Lace and Blade 2

by Deborah J. Ross

  “Taking the lives of others is evil,” Jane said. “A breaking of one of the Ten Commandments.”

  “Broken every day, not only by your criminals, but your own governments.”

  “That may be true, but that does not make it right.”

  “Right! In my castle, my commandments are the only law we obey. Conduct her to her chamber, that she might reflect,” the Count said to the vampires. “And make certain that she has pen and paper for her letter.”

  Jane’s last glimpse of Miss Evelyn was of her vacant gaze, her profile outlined against the fire.

  And so, my sister, here I am, writing to you as a way of setting out my thoughts. Now, what I have surmised is this: there is no use in refusing to believe the evidence of eyes and ears. There is indeed a terrible power in these Creatures.

  But at the same time, that Power appears to have its limitations, though I was not told of those. Sunlight, I suspect, is one. There has to be a reason the Count only travels about at night, and keeps the shutters nailed. The most important question is this. Is there a second limitation on the vampires, one that goes beyond morality to the Supernatural? I refer to the rosary, specifically the Crucifix. Outside of the castle, even the most humble wore them, and moved about freely. The meek servants here do not have them, making me wonder if the these servants are forced to serve a vile purpose when they do not serve in other ways. In short, they are prisoners, which would explain the reaction of the serving girl to whom I gave my Crucifix. What power has this symbol?

  My understanding of Holy Communion is that it is not the thing, but the essence of the thing which celebrates our faith,

  which furnishes the sacred connection to Providence. If that is true, then there is power not in the Crucifix itself, but in the faith behind it? Miss Crawfurd’s response to the Crucifix in my hand just before the Count came convinces me that I am in the way of it.

  Though my faith in Divine Providence is strong, I do not know that my dangling a Crucifix before these vampires will avert them. I was not raised to express my faith through this symbol. We speak less of miracles—though it seems here I am surrounded by anti-miracles—than of grace.

  But if it is true there are Galvanic Sparks that can be Harnessed, and that faith (faith in evil as well as faith in good) provides the motivator for either the propagation or the limitation of Evil Powers, then Providence already gave me my own Power: my imagination.

  And so I end this account, which either will be found when I am gone, or—if I succeed—you and I might read it together, and then burn it, because I will never tell the world of this experience. Only you will understand what was in my heart, or know of the power I once gripped in my hand. The power of force is evil. The power of imagination, I believe, can be used for good.

  To that I will dedicate my life, however long I am given.

  ~o0o~

  Screams echoed through the castle, high shrill screams that shivered on the air like the rubbing of fingers round the rim of crystal glasses.

  Jane was still writing when the door to her chamber was struck open by an angry hand, and Maria Crawfurd stood on the threshold, her eyes quite wild. “What have you done?” she demanded.

  “I employed my genius,” Jane replied, but her accuser was too incensed to suspect irony. So she explained, “I used my imagination to summon the galvanic powers gathered here, and described the opening of all locks, the unfastening of shutters, that we might gain the benefit of light and air.” She pointed her quill at the window, from which slants of golden afternoon light patterned on the stone floor.

  “The Count—what have you done to the Count? His face—he’s transformed into a vile Semitic peasant!”

  “I described him with the countenance he despises most,” Jane said. “I hope his new face will teach him compassion, if not wisdom.”

  “You stupid fool!” Maria advanced on Jane. “He’s gone! The vampires are all gone down to the crypt and locked themselves within!”

  Actually, that was not quite true. One remained, watching.

  “My brother is trying to rouse them now—it might be months—it might be years before they dare emerge!”

  Jane had packed her belongings. “I trust they will have cause to reflect. After all, if one is to claim to be a superior being, should not one’s actions reflect a superior standard of civilization?”

  Maria’s face twisted with hatred. “And so, with your hypocritical countrified convictions you condemn us all to a short existence and ugly old age. Jane Austen and her duplicity! I am glad you will never amount to anything.”

  “I hope I am no hypocrite. But that is a battle we must fight every day, to choose what is right even when we are surrounded by foolishness and venality. Or evil.” Jane indicated the rest of the castle with her quill, trying to hide how frightened she was.

  “Fight for what?” Maria retorted. “The only battle worth fighting is against age, and ugliness. There is nothing I will not do to remain young and beautiful. Nothing.”

  Jane did not point out that the hatred distorting Maria’s features did not make her beautiful now. Instead, she put pen to paper, and looked at up Maria Crawfurd with intent. “I think I will—”

  Maria turned and fled.

  “—put you in a book.”

  ~o0o~

  The servants stripped the castle of its treasures as they fled. The Crawfurds departed in the only coach, leaving the Austens and Miss Evelyn behind, but some of the servants— perhaps aware of who their benefactress had been—aided them in leaving.

  In the chaos of departure, Jane Austen’s papers vanished, but she was too hurried to search for them. By the time they reached civilization again, Charles Austen had recovered from Maria Crawfurd’s spell, and Miss Evelyn had never noticed anything amiss. She had been too bespelled by her visions of fame to notice anything around her not made of stone.

  Those visions had to remain just that. The world was not agog at her drawings, and as she had not thought to sketch any of her companions, even a later mention of having traveled with Jane Austen did not raise much interest, as she had no proof to offer but a cross-hatched series of ruins and gargoyles much like anyone else’s.

  As for Jane Austen, she had only sixteen more years to live—an eyeblink in the existence of a vampire—so she could not know that the Count and some of his companions would eventually dare the world again, nearly a century later. And because they had not learned either the compassion or the principles that Jane had tried to teach them, they were defeated, this time more permanently.

  That left the castle to me—the one who had taken Jane Austen’s papers, and who eventually obtained her other writings, as well as the subsequent imaginings of the men and women Jane Austen influenced, minds both wise and foolish, visionary and telluric.

  It has been well over a century since the Count, driven by passion and greed, emerged to attempt the recovery of his powers, and two centuries since his first defeat via the pen in the small hands of a plain little woman. Though he desired the regenerative influence of genius, he did not understand its power.

  I will not make the same mistake.

  Rent Girl

  by Traci N. Castleberry

  Traci N. Castleberry says she first met Orossy (that’s or-OH-see) when he appeared in her novel in a tavern wearing a dress and she had to figure out a reasonable explanation as to why. “Rent Girl” takes place after the events in that novel.

  By night, Traci works in a hotel security department in the Arizona desert helping to corral a variety of creatures including rattlesnakes, tarantulas, lizards, javelina and lost guests. By day she serves her Lipizzan mare, Carrma, who provided the inspiration for several M/M paranormal romance books includingCapriole and Levade. Along with her pen names Evey Brett and Nica Berry, Traci has been published with Lethe Press, Loose Id, Carina Press, Ellora's Cave and Cleis Press. She's attended workshops such as Clarion, Taos Toolbox, the Lambda Literary Retreat for Emerging LGBT Writers and has an MA in
Writing Popular Fiction from Seton Hill University. Visit Traci and her alter egos online at www.orossy.com

  In this tale of inner strength and the healing power of love, Traci asks some hard questions: How do we accept love when we believe ourselves to be unlovable? How do we reconcile and nourish the masculine and feminine aspects of ourselves, especially when the prevailing expectations force us to be only one or the other?

  Orossy shivered in the cold, gray morning. Feisal’s warm body curled beside him in the same bed they’d shared for the past month, in the same comfortably cluttered room. Yet Orossy felt far away, stifled, choked—

  “’Rossy? What’s wrong?”

  He couldn’t talk, trapped in a nightmare. Men surrounded him, held him fast. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get away...

  “’Rossy? Another dream?” Feisal’s voice brought him back. After a moment: “Another memory?”

  With a nod, Orossy pressed his back against Feisal’s broad chest and felt strong arms wrap around him. He still wasn’t used to being able to trust anyone as deeply as he trusted Feisal. It scared him as much as the dream had.

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  He didn’t. Not really. Nor did he need to; Feisal knew almost as much of Orossy’s past as Orossy himself. “The tavern,” he said. It didn’t matter which day.

  “Ah,” was all Feisal said. It was all he needed to say. With his Healer’s mind, he loosed threads of soothing dennar into Orossy’s body. The panic ebbed, but the fear remained. “I’ll make you some tea.”

  “I don’t like tea.” Orossy got up to follow Feisal anyway. Feisal tossed him a robe, and Orossy wrapped himself in the blue silk. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t.” Feisal looked at him with exasperation tempered by love. “I won’t be able to sleep if you can’t.”

  A light already burned in the kitchen. Jussi, the Lord Governor’s steward, crouched beside the stove, dressed in working clothes, a gray jacket and pants. The kitchen, as always, offered comfort. Wooden panels covered the floor. Near the stove stood an oven and a short wooden table with a pair of three-legged stools. Shelves lined the walls, housing pots and dishes from all over the continent. A kettle of water boiled on the stove, and a plate of rice cakes sat ready. Orossy took one and nibbled on it. Jussi always knew what they needed.

  Feisal raised an eyebrow. “Up a bit early, aren’t you?”

  The steward set out three stoneware cups, leaf-shaped in honor of the arrival of spring, and poured out hot tea. “Everything must be in order for your father’s return.”

  The rice cake turned tasteless in Orossy’s mouth. Lady’s grace, what would the most powerful man in the territory think of his son’s new lover? Feisal should have someone his equal, not a half-breed tavern brat.

  “’Rossy?”

  Feisal rubbed Orossy’s arm. Orossy flinched. “Everything will be fine. He already knows about you.”

  Feisal handed him the cup. It smelled faintly of orange. Orossy wrapped his hands around it and shifted his gaze to Jussi. Whatever the steward knew, the Lord Governor surely knew.

  Until Feisal’s warm hand covered his, Orossy hadn’t realized he was shaking badly enough to spill a few drops of tea. “It will be fine,” Feisal repeated. “I promise.”

  “It will be different.” Lady have mercy. As if it weren’t bad enough to be the object of whispers and stares whenever he went out of the house or worked in the Infirmary. Now he’d be watched, measured, found wanting, inside the house, too.

  Feisal ran a hand through Orossy’s long hair, curling a lock around his fingers. “Don’t worry. He’ll like you as you are.” He yawned. “Maybe I can sleep little more after all. Coming?”

  “I should study.” Forcing a smile, Orossy kissed Feisal on the cheek. Inside, he felt like screaming. As you are, Feisal had said. Did he have any idea how hard that was to figure out?

  ~o0o~

  Orossy dressed quietly in the dim light. Feisal was already asleep, twitching in his dreams. The Healer might not have Infirmary duty until mid-morning, but classes started early for Orossy. He rubbed his temples, already feeling a headache from the stress of lessons. His lack of education was another reason he felt inadequate. He had more dennar than Feisal, being able to read minds and emotions as well as heal, but he’d never learned how to use it properly. Lady’s grace, he’d never even been able to write his own name until Jussi showed him last month.

  He adjusted his uniform, a long-sleeved blue tunic, belt, and a matching pair of pants worn by both male and female students. The leather boots he would pick up on his way out; no one wore shoes inside the house. He cinched the belt and caught a shadowed glimpse of himself in the mirror, struck again by the image that could be either male or female.

  Feisal loved men. Always had, which made Orossy worry. Surely it was only a matter of time before Feisal asked him to put away the feminine accoutrements and be as the gods had formed him. A man. And, more than likely, the Lord Governor would have his own ideas about an appropriate pairing for his son. Lord Maddren certainly wouldn’t approve of an uneducated tavern brat who couldn’t decide which sex he was.

  Out of habit, he started to braid his hair in the feminine style. Catching himself, he pulled loose two braids, leaving one on either side of his face. The masculine style. It looked foreign. He could get used to it, couldn’t he? For Feisal’s sake? After all, Feisal had done so much already, teaching him that love was something more than the physical. Orossy owed him something in return.

  He crept to the cabinet and eased the bottom drawer open. There lay the dresses he loved, along with the cincher and other accessories to enhance his femininity. For one last moment, Orossy ran his hands through the fine fabrics before he took everything out of the drawer and wrapped it into a bundle. As of today, there would be no more Rossa. She was dead.

  Orossy bent over to give Feisal a kiss on the forehead. His lover’s dreams were pleasant; a light touch of dennar ensured they stayed that way.

  Leaving Feisal to sleep, he slung the leather satchel with his books over his shoulder. Jussi was still in the kitchen. Orossy thrust the bundle of clothes at the curious steward. “Get rid of these. Please.” Not able to bear seeing what Jussi did with them, Orossy pulled his boots on and hurried out into the damp gray morning.

  Two days. He had two days to turn himself into someone presentable and respectable, a man worthy of the Lord Governor’s son.

  ~o0o~

  An education certainly seemed like a good way to become a worthy man, but every class only served to remind Orossy of how much he lagged behind the others. This particular class, the history and ethics of the city, had a mix of students, most of whom had some form of dennar. Orossy was one of two studying to be a Healer; far fewer people had the dennar for healing than for mind-reading and empathy, and those few were badly needed. Five or six students were the children of affluent council members. Others hoped to be apprenticed in various trades, but it was obvious that none came from a background like Orossy’s. They talked and joked easily with each other. None of them had trouble with the subject material, having been born and raised within the city. As long as the teacher, Healer Deverrin, explained things aloud, Orossy could understand and remember. He’d always had a good memory. It was when they were expected to work out of their books that Orossy ran into trouble.

  Like now, when he sat at a desk in the first row of an Infirmary classroom. Birdsong outside an open window distracted him as much as the muted thoughts of his peers. He’d first wondered if Deverrin picked on him because Deverrin was a Healer himself, but Orossy had since realized that the Healer took every chance he could to humiliate someone he thought undeserving of admittance into their elite order. Deverrin had only asked him one question all morning and Orossy had answered poorly, opening himself up for another round of degradation.

  “No, Orossy, that’s not correct. Didn’t you look over your text?” Deverrin said with thinly veiled disdain. “Try again. Tomorrow I
expect a written explanation of when dennar should and should not be used by a Healer, and you will read it to your classmates.” He addressed the rest of the class, all of them fourteen or fifteen years old to Orossy’s nineteen. Several of them were slouched, bored, in their chairs. “See that the rest of you study well enough so as not to follow...his example. Dismissed.”

  Orossy felt the usual heat flood his face. Everyone, it seemed, had noticed his change in hairstyle. As if it weren’t hard enough dealing with differences in age and learning, he had to endure the constant stares and unshielded thoughts.

  It’s a gutter brat. How’d it ever sneak in here?

  It’s from Tavern Street. What made it ever think that it could be a Healer? I wouldn’t ask it for help even if I were dying.

  Orossy gritted his teeth and pretended not to be aware. Healers were supposed to be compassionate and open-minded, a creed Deverrin espoused while not practicing it himself. Deverrin collected a few papers and walked out of the room, trailed by a student asking questions. Orossy picked up his books to leave.

  “What’s the matter? Need some help with your homework?” a boy taunted from behind him. “Need someone to read to you?” A foot curled around Orossy’s ankle and jerked, knocking him off-balance.

  The books clattered to the floor. Fuming, Orossy bent over to pick them up. He hadn’t told Feisal how bad things were; he didn’t want his lover to think he couldn’t take care of himself. For all his experience in dealing with adults, dealing with young men was completely different. He looked at them, the burly Hannik and the rat-like Johnen, wary.

  “We can help, can’t we?” Hannik said, jabbing his friend in the ribs.