloodied one. “A moment. Please.”

A pause with them looking on. God knows what they expected of me. Momentous last words? They’d have a hard time of it, for my mind was bereft of anything like that. Still, they hovered close in hope. The seconds passed in disappointing silence . . . and I became aware that my devastating hurt was not as bad as before.

Movement was easier now. Pain. Ebbing. I was able to suck in a draught of air and not forcibly cough it out again.

All I’d wanted was the time to recover myself.

Recover?

God’s death, what was I on about?

Then as swift as Ridley’s attack the realization came that I was not going to die. Too occupied by the present, I’d forgotten the past. Flashing through my mind was the memory of another dreadful night. I saw Nora once more, heard again her gasp of surprise when a similar blade had pierced her heart. I’d watched in helpless despair as she slid to the floor, thinking her dead—and so she was with neither breath nor heartbeat to say otherwise.

But she had come
back.

Somehow she had survived that mortal injury.

And I knew I would as well.

With the very thought’s occurrence, the raw burning in my chest eased considerably. I even heard myself laugh, though it threatened to become another cough. At least I was in no danger of vanishing in front of—

There they stood about me. Dozens of them. All to bear witness that I’d been run through and had bled like a pig at the butcher’s. And there was poor Oliver, tears on his face as he held me.

What in God’s name was I to say to them?

If one lies often enough and loud enough, the lie eventually becomes the truth.

But for something like this? It seemed a bit much to expect. On the other hand, there were few other options. I could play the wounded duelist and let them carry me back for a suitably long convalescence, or I could brazen it out right here and hope for the best.

The latter, then, and get it over with.

“Some brandy!” I called, summoning a strong, loud voice from heaven knows where.

Brandy was offered from several different sources, all extremely sympathetic, thinking to comfort me. Oliver grabbed the nearest flask and held it to my lips. So caught up was he in the crisis that he’d forgotten my inability to ingest anything other than blood, but it was of no matter. I’d only asked for brandy for the show of it and to purchase more time to heal.

“I can manage, thank you,” I told him and reached up to take the flask.

This made for much startled murmuring. Oliver nearly dropped me, but I straightened myself in time. It was difficult not to sneak a look at him, but I had to act as though nothing were seriously amiss. With my clean left hand, I raised the drink to my lips and pretended to swallow.

“Much better,” I said. “I am most obliged to you, sir.” I held the flask out and someone took it away.

“Jonathan?” A hundred questions were on Oliver’s strained face, and not one could be voiced in front of a crowd.

“I’m
fine,
Cousin. No need to fear.”

“But you . . . your wound. . . .”

“It’s nothing. Hurts like blazes. Sweet God, man, I pray I did not worry you over a scratch.”

“
A scratch!
”
he yelped.

I might have laughed, but for knowing the true depth of what he was going through. “You thought me hurt? But I’m fine or will be. It just scraped the bone, looks worse than it is. Fair knocked the wind from me, though.”

This was said brashly, for others to hear and pass along. Those who had not seen the incident clearly took it as the happy truth, but the ones who had been closer were doubtful. Perhaps even fearful.

I noticed this, apparently, for the first time. “Gentlemen, thank you for your concern, but I am much improved.” There, that at least was the absolute truth. Not giving anyone time to think and thus dispute the statement, I slowly stood.

Oliver came up with me, jaw swinging, eyes wide with shock. His gaze dropped to my shirt and the substantial stains there, but I could do nothing about that for now. The effect on the witnesses was gratifying. The near ones fell back, the far ones leaned closer, but none could say that I was remotely near death.

“Jonathan, in God’s name—?” came my cousin’s fierce whisper.

I lowered my head and matched his tone. “It’s to do with my changed state. Trust me on this, I am all right.”

His mouth opened and shut several times, and his eyes took on the flat cast of fear. “Dear God, you mean—”

“Just play along and I’ll explain later.
Please!
”

The poor fellow looked as though he’d been the one to take the wound, but he bit back all speech and nodded. He understood my urgency.

That settled for the moment, I asked for the return of my sword. Mr. Dennehy came forward, holding it. “Mr. Barrett, are you sure you—”

“I’ve business to finish, sir. If Mr. Ridley is up to the task, then so am I.”

The man in question was not ten paces away and, if one could tell anything by his expression, was the most dumbfounded of the lot. He had every right to be since he’d certainly
felt
the blade go in and had had to pull it out again. From the twinges still echoing through me, I got the idea the bastard had turned his wrist at the time to increase the damage.

He said nothing at first, his gaze going from me to his sword. The end of it was smeared with red for the length of a handspan. He murmured something to the wide-faced dandy who was his second. The young man came over to speak to Dennehy and Oliver. I couldn’t help but overhear.

“Mr. Ridley has no wish to take the advantage over a wounded man,” he said.

“Will Mr. Ridley offer a full, contrite and sincere apology for his insult?” I asked, my voice carrying to him.

He jumped, startled that I had heard and glanced back to his friend. Ridley’s eyes blazed, then he shook his head. Even after this, he’d be damned before conceding defeat.

“Then let things proceed as before. He has no advantage over me,” I said.

The second hesitantly returned, backing all the way.

“Are you
sure?
”
asked Oliver. He regained some of his composure, I was glad to see.

“Exceedingly so.” Though I’d been shaken, my unnatural state was such that I felt near-normal again.

Or rather extra-normal. It was true that Ridley had no advantage on me, but I had a hellish one over him. He could stab me, unpleasant as it was, as much as he liked; sooner or later I would be able to shrug it off and return to the fray. Not that I planned to give him the chance. I’d learned my lesson and would be more careful than before.

As had he, it seemed. Our next bout was slower, more calculated, more cautious, each seeking to find an opening or to make one. I beat him back twice but did not fall for his favorite stratagem, instead pulling away well before he could strike again using his reach. When he saw that was not going to work, he tried to use his strength and speed but found himself surprisingly outmatched. Having taken his measure I no longer held myself in check, and that changed the rules for him. The opponent he thought he’d beaten seemed a different man now, requiring a new appraisal.

Ridley finally lost his smirk and looked worried. He was tiring, too. Physical chess is damned hard work.

As he slowed, I maintained my pace, which made me seem the quicker as the minutes passed. I even had time now to notice that bets were being made on the outcome. Apparently the odds had changed since the start of this bout.

Enough. Much more and he’d fall from exhaustion, and my honor demanded a greater payment. It wasn’t enough that I succeed; I wanted to serve him a harsh lesson.

I made a rapid high cut, was blocked, got under it, flicked left, right, left, caught his blade, beat it hard to my right and lunged. It seemed fast to me, but to him it must have been bewildering. He barely made his defense in time for the first attack; the last one—and it was the last—took him out of the reckoning. He gave a guttural roar of rage and pain and dropped his sword to clutch at his right arm.

Bloodsmell on the air.

His.

Ridley’s second rushed forward. Dennehy joined them. I dropped back and silently looked on.

“Mr. Ridley is sore wounded, sir,” reported his second to mine.

“Well blooded and disabled,” added Dennehy.

But not dead
, I thought. I stalked forward. They’d cut away his shirt sleeve, using the rags to bind his arm above the elbow to slow the blood loss. From the flow and the location of the wound, Ridley would fight no more this night or any other in the near future. With luck he’d be laid up for weeks. With bad luck, for him, his cut would fester and he’d lose his arm altogether.

I raised my blade and touched it to Ridley’s bare shoulder, which stilled his groans for a moment. Through his pain he glared up. This wasn’t the first time a man had looked upon me with such visible hatred. Those others who had done so were dead. He did not know his good fortune.

“I spare your life,” I declared loudly, for everyone to hear. By ancient custom I could have killed him then and there and none would have blamed me, but the Code had stated once and for all that that was not
strictly
necessary. With my supreme advantage over him it hardly seemed fair to hold to such a tradition, and besides, to a man like Ridley, mercy was much more humiliating than death.

The dandy who had acted as his second scrambled to present me with Ridley’s dropped sword, and by rights I was entitled to break it. However, since it belonged to Brinsley, I chose not to do so. Instead, I handed both blades to him as he came up. “Thank you for the loan of ’em, sir. Uncommonly kind of you.”

Brinsley stammered something, his face alight, but I had no ear for it, feeling suddenly awash with fatigue. My own blood loss was catching me up, along with the weariness that results from heavy toil.

There was no respite, though, for I found myself abruptly in the center of a cheering, backslapping mob determined to whisk me away and drink to my good health whether I wanted it or not.

“Best damned fight I’ve ever seen!”

“A real fire-eater!”

“Well done, sir! That was legend!”

“By God, no one will believe it, but they’ll have to or face
my
challenge!”

“Gentlemen! If you
please!
”

This last half-strangled cry was from Oliver, who fought his way to me and seized my arm. I groaned, in gratitude this time, and leaned on him. With the immediate demands of the duel past, my legs were going weak.

“Back to the house, if you don’t mind?” I asked.

“Damned right, sir,” he promised, an ominous tone in his voice. He threw my inadequate red satin cloak over me, and I pulled it tight to conceal my stained shirtfront. We made a slow parade, but others ran ahead with the news and as we neared the house, more came to greet us and hear the story. It grew in the telling, unfortunately, and nothing I said could stop it. As it was fantastic to begin with, it became even more so in the span of only minutes.

Enlisting Brinsley’s aid to speed things along, we were soon in the relative peace of a small upstairs chamber. I allowed myself to be stretched upon a settee and disdained offers of help as being too much fuss. What I wanted was solitude, but my earnest admirers took it as evidence of modest bravery. They held true to their promise and began toasting my health then and there, creating another problem for me since I could not join in their celebration.