Jane Austen: Blood Persuasion (21 page)

William and Duval, sure enough, drew rapiers and walked forward to meet between the two groups. They had removed their coats and thus the graystone knives each had strapped to the outside of their sleeves.

“How can immortals fight a duel to a conclusive end?” Jane asked as the combatants saluted.

“Whoever bloodies the other a third time in succession wins. It’s rather like tennis.” Raphael gave a tense smile. “They can hardly decapitate each other with those weapons.”

Rather more like a chess match or a dance, as the two Damned stepped, parried, thrust. The onlookers applauded occasionally at particularly elegant moves, and then Duval’s followers gave a shout as a spot of blood appeared and spread on William’s arm. The pace quickened, William driving Duval back—his household broke apart to give the duelists more room, and then gathered again.

“Bravo!” Raphael said. “See, Jane, he caught Duval on the right thigh. So they’re even now.”

The fight intensified, the blades flashing in the sunlight, and with more intent now, the two of them moving this way or that. Most of the onlookers were
en sanglant,
aroused by the blood. It was so very different from the fighting Jane had learned, the ungentlemanly, informal attacks against a human enemy in skirmishes and ambushes.

Beside her, Raphael grimaced and raised a hand to his own mouth, a gesture Jane recognized.

William and Duval separated, rapiers pointing down.

“What’s happening?” Jane asked.

“They’ve agreed to take a few minutes’ rest,” Raphael replied. “They exchanged a signal but a few seconds ago.”

William returned to Luke’s side. They spoke together briefly, and Luke breathed on the wound on William’s arm to stanch it. A footman offered the two combatants wine, and William drained his glass and placed the empty vessel on the tray. This time Jane saw the small gesture he made to Duval to continue, and the duel resumed.

The sun lowered in the sky and still the fight continued, with an occasional break, the grass stamped flat and releasing its scent, along with that of vampire blood, upon the air.

“They’re well matched,” Raphael said. “Why the devil does he not use his superior strength? He has a longer reach than Duval, too. He may seek to tire him. Sometimes my brother is more subtle than wise.”

“What will happen when darkness falls?” Jane asked.

“They will continue, although they will probably stop to dine. William will have to play host.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Jane said, made uneasy by the possibility that she would be beneath the roof of the Great House while the Damned took their pleasure.

Duval fell back, blood spreading upon his arm, and William lunged in to prick him on the thigh.

“Two cuts!” Raphael said. “Follow him, William, take him—”

But Duval recovered, rallied, and slashed at William’s face, laying open his face to the bone. Blood spread and dripped onto his shirt.

“Not altogether gentlemanly,” Raphael commented. “Now they become serious.”

Duval stepped back and made a gesture with his free hand, but William shook his head, refusing a break, and now his fighting changed: still as graceful, but more deadly, with more speed. He drove Duval back and to the side.

Raphael grinned. “Ah, he attempts to position Duval facing the sun. Better, William.” He grabbed Jane’s arm and pulled her aside as the fighters neared them, close enough for them to hear the fast breathing, the pounding footfalls, and to see blood fly from William’s cheek.

William’s blade darted and flashed, raising two crimson splotches on Duval’s shirt, on shoulder and upper arm.

Duval stepped back, missed his footing, and fell, his rapier dropping from his hand.

“Duval may concede,” Raphael said.

William bowed and lowered his blade, waiting with the greatest courtesy for his opponent to rise.

Duval reached for his rapier and half rose, as though his ankle was wrenched. A low murmur issued from the onlookers. A wrench or sprain, for one of the Damned, was not something that could be cured instantaneously, the damage having taken place beneath the skin. Although it would heal faster than a similar injury to a mortal, this could mean that the fight, and therefore Anna’s rescue, would be delayed.

William stepped back, his rapier pointed down, and bowed again. Had some sort of agreement passed between them?

Duval rose to one knee and sprang from his kneeling position at William. He was armed; even in the sunlight the small blade he wrenched from his boot was dull, deadly, the color of dust. He struck William’s breast.

William took a step backward. His step faltered, and his rapier fell from his hand and rolled onto the grass. He sank to one knee, a hand at his breast, and Jane remembered the deadly chill, the weakness she had felt.

Luke rushed to his side and supported him.

“Treachery!” Raphael ran forward to join them, tears running down his face. “My brother!”

Duval stood, the small weapon in his hand, a triumphant smile upon his face.

For a moment the Damned were frozen in place, before weapons were drawn, blades that glittered in the sunlight. Jane did not look to see if any were also prepared to use their graystone knives. She drew a pistol, cocked it, her movements smooth as silk, her mind as detached as though she watched herself from a distance.

The Damned stood poised, as though awaiting an order, although William’s household drew close around their fallen leader.

She aimed, pulled the trigger, and heard Duval’s curse as the hand that held the graystone knife exploded in a flurry of blood and bone. He staggered, but recovered, and hurtled toward Jane,
en sanglant
.

She saw the murderous look in his eye and knew he intended to rip her throat out. Her hands shook as she pulled and cocked the second pistol, and then he was upon her, with the strength and fierceness of an ancient vampire at the height of his powers.

Pain ripped through her jaw.

The world shook in a dazzle of brightness.

The trigger—steel, a forge, brightness, fire, the hiss of red hot metal plunged into water—she threw off the sensations, aimed, and fired.

Duval fell back, a dark hole in his forehead, destroyed and sent to hell by Jane’s hand.

Chapter 20

J
ane dropped to her knees, her hands upon the grass, and the slow strength and quest of the roots of plants and trees flowed into her palms.

I am Damned.

“Take care!” Someone grabbed her shoulder, pulling her upright into a tumult of anger and blood and clashing blades. Clarissa, her face streaked with blood, grasped her arm and pulled her aside.

Jane stumbled, her limbs clumsy, senses overwhelmed. She reached for the knife in her boot, but the leather and the wood of the hilt came alive at her touch, a confusion of sensation. She drew her hand away.

“No, you must not fight,” Clarissa said, and she turned to slash at one of Duval’s followers who leaped at them. He retreated, blood welling from his arm, his coat ripped. “You are too new, too weak.”

Dorcas joined Clarissa, the two of them fending off any of Duval’s followers who approached. Jane sank to the ground again and wept, overcome with confusion and grief, while the sounds of battle died away.

“Jane.” Luke’s voice was quiet, his touch on her shoulder a comfort. “It is done. It is over. Come.”

She stood and clung to him. She was
en sanglant,
her teeth sensitive and aching, and hungry. All she could smell was blood, Duval’s, William’s, sharp and fresh; and then the particular scent of Luke, dark and heady and arousing.

She raised her hand to her mouth in an attempt to get her teeth under control. “I am Damned.”

“You must speak with William. There is little time.”

William lay on Raphael’s shoulder; Raphael covered with blood, and
en sanglant,
weeping.

She fell to her knees at William’s side and took his hand, chill and heavy in hers. “I am sorry,” she choked out.

“No, you should not apologize. I was never a true Creator to you and I am sorry for it.”

“What shall I do now?” Tears ran down her cheeks.

“Luke is your Bearleader. My successor. He will do what is necessary now we have fought. I have asked for clemency for you.”

“Why should I need clemency? But what of you? Is there nothing we can do?”

He smiled. “Dear Jane. Do not forget me. I know you wish to return your niece to her family, but stay here until I am gone. Yet first I must speak to my other fledglings alone.”

She withdrew into the care of Clarissa and Dorcas who sat with her, grave and silent. They offered their wrists but she shook her head; she knew she should dine, as weak and shaken as she was, but she longed for Luke’s blood.

Luke and Raphael looked up to glance at her at one point: she could not see into their minds, but she knew they spoke of her. Her feelings of foreboding increased. Why should she need clemency?

One of Duval’s followers joined them, kneeling by William’s side.

“That is Charlotte. She is Duval’s successor,” Clarissa said.

Charlotte and Luke stood, bowed, and exchanged a formal kiss. A brief conversation followed, and Jane caught the name of her niece in their exchange.

“They will negotiate peace,” Dorcas said. “But William has asked that Charlotte return your niece, and she has agreed.”

“I cannot leave William,” Jane said. “But I must fetch her from Prowtings.”

The two women looked at each other, and Jane had the strong impression they held a private conversation.

“All in good time,” Clarissa said. “She is in no danger now.”

The two groups of the Damned stayed with their fallen leaders until sunset. Jane was summoned again to William’s side. Jane was aware of a silent conversation that continued among the three men, as though they spoke in a far-off room, and she caught the occasional fragment of a word.

So absorbed had she been in her own grief and bewilderment at her state of Damnation, the fight to throw off random sensations and keep her mind clear, and her growing hunger, that she had barely noticed nightfall or the preparations for William and Duval.

Two funeral pyres now stood in the meadow, and footmen moved among the company with wine. Stanchions held torches, and flames were reflected in the eyes of the Damned, the darkness of the wine.

William stirred and spoke. “Burn the knives also. One should be kept for each household. That is all.”

His hand slipped from Luke’s.

Luke bent to breathe into his Creator’s mouth, trying to bring him back, but raised his head, tears spilling from his eyes. “He is gone.”

He stood and embraced Raphael and Jane. “You must take some sustenance, for you are both little better than new fledglings yet.”

He called for wine and bit into his wrist, allowing a generous amount to fall into the glass.

Jane drank and passed the glass to Raphael. “When did it happen for you?”

He knew what she meant. “When I saw William fall. I wished to avenge him. I wish that task had not fallen upon you and that you do not have to suffer the consequences.” Tears ran down his face.

“What consequences?” she said. “William said something to me of asking for clemency. Is that what he referred to?”

He shook his head. “It is too much to bear,” he said. “He was my brother. My Creator. Now I shall lose everything I hold dear.”

The household crowded around to lift William’s body and carry it to the funeral pyre. Duval lay already on the other. The air was sharp with the scents of myrrh and other spices Jane did not recognize, and perfumed oil poured liberally over the wood.

Luke and Charlotte took flaming torches and set them to the wood. As the wood caught fire, the Damned crowded to unbuckle the graystone knives on their sleeves and throw them into the flames. Charlotte and Luke were the only ones who remained armed, and they each unbuckled their knives in a formal display.

The graystone sent great blue flames shooting from the heart of the fire, consuming the corpses and wood. Smoke obscured the stars and moon, for it was now night, yet as the flames subsided into a fiery glow Jane was surprised to see a lightening of the sky toward the east.

She approached Luke, who stood alone, hands clasped beneath his coattail. “It is almost dawn, sir.”

He shook his head. “I never thought to see the sun rise on a day when he was not with me.”

“I must fetch my niece and say farewell to my family.”

“You will return to the Great House then. You will need to dine and you must be there, for there is a particular matter we must deal with.”

“Of course.” She longed to take his hand or embrace him, to offer comfort. Did she not grieve, too, for a Creator who had but recently acknowledged her? “What is this matter you speak of, Luke?”

He did not reply, but unbuttoned his coat, flung it away, and unfastened his cuff. He presented his wrist. “You will need strength for what you have to do with your niece. She must not remember too much of what has happened—do you understand?”

“I—” But she was not thinking of Anna, she was thinking of the luxury of his blood, taking his wrist in her hand and biting, penetrating his skin, taking him; an act of love and longing and need. His breath caught and his other hand caressed her head as she drank from him and tasted the sweetness and sadness his blood offered. But it was not the gesture of a lover, for he had withdrawn from her, engulfed in grief.

She cleaned and breathed the small wound closed, wishing for more, and feeling almost drunk with the power of his blood. She rebuttoned his cuff. “I shall return, sir.”

“Yes,” he said. “You must. Honor demands it.” He leaned to kiss her forehead as he might that of a companion in battle.

She walked away from him as the night turned into day and the funeral pyres became gray ash. The Damned straggled back to the Great House, and a tentative piping from a bird brought the dawn chorus to life and awoke the day.

P
rowtings was deserted when Jane arrived, no smoke from an early morning kitchen fire rising from the chimneys, and the front door unlocked. She pushed it open and called out, fearing that some of
les Sales
had been left to guard it.

Dining room and drawing room were empty, with the remains of dinner on the table. Jane took a glass and an open bottle of wine—it would be stale but serve the purpose well enough—and went upstairs.

After tapping upon several doors and finding the bedchambers deserted, she found one where a sleepy voice bid her enter.

Anna, pale and languorous, lay in a four-poster bed, in a room that clearly she had shared with Duval.

“Oh,” she said, too weak to show much surprise, “it is you, Aunt Jane. I have been having such strange dreams. Terrible dreams.”

Of course she would, poor child, having taken some of Duval’s blood and thus finding herself linked to him.

“Good morning,” Jane said as cheerily as she could. “I’ve come to get you out of bed.”

“It is rather early, is it not? I feel so strange and tired.”

“This will set you up tolerably well.” Jane bit into her wrist and dribbled some blood into the glass, adding in some wine. She swirled the glass to mix it.

Anna blinked. “Duval would do that . . . Where is he, Aunt?”

Jane handed her the glass and looked into her niece’s eyes. “I am glad you have had a tolerable stay with your new friends. It is time for you to return home now. You spent your time here with the other ladies walking in the garden and playing upon their pianoforte, and there was dancing in the evenings. Duval was a dreadful flirt, but you are not in love with him.”

“Yes, Aunt.” Anna took the glass from Jane and drank.

Jane kicked a few articles of clothing that must have belonged to Duval beneath the bed and collected Anna’s garments together.

Anna had a little more energy now, and Jane helped her dress.

“Why is there a pair of gentleman’s boots here?” Anna asked.

“Oh, the servants must have put them in this bedchamber by mistake. Apparently they were not very efficient.” Jane tried to ignore the scents of blood and lust that lay heavy around the room. “Come, I need you to help with breakfast at home.”

Anna gazed at her, a perplexed expression on her face. “I—there is so much I cannot remember. Were you not here earlier? I remember your asking me to come home and help with breakfast another time. Have I been unwell?”

“You’re better now,” Jane said.

“And why are you dressed like a gentleman? There is something else, now, too. What has happened to you?”

“I’ll explain when we are home,” Jane said.

D
uring the short walk over the fields to the cottage, Anna darted quick, uncertain glances at Jane. Once, she stopped.

“Something terrible has happened to Duval.” Jane was about to deny it, when Anna added, “And to you, too, Aunt. You are so very strange and pale.”

“I shall explain all when we are home,” Jane said. Home. She no longer had a home, not in any sense Anna would recognize.

They entered the cottage by the back door, and Jacques the pug flew out to greet Anna, barking wildly, although when he saw Jane, he growled and lurked protectively at his mistress’s feet. Cassandra followed close behind. She looked as though she had been awake all night, and in tears.

“Anna! You are safe.” She embraced her niece. “Come, my dear. We’ll have tea in the parlor.”

“Cassandra, I—”

But Cassandra looked at her fearfully. Now she knew, and when Jane followed her into the parlor, she saw her mother flinch away from her.

“I’ll not harm you,” Jane said.

“I wish I could believe you,” Cassandra said. She put a protective arm around Anna. “Oh, tell me—the truth, I beg of you—that you did not use this child?”

What did they think she was? Was she not still their beloved Jane?—but she was changed now, rapidly becoming a stranger to them. She ignored her hurt and anger and answered Cassandra as calmly as she could. “I did not.”

“Aunt Jane came to bring me home,” Anna said. “They left me there alone, and I . . .” She shook her head. “I really cannot remember.”

“You must see how I am changed,” Jane said to her mother. “I have come to say farewell. Ma’am, I beg that you try to think well of me.”

“I am shamed,” Mrs. Austen said. “Our family is shamed that you should succumb to the lures of those wicked creatures, Jane!”

Her words struck Jane like daggers, but it was the vampire in her that made a cool and rational reply, even as she knew she would never see her mother again. “I assure you, ma’am, it was not my choice. I have prayed that this would not happen, but circumstances were against me. I would have given anything—anything!—to have remained mortal.”
Anything except my writing, which I may have lost now, too.

“I wish I could believe you,” her mother said.

“What—what happens now?” Cassandra said.

“You offer me a cup of tea,” Jane said.

“Oh, I beg your pardon. Yes, of course.” Cassandra handed her a cup that rattled upon the saucer, spilling tea.

“I don’t understand,” Anna said, glancing at her aunts and grandmother in turn. “What have you done, Aunt Jane?”

“My dear,” Jane said, “I have become one of the Damned and must shortly take my leave of you.”

“But—but you can’t be!” Anna cried. “Aunt Cassandra, ma’am, tell her she may not go!”

“I regret it is so,” Jane said. She put her half-drunk cup of tea down and buried her face in her hands. She would lose them all, lose Anna; never see Anna become the extraordinary woman she could be and not see her other nieces and nephews grow up. And she would lose Cassandra, beloved Cassandra.

She looked up and saw them staring at her, confused, fearful, angry. “Pity me,” she said. “Have pity on me. William is dead. My Creator is dead.”

“You will be lost to us,” Mrs. Austen said. “And do you intend to resume your liaison with Mr. Venning?”

“I wonder it concerns you at all, ma’am, since you consider me a thoroughly depraved creature by my own choice. I do assure you I have an eternity in which to break the Ten Commandments should I wish, but I believe in that particular matter it is the gentleman’s decision.” She thought again of Luke, remote in his grief; time would tell, she supposed, and time was all, everything, she had. Forever stretched ahead of her, barren, hopeless.