by Minda Webber
Jane rolled her eyes. The 1795 vampire story again? She wanted to giggle at the thought of her father trying to stake a vampire with a model six stake. The #6 was huge and difficult to wield, though it could take down an elephant. Happily, there were no such things as vampire elephants. However, there were vampire demons, which were what the model six had been designed to slay. But to use the #6 required two men to shove it into the demon's gut area where the demon's heart was located.
Jane knew the ending of this tale. Her father had exposed most of his foes to sunlight. Still, she raised a brow. The last time she had heard the 1795 hunt story, there were five vampires. The time before, there had been four. The story kept getting fishier and fishier. The number of vampires grew bigger. It was a whale of a tale her father was telling now, with more vampires than he could fry.
Suddenly she heard a loud thwack to her right. A small arrow-stake was embedded in the wall next to a painting.
She gasped, her eyes searching around for the shooter. Her grandfather, Ebenezer, was squatted down behind the green divan, his bow in hand. She shook her head. He had almost shot a Van Dyck! Like a governess reprimanding her wayward ward, Jane held out her hand, determinedly demanding that her grandfather surrender his bow. The wiry old gentlemen glared at her fiercely, a look of wounded dignity on his face and at odds with his silver hair, which was sticking straight up.
Jane sighed, feeling like she was standing before a dike, trying to plug up all its leaks with her fingers. But the more she tried, the more holes opened. Soon she wouldn't have enough digits. Of course, she could always go to Clair's uncle Victor and ask that he add a sixth finger to her hand.
Jane's grandfather, watching her warily, shuffled backward, still in his crouch.
"Give me the bow, Grandfather," she said.
"Humbug, Jane. I almost got the sneaky devil, but the clever little imp ran in here. So, you see why you can't have it, my dear—I have to get the nasty little bloodsucker."
Her grandfather must mean some vampiric mouse he was chasing. Fortunately she knew there were no such things as vampire mice, just as there were no such things as vampire elephants. "I can't have you shooting up the house," she said. Her headache was growing' worse. She wanted to scream.
Her father stopped reminiscing about the good old staking days, and brusquely ordered, "Come now, Father. Let us put up the bow and arrows. It's still too light for the little buggers to be out of their tiny little coffins." He beckoned pompously to his sire.
Ebenezer stood, unrolling his long form and shaking his head side to side. "While Van Helsing's away, the mice will play."
"If you will give me the bow, Grandfather, I will take a watch for you. I know you're tired and you need your rest," Jane cajoled.
The old man smiled, at last handing her the tiny bow and arrows. Then he followed his son, the major, out of the room. Briskly he turned and saluted, confirming what Jane knew to be true: "I shall return."
Jane went over to the wall where the Van Dyck hung and yanked the arrow out. She wasn't even plugging the holes in the dike any longer; she was already drowning.
The Lady Is a Trap
Jane arrived late in the afternoon at the Huntsley manor, in a state of high anxiety. This ill-conceived plan of her father's to hunt the Earl of Wolverton at her friend's house party was a huge mistake. At the very least, it would likely ruin another of her gowns.
Jane felt like a traitor, wondering how she could betray Clair by staking the handsome earl in her home. Yet how could she devastate her father? She had to do one or the other.
Peering out the carriage window, Jane was the picture of a forlorn miss. Wearily, she sighed and looked around. It wasn't easy being a Van Helsing, spending your nights in cemeteries, searching for red-gold eyes in every darkening sky.
"Can I do what I've set out to do?" she asked herself. She was almost tired of asking. "It's all so confusing," she went on, knowing that with the Earl of Wolverton, she had bitten off more than she could chew. She only hoped she was more than he could chew, too.
She sighed. Would she ever be able to do things her way? These questions twisted round and round in her mind while the carriage bumped along, driving her to distraction. Not to mention giving her another slight headache. Her maid, Lucy, hadn't helped matters by continually complaining of road sickness on the journey. Fortunately for Jane, Lucy was now asleep.
As they neared their final destination, the Huntsley country estate, Jane could feel the carriage slowing down and turning up the dirt lane to the large manor house. Her maid moaned.
"We're almost there, Lucy. Just another moment or two," Jane consoled her grimly. Yet how could the maid complain? She wasn't the one with death and betrayal to face. Jane wasn't even sure how exactly she would dispatch the devastatingly handsome Prince of Darkness.
As they approached the manor, Jane surveyed everything with an artistic eye. The sun was slowly sinking behind the rolling hills, casting warm shadows on the estate's massive manor, which had twining vines of ivy curling against its sides. Lush green gardens and dark forested wood lay tangled beyond, boasting flowers of every hue and birds of every manner. On the way up the long and winding drive, Jane spotted a hawk circling high in the clouds, and several peacocks strutting about the lawn, magnificent in their finery. Swans dotted the distant lakeshore, and several brown wrens flew above. Huntsley Manor was a beautiful spot, a wild estate, barely tamed and thus fitting for a werewolf and his bride.
Disembarking her carriage, Jane dusted herself off and walked up the long front staircase, her nerves stretched taut. Fear sat heavy in her stomach. She was announced by the butler and, after a brief coze with Clair, was shown to her room where she could dress for dinner and thankfully compose herself.
For dinner Jane chose a pale green gown of shimmering silk with tiny beads at the hem and a rounded neckline. The color brought out the greenish highlights in her eyes. Studying the mirror, she sighed. "I just look like me," she complained. Just once she would like to look in the mirror and see a ravishing beauty.
Making a face at herself, Jane accepted defeat. She was what she was, and tonight she would set in motion her father's plan to stake the earl. Lucky for her, the earl wasn't aware of her repeated attempts on his unlife. She even felt fairly certain he wouldn't recognize her as the demented, tipsy woman in the Cleopatra mask at the ball, so all she had to overcome was her own plainness.
Shaking her head, she closed the door to her guest room and said, "I can't fail again." The sly jeers of her cousins about the vampire with the erection would be peanuts compared to the big white goober of another bungled attempt—and her father had promised to tell them.
Putting on a patently false smile, Jane went to the green salon, where the other guests of the house party were having a drink before dinner. "Et tu, Brutes," she murmured as she entered, feeling already like a traitor. She had been a puppet, a bird watcher, a poet, a pawn and the queen of fools, but never had she really been a back-stabber or a bad friend. Yet, what choice did she have?
She could hear bits of scattered conversation. It appeared that Lady Veronique had disappeared. How strange. Perhaps she had run away with some lover. Jane nodded. Yes, that was probably what had happened to the merry-making widow.
Clair hurried over to greet Jane, causing Jane's guilt to run amok. "You look divine," Jane said sincerely.
Her friend's tawny hair shone gold in the soft glow of the chandeliers. Her gown was a deep violet with a square bodice, cut rather high and definitely de trop.
Clair noticed Jane's glance at the bodice's unfashionable neckline, and said, "Ian won't let me wear anything lower." She laughed. "He seems to have some mad annoyance with men staring at my breasts."
Jane giggled. "Well, the dress is lovely, even with its high neckline."
Clair shook her head. "If Ian had his way, I would be running around with material up to my chin." She smiled a secret smile, clearly thinking about her husband. The couple were
clearly in love.
"Let me return the compliment, Jane," she said. "You too look lovely."
"And you were always a bad liar, but the thought is well meant," Jane replied.
"Jane, Jane—what shall I do with you? You are in fine looks tonight. Come, let's meet our guests. Tell me whom you don't know."
As Clair introduced Jane to various members of the party, Jane kept her eyes open and her senses alert. Where was the earl?
"Jane, you must meet one of Ian's cronies—Mr. Warner," Clair said as she tapped a man on his rather stout arm and subsequently introduced Jane to both him and the woman next to him. "And this is his fair wife, Mrs. Warner."
Jane noted Mr. Warner, a tall but portly man, whose clothes, though fashionable, seemed to be in need of considerable attention. She couldn't help but wonder if his valet had indulged in one glass too many of the claret.
His wife, his bride of only a few weeks, was a stout woman with raven black hair, and she was her husband's direct opposite in manner and dress. Still, she clearly adored her porcine spouse.
Before the introductions, Clair had confided happily that she'd gotten the lucky couple together. What she hadn't confided was that Mr. Warner was a wereboar. But, then, Clair didn't need to tell Jane what Jane could figure out for herself. Shape-shifters gave off a heat energy that Jane could usually pick up. Despite her father's views against the mixing of species by marriage, most Van Helsings could spot a were creature a foot away. It was due to shape-shifter blood. Although the major pretended the family line was pure, their small amount of werelioness blood sensitized Van Helsings to the supernatural creatures around them.
Jane was next reintroduced to Lord Graystroke and his bosom companion, a Mr. George, whose diminutive appearance and curiosity were legendary among the ton. In Jane's opinion, Lord Graystroke remained the most interesting person she'd ever met. His dark brown hair had been lightened by his many years in the sun to the color of wet sand. And his massive shoulders were impressive. Jane decided they were probably due to all that swinging around in trees he reputedly did.
She suddenly wondered if Lord Graystroke was a wereape, and if that was why he'd lived among the primates of Africa for two decades. It certainly would explain all that monkey business. Yet, she didn't get the tingly, heated feeling she usually experienced around a shape-shifter. At last she decided Lord Graystroke was not one of the members of the supernatural world—at least, not by birth.
Lord Graystroke was polite to Jane; yet his eyes were distant and there was restlessness about his person, as if he would rather be hanging around in the jungle than standing stoically, sipping bourbon here, Jane decided. He was the epitome of the well dressed and polite English gentleman, and had slipped only once in the introductions. He had almost said, "I am Tars."
Jane had gently interrupted, saying, "I am Miss Jane."
Before further introductions were made, Clair confided to Jane that Lord Graystroke was going through a difficult time. Tonight he had a chip of respectability and familial duty on his shoulder, rather than his orange chimp, Cheetah. It was an adjustment.
Jane understood only too well. As she'd noted before, Lord Graystroke was having to pretend to be something he was not.
Suddenly Clair grabbed Jane's arm and turned her toward the door. Neil Asher, Earl of Wolverton, had just entered the room. "See there, Jane?" Clair asked, tilting her head in the man's direction. "The earl has arrived."
Jane's breathing deepened. "He's very handsome," she admitted softly. Tonight the earl was wearing a deep blue velvet coat with a pale blue waistcoat. The color brought out the vampire's marvelous eyes, which appeared to glow with an icy blue fire as he made his way toward her.
Staring at Clair Huntsley, Asher twitched his lip up in a semblance of a smile. As always, she was breathtaking. His cold, dead heart beat warmer. He wanted to share the moonlight with her and hear her pulse pounding like a drum as it pumped rich blood throughout her marvelously decadent body—which Ian Huntsley, lucky wolf that he was, owned lock, stock and smoking hot barrel.
As he made his way toward her, the highlight of this provincial house party, Asher thought back over the centuries. When he'd been a hundred and seventeen, it had been a very good year—for female fledgling vampires. They had hunted together in the soft summer nights, and hidden in fine mausoleums in the daylight.
When he was a mere two hundred and twenty-one, it had been another good year—for Parisian courtesans with their perfumed hair and their white flesh bare.
When he was two hundred and eighty-nine, it had been a very good year—for blue-blooded aristocrats with their elaborate wigs and their carriages so fine.
So many good years he had spent a-roving, walking alone. He had lived decades upon decades, traveling a hundred roadways, never quite finding a true home. Then he had met Clair, and he had believed the world would be a different place, an exciting world filled with laughter and love for him once again. Alas, he had been most foully mistaken. As the Earl of Wolverton seldom was.
Still, he thought wryly as he approached Clair, he would survive this heartbreak, just as he had survived having his heart stopped when he'd become a vampire. Yes, he thought smugly, he had once been a human, a vampire, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king. But each time he had found himself flat in his coffin, he had picked himself up and Renfield had dusted off his jacket.
Yes, the world would keep spinning 'round, the nights would still be lovely and long, and Asher would continue to try and live the vampire creed, forgetting that tomorrow ever comes. And he would survive this thwarted love affair and survive it in the grand style his rank demanded.
"Ah, the remarkable Clair Frankenstein," he said, his eyes drinking her in as he took her hand in his. Swiftly he lifted it to his lips, and with his usual savoir faire, he curbed the primal instinct to bite down. He smiled at her with a hint of devilment in his eyes, hoping Huntsley was watching and eating his heart out. Werewolves were known to literally do that.
As usual whenever Clair was near, Asher found himself ignoring everyone else. He barely noticed the lady next to the new Airs. Huntsley.
"How is your room? All is satisfactory?" Clair asked.
Asher nodded haughtily, knowing what she was asking. Although her guest list included quite a number of shape-shifters and two vampires, many of the guests were mortals. The coffin she had prepared for him in a hidden chamber in the cellar was perfect. She had even lined the coffin with lavender. "Most appropriate. My thanks to my considerate host." Placing a second lingering kiss upon her hand, he regretfully released it. "The way you look tonight… Well, where do I begin? You are enchanting."
Blushing, Clair drew away and asked, "Asher, have you met my dear friend Miss Paine?"
Jane watched her friend interact with the earl, and her heart beat a furious pit-pat in her chest as Asher turned his fabulous blue eyes in her direction. Would he recognize her? she wondered. Please, anything but that.
She blushed furiously, making her freckles stand out. Silently she begged fate to not let the Earl of Wolverton know that she was the one who'd splashed him with brandy.
For a second, Asher froze; then he politely bowed, and Jane curtsied gracefully in spite of her knees knocking together.
Clair made formal introductions. Lord Asher raked his eyes from Jane's head to her neck to her toes to her neck again.
Clair excused herself with a sly smile. She saw icy fires in Asher's eyes, and Jane's blush. Wedding bells were ringing in her head, and she wished her arms were four inches longer so that she could pat herself on the back. Hiding a self-satisfied chuckle, she silently bragged that she was getting this matchmaking business down to an art. And with that, she left the odd couple alone.
Asher turned to Jane and hissed, "It is you." His lips curved into a slight sneer as he inspected her. At the masquerade ball, they had been strangers in the night exchanging glances. Then Asher had wondered about the chances of, before the night was through,
passionately partaking of her blood. Tonight his mysterious Cleopatra was revealed in all her unsplendor. The fairy tale was false. The swan had become a rather ordinary duckling. What were the chances that the insane, mysterious maid of the masquerade would be a friend of Clair's?
"I never thought to see you again after you doused me with booze," he remarked curtly, pulling out his monocle and continuing to examine her. He felt strangely disappointed and irritated that she wasn't the temptress he had imagined. Nor would he forget that she had ruined one of his favorite jackets, causing his longtime servant Renfield to pitch a fit about the sordid state of his wardrobe when he had arrived home. "Why did you do that?"
"A mistake, my lord," Jane managed to choke out. So much for hoping he wouldn't recognize her! Oh, if only she could stick her head in the sand like her ostrich.
"So, what ill wind blew you to the Huntsleys'?" Asher questioned, disgusted to realize that he had thought about this maid from the masquerade more than once, twice or even thrice since the farcical incident.
"Clair and I have been friends since nursery days," Jane explained. "Quite good friends, really."
"Then I must express my condolences to her. Did you ruin her pelisse, too?"
Jane narrowed her eyes. "You might try, my lord. However, if you knew Clair well, then you would know that she is fiercely loyal—to those she loves." She saw him flinch and knew she had scored a hit. "How did you know it was I you met that night? My mask covered my face."
"I am no fool," Asher snapped. He had noted her freckles, tiny brown dots that covered her cheeks and her nose, and danced at the edge of her bodice. He wondered if they covered her breasts, those milky, plump orbs that were surprisingly outstanding. He wondered what those breasts would taste like.
Bloody hell! Asher shook his head. Where had that thought come from? This lunatic female was certainly not his style. He was one for the best and the beautiful alone.
"You have freckles," he said bluntly, again staring down at her impressive chest. "How not the fashion." He preferred his women to be a whiter shade of pale, nothing like blemishes or freckles marring their skin.
