“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.
Prowtings 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.
During 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.
“We shall never see you again?” Cassandra asked.
“It is probably for the best.” She held out her hand and Cassandra took it; she wished she had not, receiving a wild storm of anger and misery from her sister. “My dear, there are some manuscripts I have been working on; you must do with them as you see fit, and also the one the publisher holds to ransom. I have little enough else to give you. You and Anna may have my jewelry and my music. My worldly goods are few, I fear. And Martha—where is she?”
But as she spoke, Martha rushed into the room and flung herself into Jane’s arms. “I shall never forget you, my dearest friend!”
“Nor I you. Pray have my silk stockings; you regard them as yours, anyway, and my books.”
“What happened at the Great House last night?” Martha said. “They say there were great blue flames shooting into the sky and the villagers thought it something from the Book of Revelation.”
“They were almost right. William is gone. And so is Duval.”
“Oh, Jane!” Martha produced a handkerchief and dabbed at the tears on Jane’s cheeks.
“Where has Duval gone?” Anna said.
“He has gone to a warmer climate.”
“It is no laughing matter!” Mrs. Austen said.
“Ma’am, either I laugh or I weep. You are impervious to my tears, yet I must not laugh; what do you expect of me?” Jane stood. “But you have little enough time to dwell on the matter for I must leave. Think well of me, if you can, ma’am. I beg you to remember only happier times. Cassandra, will you kiss me good-bye?”
Cassandra gave her a quick, shamed kiss.
Anna embraced Jane. “You’re so cold, Aunt. Will I truly never see you again?”
“I fear not.” She kissed her niece’s sweet delicate cheek. “Pray give your father my love.”
Anna burst into tears and ran from the room.
“I’ll come to see you.” Martha gathered her in a fierce embrace. “I shall tell you how everyone does. Dear Jane, this need not be so final as you think.”
“It must be. I shall lose the human qualities that make me your daughter, sister, friend. Pray do not seek me out, but remember me, I beg of you. Forgive me, dearest friend.”
She cast one last, agonized glance at her mother and gently pushed Martha away. She stood for a moment in the ordinary, comfortable drawing room she would never see again: the music she had copied stood on the instrument, and the volume of Cowper from which they had read aloud only a few nights ago lay on a small table. On the sofa someone’s sewing lay in a tumbled heap, a project she would never see completed. Cassandra sat weeping, with Martha standing bewildered in the middle of the room.
Her mother looked resolutely away, her face like stone.
Jane let herself out of the front door of the cottage, pulling her hat low over her face once more, and set off for the Great House. Thus she had left the house the last time, thinking that nothing could be as painful as the revelation of her true nature to her family.
She could not reach out to Luke. She suspected he was immersed in a grief for William so deep she had no understanding of it, for to her William had been an imperfect Creator for a brief time. What comfort could she offer Luke?
The funeral pyres smoldered still in the meadow, a group of her brother Edward’s tenants standing on the driveway and speculating what those great bonfires could mean, with the blue flames that had illuminated the trees almost as bright as day. They took no notice of her as she passed.
As she approached t
he Great House her uneasiness intensified. What was expected of her now, and why, as William lay dying, had he negotiated clemency for her? She had so much to learn among the Damned, and although once she had been one of them and Luke’s Consort, now Luke’s status had changed; everything was different.
The front door opened as she approached. Inside, Luke waited.
He bowed. “Your niece is well, I trust?”
“Thank you, yes. She is—she is safe now.” She could not say the words at home or with my family; the wounds were still too fresh.
She stepped toward him. “How do you do, Luke?”
“Well enough, ma’am, I thank you.”
Two members of the Damned emerged from the doorway that led to the Great Hall; she recognized them as Charlotte’s followers.
“We ask that you give up your weapons,” Luke said.
For heaven’s sake; what damage could she possibly do any of them with a pair of unloaded pistols and a knife? And why was Luke so formal and distant with her? She handed over the weapons to the other two vampires.
“You must come with us,” one of them said.
“Why?” She turned to Luke. “Forgive me, but will you not tell me what is the matter? Of what am I accused?”
Luke took her hands. His touch was gentle but held a hint of steel. “Jane, you are to go on trial for the destruction of Duval.”
“What! After he killed William?”
“There were protocols that should have been observed. They were not.”
No use to argue that she had no knowledge of protocol or rules, that Luke should have warned her. He was in her mind, finally, now, speaking of love and regret and sorrow. But he said aloud to her, so the others might hear, “I must do this, Jane, however much it goes against my heart, to establish a lasting peace. There has been too much destruction and sorrow.”
“I understand, sir.” You act as a leader, not a lover.
Precisely. I am sorry for it.
“I, too,” she said aloud and let herself be led away.
Chapter 21
“I have to stay in here all day?” Jane said, outraged.
Jane Austen: Blood Persuasion Page 21
