Twice Bitten

by R. G. Emanuelle

  "Miss Rose," Bridget called again, more insistently. "Please let me in. You can trust me."

  Rose heard the familiar tone in Bridget's voice that meant she was being sincere. Bridget had been a second mother to her, had raised her, and had shown just about every side of herself to her. Rose could read her like a book. Bridget had said that Rose could trust her, and Rose knew it to be true.

  Still, this was not like any other situation Rose had been in. This was a life-or-death matter, and she couldn't say with one hundred percent certainty that Bridget wouldn't try to stop her.

  The knocking continued, and with each rap, Rose's heart skipped a beat. Finally, she went to the door and opened it a crack. What would Bridget say at Rose's wearing her riding outfit this late in the evening, when she was supposed to be going to bed, never mind trousers? "Yes, Bridget. What do you want?" Rose asked through the crack in the door.

  "Let me in, Miss Rose," Bridget said. "I promise, I only want to help."

  Cautiously, Rose opened the door more, just enough to let the housekeeper slip her plump body in. Once Bridget's entire form was in the room, she quickly closed the door and locked it. She turned to face Bridget, bracing herself for whatever tongue lashing she was about to get.

  Bridget pursed her lips, obviously taking in the riding costume, but said nothing. Instead, she slipped a hand into the enormous pocket of her apron.

  What is she pulling out? A bible, so we can pray? A wooden spoon to spank me with? Rose felt like a child about to be punished for stealing sweets from the pantry.

  When Bridget's hand emerged from the pocket, it held what looked like a rope. Is she going to lash me? Or am I supposed to flagellate myself now? She had no time for nonsense. She had to leave soon.

  Bridget held out the rope. "Here. Take this. It might help you."

  Rose looked at the rope for a moment, then took it in her hands. It was thin, more like twine than rope, and dark, but streaked with lighter strands throughout. "What is this?"

  "Rope, made from the bark of a hawthorn tree."

  Rose stared at Bridget, waiting for further explanation. But it seemed as if Bridget was waiting for her to speak next. "What is this for?"

  Bridget waited some more before responding. Rose tried to understand what Bridget was trying to tell her, but was completely lost.

  Finally, Bridget spoke. "To help you kill Miss Fiona."

  Rose gasped and almost dropped the rope. She knew? Obviously she knew, but did she know why she was going to kill Fiona? God, what was Bridget thinking?

  Rose's breath became as quick as her heart rate. She tried to speak but nothing came out of her mouth.

  "I know about her, my dear," Bridget said. "I saw the signs. The paleness, the way she cringed in the sunlight, never took a sip of tea or a bite of sweets."

  Rose hadn't thought that anyone else would notice that. But, then, Bridget was very clever and noticed almost everything. "You know what she is?"

  Bridget nodded, then continued her explanation where she left off. "And the other morning, when you weren't well and wouldn't show me your neck and wouldn't undress in front of me, it was then that I was sure."

  Rose was amazed. In such a short amount of time, with just a minimum of evidence, Bridget had pegged Fiona. Why hadn't she been able to do that before she'd been victimized by her? "But how did you know that I...that is, Urs..." Did she know about Ursula's involvement? Or anything else? Rose's scalp tingled at the thought that Bridget might know everything.

  "I followed you to Miss Ursula's the past couple of days. And when the Lundbergs' housekeeper rang to say you were staying late, I knew it was not to discuss the Society."

  Rose stretched out the rope in her hand and was even more confused. "But what about this rope? How will this help?"

  "As I said, it's made from the bark of the hawthorn tree. The hawthorn tree is sacred, holy. No evil can fight against it." She placed her hand beneath a piece of rope that was hanging between Rose's hands and lifted it slightly, as if handling a delicate strand of pearls. "If you capture her head within it, she will have a hard time fighting you. She will struggle against it. That will give you time to do whatever you must do."

  Bridget lowered her hand then moved closer to Rose. Placing her hands on both sides of Rose's head, she leaned in close and kissed her on the forehead. "God speed, child." With that, she unlocked the door and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  Stunned, Rose stared at the door a moment. Maybe people held surprises deep inside after all. Hadn't she, after all, surprised herself? Surprises. Fiona and Ursula had both been surprises, too.

  The lateness of the night struck her and she rushed over to the window. She collected the rope into a neat circle and, using the ends, she tied it to a loop on the inside of her riding jacket, meant to hold a handkerchief. She buttoned up the jacket and pulled on her gloves. A hat was the final item she needed.

  Throwing her legs over the sill, her heart began its hard rhythm again and she had a momentary doubt about whether she could do this. She pounded on the ledge with her hands, as if to test the stone, and sat on it, her legs dangling. The events of the last few days, and the education she'd received, played through her head. Her conclusion was that her life had changed permanently, and whether she went to help Ursula or not, she'd never be the same again. The difference was, if she didn't help her, Ursula might die, Fiona would come for Rose, and Rose would die. And if she lived, it would be with the weight of her failure on her shoulders for the rest of her life. If she did help Ursula, both of their lives would be spared...God willing...and while she'd have some difficulty being with Ursula and not arousing suspicion about the true nature of their relationship, she'd at least be happy.

  There was no decision to be made. What had to be done, had to be done. She threw her bag down to the ground, then shimmied across the ledge on her behind. When she'd gotten close enough, she reached over to the rose trellis that was secured to the wall and hooked her hands in between the lattice. She used all her might to pull herself onto the trellis, and hugged the shaky wood. It had seemed sturdier from her window and from the street, but with her hands and feet in between the slats, she prayed that she wouldn't crash, trellis and all, to the ground. What she feared more than getting hurt was getting caught. If she fell, she'd disturb the entire household and the plan would be ruined.

  Slowly, carefully, she brought each foot lower and lower, feeling for and finding purchase in the spaces between the slats, until she reached the bottom.

  With her feet planted firmly on the ground, her resolve returned. Funny, it didn't seem as far a drop looking up as it did looking down. She supposed that's how most difficult decisions in life were...the anticipation of what you are about to do is more frightening than the actual deed. Then, when it was done, it wasn't as bad as you thought it would be.

  She picked up her bag and with her spine straight, she walked toward the park.

  I only hope I can say that when this night is over.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  URSULA ENTERED THE room with the sense that she was doing something wrong. She'd not entered this room since Damen had died and the strangeness...and familiarity...of the space made her shiver. She had run into this room, laughing and singing, so many times, just to catch a glimpse of the older brother she'd adored. The way he stood, the way he smiled, the way he spoke, even the way he dressed so smartly in his pressed trousers and fine-fitting jackets, were all things she'd wanted to emulate. Oh, how handsome he'd been. Everywhere they went, girls would flirt with him shamelessly. It must have been his sapphire-blue eyes and delicate, smooth features.

  Damen had been much older than Ursula and, even though he had treated her with kindness and affection, he rarely had time to spend with her. So, in the midst of her playing, she'd charge into his room, catching him as he dressed for his evening with his fiance or a night at the theater with a group of friends. He'd grin briefly before scolding her.


  "Little girls should mind their own affairs," he'd say sternly.

  "I'm not minding anyone's affairs but my own," Ursula would respond.

  Damen would walk over to Ursula with a frown on his face and shoo her out. "You go on, Ursie, and work on your sewing. It leaves something to be desired."

  Ursula would stick her tongue out at him and turn to leave. But always, as she stepped over the threshold, he patted her on the head. "Fresh girl," he'd say. At that, Ursula would turn around, pouting, and he would wink at her.

  Seeing all his things now, just as he'd left them, made those memories fresh, and the pain of his death gripped her again. Typhoid had taken Damen at twenty-one, and sadness had almost taken her parents. Often, Ursula had quietly made her way up the staircase, hidden behind the balustrade, and caught her mother slowly turning the knob to catch the latch quietly as she exited this room, the very room she'd commanded that no one should enter ever again.

  As hard as she'd tried to fill the void for her parents, their sorrowful looks and the bleakness that had filled the house after his death told her she'd failed.

  In Damen's wardrobe hung his suits and shirts, and his shoes were lined up uniformly on the bottom ledge. She pulled open the top drawer and let her fingers reverently touch the scarves and ties that she'd watched him put on so many times. More than once, she'd snuck in and tried them on herself, admiring her image in the mirror. Even though she and Damen had been born with the same blond hair and blue eyes, Ursula always felt that Damen had gotten the good looks.

  There was no trace of dust, either on the shoulders of the jackets or on the soft leather of the boots. Ursula looked around and was surprised at how fresh everything looked, as if Damen were still alive, using the brush on the tall bureau, the pen and inkwell on the rolltop desk, the pitcher and basin in the washstand. The curtains were clean and crisp and the bed was smooth and fluffed. So, Mama was keeping his things neat and his room tidy. That was her purpose for coming into this room time and time again. Realizing this made Ursula's heart ache, not for herself but for her mother. How terrible it must be to lose a child. How terrible to lose any loved one.

  Her thoughts crashed back to Rose and she remembered why she'd come into Damen's room. Yes, it was terrible to lose a loved one. She'd already lost her wonderful brother and poor Emily. She didn't intend to lose Rose, too, and she would do anything to save her. Damen would help her.

  She turned back to the wardrobe. For the first time since Damen's death, Ursula handled his clothing. It was almost as if they'd been preserved there for her, for this night. She chose a suit and a shirt, then removed her dress and undergarments, leaving only her bloomers on. Her heartbeat sped up as she stepped into the pin-striped trousers. Tightening the strap in the back with the adjustable hook, she prayed that no one would catch her. Already she was perspiring and was thankful that the wing-tip shirt was pleated down the back, making it puff out and giving her skin room to breathe. The vest closed with mother-of-pearl buttons and its red background was embroidered with dragons, a nod to their Scandinavian heritage. She pulled the black jacquard tie over her head, tied it around her neck, and tucked it into the vest. She stopped briefly with her hand on the tie and squeezed the knot as she remembered, when Damen had taught her to tie one after she'd harassed him about it. Finally, she pulled on the jacket. She'd chosen a morning coat, which reached down to the middle of her thighs, rather than a shorter sack coat, because it would hide her feminine form. If she were seen, in this coat, and in the dark, she might... please, God...pass as a man. Her hair tucked under the bowler hat might ensure that.

  Looking at herself in the mirror, Ursula tried to assess if anyone would be able to tell she was female or if she would attract attention of any sort. No, she just might get away with it. What stunned her, though, was that the image reflected in the mirror was her brother. She was as tall now as he had been, and looked more like him than she'd ever realized. For the first time, she saw a glimmer of her brother's attractiveness emanating from herself. Amazing what a different set of clothes could do for a person.

  As she stared at her reflection, a strange sense of separation from herself occurred and she became aware of a shift. Donning her brother's clothing had transformed her, but the transformation was not just physical. There was a new person emerging. Or, perhaps an old version of herself, the one that was strong-willed and fearless. The one who had been cowering in the corner ever since Emily's death. Except this time, she would not fail to protect the one she loved. She couldn't. At her core, she felt stronger. There was a mending of her soul and a solidification of her courage. She had a purpose.

  The feeling that she was doing something wrong vanished. Now she knew it was right, almost as if Damen had given her permission to enter his room. Perhaps he, somehow, even told her to do it.

  The clothes were out of style but not terribly so. There'd been a shift in fashion since Damen had worn them, but the pieces she chose were passable. The important thing was that she needed to be comfortable, able to move easily and assuredly. Besides, she wasn't going to a party. She was going to a slaying.

  She folded her own clothes and placed them inside the wardrobe, covering them as best she could underneath Damen's things, just in case her mother came in later. Quietly, she closed the door to Damen's room behind her and went down the staircase. Everyone had retired for the evening, but she still prayed that no one was wandering around in the house. She held her breath until she made it into her father's study, then exhaled.

  The weapons on the wall suddenly looked sharp, heavy, and dangerous. The idea of using one sent a chill of excitement up her spine. Her father wouldn't be pleased with her taking them down and using them. She turned to the desk guiltily, as if her father were sitting there, watching her. She'd taken the weapons down many times to feel them, study them, and pretend with them, but she'd always cleaned them up and put them back exactly as she'd found them. Her father never knew. Or, if he did, he'd never said anything.

  But if Papa knew her purpose this night, he wouldn't hesitate to let her use them. She was a girl and he would fear for her, but her purpose was noble, and a noble cause was something Rolf reveled in. Would he even believe her? Yes, he would. As educated as he was, Rolf had brought with him a little of the Old Country's superstitions. His collection of occult books also proved his interest in the supernatural.

  Looking at the weapons again, Ursula felt a sense of pride in her task. Rolf would be proud of her. She chose a silver dagger and the Swedish pepperbox revolver. The swords would do her no good, for she had never been able to wield the heavy forged-steel blades, and without training, they'd be more of a danger to her than to any vampire. At least she had held the dagger in her hands before and practiced thrusting. The weight and feel of the hilt were familiar to her.

  The gun she'd held and aimed but never actually shot, but if her target practice with pebbles and a slingshot as a child was any indication, she had pretty good aim. She and the boys would throw pebbles at random objects they'd find and line up on a low wall or fence railing. They had even taken to targeting birds until Ursula felt remorse for the ones she'd injured and went back to inanimate objects. All she needed was to get a bull's-eye into Fiona's heart. Easier said than done.

  The dagger fit nicely in her boot, but the pistol in the waistband of her trousers felt a little uncomfortable, the grip sticking into her ribs. Not wearing a corset was immensely freeing, but without that layer of coutille and stays, she felt more vulnerable. She hoped that she could deflect anything that came her way.

  As Ursula thought of the hunt that lay before her, a sense of exhilaration swept through her. Helping Rose was the main goal tonight, but there was something else in it, too. This would be one of the adventures she'd always craved. She would be a brave hero, the knight in shining armor, a sheriff bringing in a criminal. Her skin tingled and a nervous heat of anticipation rose in her neck. Her stomach was clenched tight with both fear and thrill, and this
sensation carried her, as if on air, to the front door.

  The door squeaked and for a moment, Ursula thought Mrs. Troy would rush down the stairs in her nightgown and lecture her about going out at such a late hour...and alone! But maybe she wouldn't recognize Ursula in Damen's clothing and would start screaming to see a man standing in the entrance hall. That wouldn't be good at all.

  She held her breath for a moment, and when no noise came from any part of the house, she exhaled and went out.

  While still on the top step, she checked her weapons, straightened her clothing, and adjusted the hat on her head. Quickly, she went the few steps to the carriage house, right next to the main house, and slipped into the stable where her horse stood placidly. She knew that the groom had come through and had Zisa saddled up late that evening so that she'd be ready for Ursula when it was time. She didn't feel guilty for buying the groom's silence because she knew that he really needed the money in order to buy his girl an engagement ring, and she smiled knowing that he would run to the jeweler's first thing in the morning.

  Zisa whinnied softly as Ursula mounted her. "Shhh, Zisa. Be a good girl and stay quiet." She stroked the horse's mane as she whispered soothingly into her ear.

  Her familiar cluck got Zisa moving, and once out into the street, she urged her into a trot, and then into a canter. She would have preferred to gallop the entire way, she was so anxious to get there, but she was afraid of drawing attention. As it was, she'd be lucky if a police officer didn't stop her and ask where she was going at this time of night. If that happened, though, she'd simply say that she had difficulty sleeping and decided to go for a ride. It would sound a bit odd but as long as she wasn't breaking any laws, the officer would have to let her be on her way. And with any luck, her gender would not come into question.

  When the park came into view, Ursula breathed a sigh of relief and thanked God that no one had stopped her. As she approached the rendezvous, she slowed Zisa down to a walk and went around the corner, where she could tie the horse up without being seen.