Jane Austen: Blood Persuasion (6 page)

“It is my fault,” Jane said.

“What!” Cassandra, in the act of unpinning her hair, looked at her with astonishment. “No, of course it is not. How could it possibly be your fault?”

“I should have protected her,” Jane said and floundered to a stop, not knowing how else to proceed. “Cassandra, I must confide in you. I believe I am becoming . . . unwell again.”

“Unwell?”

“You remember when I had to take the Cure in Bath a dozen years ago. The symptoms are returning.”

For a moment Cassandra looked at her with sheer terror. “No! You look so very well. It cannot be. We shall ask Martha to make you up a draught and all will be well.”

“I fear that my good looks are part of the symptoms. I
know,
Cassandra. Trust me.”

“We cannot go to Bath. Not after Papa . . .” Cassandra swallowed. “I shall pray for you, Jane. I shall pray you are wrong. But surely you do not think one of those vile creatures attacked Martha?”

“I think it more than likely.”

“Nonsense! This is an English village, not the sinister Italian landscape of a gothic novel. I am certain she had some sort of fit, which is worrying enough, but I do not believe she was the victim of any wrongdoing.”

Jane took one look at her sister, frightened and close to tears, and moved behind Cassandra to unfasten her gown and stays. “Nevertheless, I do not think she should walk alone. What if she were to become ill again?”

“I think that an excellent idea,” Cassandra said. “What’s the matter?”

Jane could not speak of her disappointment at Cassandra’s reaction to her confession. “I do not think I shall sleep. I think it best if I go downstairs to write.”

“Very well.” Cassandra pulled her mass of hair over her shoulder to braid it for the night. “You may wake me to help you undress.”

“Thank you, but I should not dare do so. You are such a surly creature when awoken. I can rest well enough in my gown.” She kissed Cassandra, half expecting her sister to shrink away from her and relieved that she did not; but was not that worse, that her sister did not believe her?

Jane went downstairs and sat in the parlor, listening to the creak of floorboards above as the household prepared for the night. A pad of footfalls the length of the house and the murmur of voices indicated that Cassandra, who liked to chat before sleep, had gone to visit Martha. Finally all was quiet, Cassandra back in her own bedchamber, and Jane took her cloak and left the house, closing the door quietly behind her. The night air smelled cool and sweet, and she fancied she could smell some early blossom on the air from the orchard. Keeping to the shadows—she was not sure she could melt into the darkness yet, a skill learned when she had been assuredly Damned—she made her way through the village and turned into the driveway of the Great House.

Since it was early yet, she was not surprised to see lights at the windows although no sound came from the house. Apparently the Damned did not entertain tonight, preferring to dine quietly at home. To her annoyance she was assailed by sudden, deep hunger. For how long would she be able to conceal her condition? How long before she became a monster, all human feelings and decency discarded?

At the front door of the house she raised the heavy knocker and brought it crashing down upon the ancient oak. The door swung open almost immediately to reveal William, in his shirtsleeves, his throat bare.

“I was expecting you, Jane.”

Chapter 7

“S
o this is your idea of quiet country living—preying upon innocent women.”

He stood aside and gestured to her. “Pray enter.”

“Who was responsible for this outrage?” She stepped inside the house, anger flooding her with the full strength of the Damned.

He looked at her, considering. “You should dine.”

“No! First, you should tell me who it was who attacked Martha this evening.”

“And then what?”

“I shall kill him—or her.”

“In that case you should definitely dine, although, Jane, I should not recommend your course of action. There are severe penalties among us for those who destroy their own kind.”

She walked ahead of him into the small room lined with books where they had first met two nights before. A woman sat, or rather, sprawled in a chair, smiled and held out her hand to William as they entered.

“Ah. She hungers, too?” The woman giggled and rolled her head back, exposing her neck to them. Jane recognized the euphoric tipsiness of a mortal pleasured and dined upon.

“I beg your pardon, sir. I did not realize you dined.” Her words surprised her; she must be further developed as one of the Damned than she realized, to make an appropriate apology while she seethed with mortal anger.

William took the woman’s hand and kissed her wrist. “A thousand apologies,
cara,
I must abandon you. You may visit Mr. Fuller, if you wish, or Mrs. Kettering.” He pushed her from the room and closed the door.

“Now, Jane, we must talk. Sit.”

She knew formalities must be observed. In the presence of her Creator, even though she believed he might be implicated in a heinous crime, she calmed and accepted a glass of wine. As she related her story, she hoped with all her heart that it was not he who was responsible.

“You are quite right,” he said, settling in the chair opposite hers, a glass of wine in his hand. “It is indeed a heinous crime, and you must believe that neither I, nor any of this household, is guilty. But . . .” He leaned forward and prodded at a smoldering log in the fireplace. “But as for responsibility, I accept that fully.”

The log fell into the glowing heart of the fire, sending sparks flying up the chimney. “I don’t understand,” Jane said. “Who attacked Martha?”

“I am not sure precisely who it was, although I have my suspicions. Let me explain something to you, Jane. The Prince of Wales and the
ton
abhor our company in these changed times. This household is one of many where we attempt to live quietly, waiting for a return to favor, or possibly a time when we may travel abroad to a more hospitable country. It is how we have survived, for centuries. But others are angry at our fall from favor. They seek revenge on England’s displeasure by gaining sustenance, not through seduction but by force. This is a dreadful thing for us, Jane, we who have cleaved together for so long to be divided, households destroyed, and allegiances broken.

“Some who have been cast out by their fellows now hunt alone, with no society, no loyalties to any others, little better than beasts, and I believe it may have been one of them. Or, more dangerous yet, Duval’s household embraces this most abhorrent behavior and welcomes those solitary creatures into their midst. We call them
les Sales,
the dirty, defiled ones.”

“And Luke has joined Duval?”

“He is with them. I sent him and Clarissa as ambassadors, to persuade Duval to abandon
les Sales
and their unclean ways, and to destroy his weapons. I fear Luke may have cast his lot with them.”

“Weapons? What weapons?”

“A weapon like the one that made the mark upon your breast. Had you been at the height of your powers as one of us, that blow would have destroyed you. As it was, you fell into a deep swoon, and it took Luke’s blood to revive you.”

“And you believe that one of
les Sales
attacked Martha? On Duval’s orders?”

“Very likely, but as to it being upon Duval’s orders, I think not. He allows them to roam as they will and gives them shelter. But soon I fear he will command them.”

“What can Duval hope to gain?”

“Who knows?” William shrugged. “He and those with whom he is in sympathy are seduced by power. It divides us, Jane, at a time when we cannot afford a schism in our ranks. It is my responsibility to seek a solution, for I am the oldest and highest in rank in this county.”

“But why should Luke revive me if he is one . . . one of them?”

“I believe you have a better understanding of Luke’s mind than I do.” He looked at her inquiringly.

“I don’t believe I do. You are his Creator! Do you not know him best?”

“Not while he is among Duval and
les Sales,
and that is my burden. After what happened in this house when you were here, I have forbidden Duval ever to set foot here again. But I can no longer see Luke’s mind.”

She understood that, the isolation of the Damned who could not sense the presence of the ones they loved. “So fledgling has turned against Creator.”

“So it would seem. But as you know, things have never been easy between us. We are too alike in temperament and age; I expect he told you of this.”

“Tell me more of the weapons,” Jane said, not wanting to talk of Luke. She touched the place near her collarbone as she spoke.

He stood to fetch the decanter and pour them more wine. “You may remember that after we found Margaret had betrayed you to the French, I gave you the choice of judgment: to banish or to destroy her. There was a weapon, a small sicklelike implement of graystone. You chose banishment. It is weapons like that knife that Duval and those who hold his views use. And yes, I still possess that knife, but I bring myself to that level of degradation should I, or any of my household, use it in warfare.”

Jane nodded, remembering the cold burn of the graystone against her fingertips and her reluctance to send another of the Damned to hell. One of the Damned, alone, was as good as destroyed, might even become one of
les Sales
. Had she really made such a wise choice? Or even a humane choice? Yet Margaret had formed, or joined, another household.

“She was luckier than most,” William said in answer to her unspoken question. “Well, Jane. Is it not time you made a decision?”

“What do you mean?”

“To throw in your lot with us and hunt
les Sales
.”

“And my family?”

“You mean your mortal family. Join us, and they will be safer than if you do not.”

She rose to her feet. “You are hardly persuasive, William.”

He rose too. “I am honest. My family is my first priority. But consider, Jane. This is not a situation unique to Hampshire. All over England the Damned are divided, households and old alliances broken, fledglings turned against Creators, and more and more of us take to the ways of
les Sales
. It is your duty to help, as it was when the French invaded. ”

“Your indifference to my family hardly convinces me to join you, William. I regret I must decline your offer.”

“You may think differently when more fall foul of
les Sales
. Martha was lucky that you knew what to do.”

“I must excuse myself. I suggest, sir, you and your kind protect this village in which you have chosen to live, and upon which you have brought trouble. It is the neighborly thing to do. Since I must hope and pray a metamorphosis never takes place I can be of little assistance.”

He bent to throw a log onto the fire. They both watched as it settled in the embers, throwing off sparks, blue-gray smoke rising upward.

“If you do not dine soon,” William said, “you will not have much strength as one of us, and it may well affect your strength and health as a mortal. You put your precious family in danger.”

Tonight she had experienced the first stirrings of hunger. Time might be running out for her. He knew it as well as she.

She placed her wineglass on the mantelpiece before she was tempted to throw it in his face. “Even though you barely let me into your mind, I note you have no compunction whatsoever for roaming freely through mine. I trust you enjoy yourself there.”

William bowed. “I shall send for my steward.”

“You will excuse me. I do not wish to dine.”

“I was merely offering you an escort home.”

“I am much obliged.” She turned away from him, mortified by her mistake and insulted that he did not offer to escort her himself. Doubtless he wished to return to the harlot upon whom he dined, whoever she might be.

“Jane?”

He merely held out her cloak, which she had tossed upon a chair on entering the room. She grabbed it and threw it around her shoulders, hearing, from the tinkle of breaking glass, that she had managed to dislodge her wineglass from the mantelpiece. She hoped William had not noticed the broken glass, but he was in conversation with someone outside the door.

“This is Raphael, my steward. He will see you safely home,” William said.

Jane nodded at the steward—she had a vague impression of a strong profile, black hair streaked with silver—and walked ahead of him out of the room and toward the front door. The steward stepped beside her to open the door and an intoxicating scent arose from him—healthy male sweat and his blood, oh heavens, she could smell his blood, and hear the sound of his pulse.

“Steady there, ma’am!” He grasped her elbow.

She must have lost her footing. His touch melted his thoughts to her . . .
one of them? A handsome lady despite her anger . . .

Snarling, she shook his arm away and marched ahead of him down the drive. Now she was apart from William, and unnerved by her violent reaction to the man who followed her, she wondered if she had made the right decision. She had no part in the quarrel between the Damned and
les Sales;
she had seen the contemptuous attitude of many of the Damned toward mortals, regarding them as convenient sources of pleasure, service, and sustenance. From thence, it could only be one small, wicked step to regard mortals as prey.

But still it made no sense. For was not one of the delights of the Damned to give pleasure far beyond any mortal sensual experience? Did the pleasures of the hunt outweigh the luxury of a seduction? Memories of strength and power, the fierce joy of pursuit and capture, came back to her. However much she might justify her actions as a soldier might justify his killing during a war, she could not deny the pleasure of ripping into an enemy’s throat, the exultation of his blood and fear . . .

“Ma’am, if you please.” She heard the crunch of gravel behind her.

“Yes?”

“Ma’am, my instructions are to stay close.” There was something, a hint of a foreign accent in his voice.

“Very well.” She stood and listened. She could hear Raphael’s breath; beyond him, in the meadow at the side of the driveway, a scamper of small furred beings, the brush of an owl’s wing in the dark, the hectic rush of air as a bat turned and skittered . . . sounds no mortal could or should hear, and yet she still deluded herself that she was not one of the Damned! Further into the darkness, cattle stirred, made uneasy by her presence—or was it by the presence of another like herself? A breath of wind sent a faint scent to her nostrils, the scent that had clung about Martha earlier that day, rank and musky yet with the familiarity of the Damned about it. The scent of an animal.

Some hunt alone, with no society, no loyalties to any others, little better than beasts . . .

“Take my arm,” she whispered. “Come closer to me.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he did so. She now stood between him and
le Sale,
for that was what it must be.

She pulled the hood of her cloak up over her head. “Whisper quietly to me as though . . .”

His hand moved to his hip and she saw against the silk lining of his coat the gleam of finely polished wood and steel with a delicate tracery of ivory. “As though we’re courting . . .”

With a smooth, easy movement he withdrew the pistol and cocked it.

She slowed their pace and listened, ignoring the distraction of his person so close to hers, hip to hip, his arm around her waist beneath her cloak.

He gave a soft murmur of laughter. “Ah, a good servant enjoys his work, ma’am.”

She who had once hunted at night was now prey. The creature moved clumsily, doubtless weak from hunger, lonely and fearful, almost as though it didn’t care that she could hear.

She gave a low growl, and beside her Raphael’s breath hitched; if he had had any doubt of her nature, now it was clear what she was, or what she was becoming.

The creature was on her with a sudden burst of speed and a desperate clumsiness, but even so it was stronger than she. Its prey was not Jane, but Raphael—she found herself knocked to the ground as it leaped on Raphael,
en sanglant
agleam in the moonlight, a woman with wild hair and eyes, a once-fine gown in shreds and tatters, her movements weak and frantic as though she had not dined in some time. The pistol exploded with a streak of fire and left the scent of powder in the air. Whether the ball found its target she didn’t know—certainly the woman did not slow down.

Jane grasped the woman’s matted hair. “Leave him!”

From her appearance it looked as though the woman was more animal than human, and Jane was surprised when she spoke. “He is mine!”

“He does not consent. Go to the house. They have willing humans there.”

But even as starved as she was, the woman had strength beyond Jane’s, and one blow of her arm sent Jane reeling back, stars bursting before her eyes. She found herself flung several feet away. As she struggled to her feet there was another loud explosion and flash of fire; Raphael had managed to grasp the second of the pair of pistols, and this time his shot was true.

The woman fell back with a cry, dark blood staining the ruined bodice of her gown. She fell and began a painful crawl away from them. The wound, which would have proved fatal to a human, merely weakened her enough to cause her to abandon her attempt to dine.

Jane ran to her. “I beg of you, do not go!”