Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  What was to become of me?

  All the questions returned, full force, and I had no answers. Time would take care of most, no doubt, but the encounter with Nutting made me realize what awaited when I got home. Not that I’d be facing another pistol, but my return from the dead would certainly inspire the most dreadful fear at first. Was I ready to do that to them? Would it not be better to . . .

  I didn’t care. I needed them. They . . . they’d just have to hear me out. That was all there was too it.

  The last mile home is always the longest, and I fearfully tired. My eyes hurt. I’d ask Beldon to look at them and prescribe some drops to soothe things. Heavens, but it would be good to see even Beldon the toad-eater again. How dreadful he had looked that last time. He had so desperately tried to help me, the poor fellow.

  The sun would be up soon. My eyes burned like coals from the growing brightness. This sensitivity was not normal. Common sense suggested that it would be better to avoid true daylight when it came, at least until I got used to it.

  Nora. She NEVER came out during the day.

  She’d slept—slept the day through however long the seasons made it. It had been her one unbreakable rule. We’d almost had an argument about it once. We’d gone to a party that had lasted all night. I wanted to watch the sunrise with her and she’d flatly refused, insisting on going home once she’d realized the time. I’d been stung by this, offended that she couldn’t give up an hour of sleep for me, but she’d talked to me in that way of hers until it ceased to matter.

  I’d forgotten that until now. She’d made me lose so much. Every memory that returned possessed both comfort and pain and no small measure of unease. I’d accepted—or had been made to accept—her differences from other people as eccentricities, but a serious purpose must lay behind each. It was to my best interest to imitate her.

  I needed shelter from the sun, then, and soon. Even now I had to shade my eyes against the glare stealing above the horizon. It was much worse than during my morning ride with Beldon yesterday.

  Had that only been yesterday? Or today? Had I been truly alive just this morning? How long had I been in the—

  Later, I said firmly.

  The house was too far away to reach in time; I’d have to settle for the most distant of our outbuildings, an old unused barn. It had once been the property’s main barn and close by had stood the original house. That had burned down decades earlier and the remaining stone foundation and chimney had become a childhood playground. We’d been forbidden to go into the barn, but had explored it anyway. Children either have no concept of mortality, or honestly believe they will live forever. We’d come to no harm, though I later shuddered at the risks we blithely took then. The place had been filled with discards and old lumber, rats and snakes.

  The doors were gone, but I’d expected that. Dodging a growth of ivy that had taken over the walls, I walked in, cautious of where I put my feet. The trash I remembered had long ago been hauled away and probably burned. Just as well. The stone floor was still in good condition, though clumps of grass and weeds grew in cracks near the entry as far as the sun reached in. They would serve as a guide to judge where the deepest shade might be found. It was noticeably darker inside despite the gaps in the high roof. Birds and other small animals had found refuge here. Hopefully, I would be safe until my eyes adjusted.

  Outside the light grew unbearably bright. Perhaps I was unrealistically optimistic about being able to shortly leave. I fled to the most protected part of the place, a horse stall in a far corner. The brick walls were high; what must have been a dark and cheerless spot for the former occupant offered a unique comfort to me.

  “But I want to go home,” I whispered, peering over the wall. I had to shield my eyes with my arm. The light was utterly blinding.

  My limbs stiffened. No pain, but they became horribly difficult to move. So much had happened; the fatigue must be catching me up. Rest. After a little rest I would feel better.

  I was reluctant to sit. The floor was filthy with dust and other rubbish I preferred not to think about, but no other choice presented itself. My legs folded on their own. My knees struck with a jarring double crack. I pitched over and landed on my side. My thoughts were as stiff and sluggish as my bones. I felt no fear. I’d had a surfeit of it in the last few hours and could produce no more.

  Dragged down by the natural pull of gravity, I rolled flat on my back. My eyes slammed shut on their own. The world may have spun on about its business with a fresh new day, but I was not to be a part of it.

  * * *

  Hardly an instant later my eyes opened again.

  I lay as I’d fallen, but this awakening was far superior to the last one. My mind smoothly picked up its previous thread of though as though I’d only blinked rather than dropped unconscious to the floor. I felt alert and ready to deal with whatever the dawn brought. Fluidity returned to my limbs. I easily stood to take note of my surroundings.

  Changes had taken place. Important ones.

  Though the strength of the outside light was about the same as before, it now fell from a different direction. The west.

  By God, I’d slept the whole day away. How could that have happened?

  Things were yet painfully bright, but gradually dimming to a more comfortable level with each minute as the last of the sun’s glow retreated. Soon it would be fully dark—at least for other people. For me, well, at least I should be able to avoid accidentally running into anyone out for a late walk on my way—

  Home. I desperately wanted to be home.

  Supper was over by now. They’d be in the drawing room: Mother and her guests to play cards, Father to read, Elizabeth at her spinet. Perhaps not. The house was in mourning, after all. My heart ached for them and for myself. I would hurry. Once there I would somehow find the right words.

  Futilely, I brushed at my clothes. As if how I looked would matter to Father and Elizabeth when they saw me. I couldn’t wait to see their faces, all of them; once over the shock it would be better than Christmas. I’d ask Mrs. Nooth about food first thing, because I felt quite starved for . . . heavens, I was too hungry to know what I wanted to eat, though doubtless anything left from the last meal would suit just fine.

  Swiftly, I marched from the barn and down the overgrown path leading to the road. The lack of food had me somewhat weak in body, but strangely sharp in mind. The strength of last night’s terrors and doubts and worries had faded. I even found myself smiling about the encounter with Mr. Nutting. He’d gotten a bad fright, though; I’d make it up to him at The Oak later, the Hessian, too, if he liked ale. I’d be the talk of the county, the Lazarus of Long Island.

  My confidence faltered. I’d been shot in the heart. This was no case of a cataleptic fit leading to a premature burial. I had indeed died, been miraculously healed, and somehow escaped my grave without disturbing the earth over it.

  How would the congregation of the church receive this particular resurrection? Even the most well-educated and reasonable among them could be reduced to a superstitious dread. The common folk I hardly dared consider. Would I be viewed as a heavenly miracle or an infernal mockery?

  Later, I reminded myself once more and kept going.

  Had they caught Roddy Finch? I’d been so occupied with my own immediate sorrows that I’d had no thought to spare for the man who had . . . killed me. No thought to spare and, until now, no anger. Murderers were hanged and rightly so, though in this case there was sufficient mitigation to prevent it. You can’t hang a man for murder if the victim turns up to call things off, but the pimply-faced bastard would pay for this if I had to flog him myself. I was definitely prepared to do it as my anger was not just for me but for the awful grief he’d caused my poor family.

  On the other hand, he would hang anyway, for the horses he’d stolen back from the Crown.

  My mind started to spin at the complicat
ions. I’d have to talk with Father, sort it all out with him. Later.

  Less than a mile from my gate, I became conscious of a wagon rattling up the road behind. I saw it long before the driver could see me and debated whether or not to take cover until it passed. Sooner or later the news would spread of my return so I supposed it would make no difference to wait for him. Besides, he might be obliging enough to give me a ride. My feet dragged as my empty belly snarled to life. I consoled myself that soon Mrs. Nooth would ease things with her excellent cooking.

  The driver was a stranger, though obviously a farmer or worked for one. I waited until certain the lighted lamps hanging from his wagon had picked me up from the general darkness, then gave him a friendly hail. He was startled, for the times were unsettled and a man out after sundown was subject to justifiable suspicion.

  “Who be ye?” he demanded, pulling on the reins. There was a long rifle propped next to him on the bench, and he seemed ready to reach for it.

  “I’m Mr. Barrett, at your service, sir. I live near here.”

  “Good e’en to ye,” he replied cautiously, looking me over. “Have a spot of trouble?”

  I fought down the urge to laugh. “Yes, quite a lot of it. I suffered a fall and am trying to get home.” Close enough to the truth.

  “Musta been a prodigious fall, young sir,” he said agreeably “I can give ye a ride if ye c’n tell me if’m on the right road to Glenbriar.”

  “That you are, sir. And no more than a mile from my own gate.”

  He took the hint. “Good, commun up, then.” He made room for me on the seat and I readily joined him. “Name’s Hulton. ’M on my way to sell goods to the soldiers.” He got the horses moving again. “Sun go down, but thought I’d push through.”

  “You’re welcome to spend the night at my home. Or, if you stay on this road you’ll pass The Oak. They’ll put you up there right enough. I’d be careful about dealing with the commissaries, though.”

  “They not payin’ good coin?”

  “Even worse.” I explained in detail about the blank receipts and the theft of Finch’s property. Hulton took it all in with a stone face, then shook his head.

  “’F that be how things stand, then I may as well go home ag’in as go on. Least ’f the rebels steal from me I c’n get the soldiers to hang ’em, but who’ll hang the soldiers?”

  “The rebels, if they win,” I said.

  His eye sharpened. “You one of ’em?”

  “Good God, no. My family are all loyal to His Majesty, God bless him.”

  “Amen,” he said, amused by my wholehearted sincerity. “Still, can’t ’ford to lose m’ goods to anyone, be they soldiers or rebels. This’ll take a bit of figgerin’. Can’t figger like this. Need grease for the wheels to turn, y’see.” He reached under the bench and pulled out a jug. Though one hand was busy with the reins, he expertly removed the cork and treated himself to a hearty. “Care for a bit? Best applejack on the Island. Make it m’self.”

  I balanced my thirst against the ill effects drink would have on my empty stomach. The latter growled threateningly against the restraints of good sense. “Perhaps just a sip. . . .”

  The stuff felt both warm and cold going down. I expected it to be unsettling and wasn’t disappointed. I also expected it to go straight to my head; instead, it roiled in my guts like too many fish crammed into a small bucket.

  Hulton grinned, taking my expression as a compliment to his skill as a distiller.

  I hiccupped. Rather badly. The applejack wanted to come back up again. Hand over my mouth, I apologized and explained that I hadn’t eaten all day.

  “Shoulda said somethin’,” Hulton gently scolded and produced a basket from under our seat. “Go through that. My missus cooked me a chicken to eat on the way. Take what ye please.”

  I unwrapped the greasy cloth covering. The applejack rumbling inside was most certainly affecting my senses. The chicken, which might otherwise have set me to ripping at it like a starved mongrel, smelled repulsive. There was a fat loaf of bread squashed in next to it. I tore off a piece and bit into that instead. It was crusty, tender, obviously still fresh, but tasted wrong. I forced it down. It immediately went to war with the drink.

  Hulton took another swig from his jug and offered it to me again. This time I politely refused. As I worked to chew through another piece of bread, he asked for more details about the commissaries. I offered them, but the flow of talk was interrupted by my frequent swallowing in order to keep the food down. Hulton noticed.

  “Not settin’ with ye?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then don’t eat it.”

  What a practical suggestion. I’d been cramming the bread in because I thought I needed it, not because it was good. Hulton wrapped the basket up and put it away “Not sick, are ye?”

  I wished he hadn’t mentioned that. The aftertaste of the applejack in my mouth was absolutely vile. As for the bread, I concluded that Mrs. Hulton must have been a perfectly awful baker. “Perhaps I’ve been without food too long,” I said aloud.

  “Aye. Go without ’n’ ’tis best to start up ag’in easy. Maybe soup.”

  Soup. Ugh. I nodded to keep my lips sealed tight. Hulton thankfully did not produce any. I gulped and pressed a hand hard against my belly. It was beginning to cramp.

  “Gate here. This be your place?”

  Thank God. “Yes. Thank you, Mr. Hulton. You’ve been very kind.”

  “ ’M well paid ’f you saved me from losin’ m’ stuff. Thank’e for the offer to stay, but I’ll be on to The Oak. I want to hear the talk ’n’ figger that’s the place for it. Mebe summun else thought this through ahead a’ me so I won’t have to a’gin. God speed to ye, Mr. Barrett.”

  When the wagon fully stopped, I dropped down. The hard landing stirred my guts up to new rebellion. Pausing only long enough for a final wave of farewell, I stalked straight to the gate, but at the last moment veered to one side. The cramp was worse, doubling me over. Arms clutching my middle, I retched the bread and applejack onto the grass. There wasn’t much, but I kept spitting and coughing as though my body wanted to rid itself of even their memory. Finally done, I weakly straightened and staggered over to rest against a tree.

  I was still hungry.

  But not for bread or soup or fowl or anything else that came to mind. Not milk or fruit or cheese or wine or . . . .

  Nora always and only drank blood.

  I now recalled our conversation about it. How strange a talk that had been to me at the time.

  She lived on blood, taken a bit at a time from dozens of young men.

  But how was I to . . . acquire it?

  The despair I thought I’d left behind in the graveyard seized me once more, mixed with sheer terror of what must come if I wanted to live. I sank to the ground, unable to move.

  Sweet God, Nora, what have you done to me?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Life-magic, Mrs. Poole had called it as she let a few drops of beef blood slip between Nora’s lips.

  I could conclude from that example there was no need to seduce or assault any innocent lady for my own nourishment. After all the time spent with Nora, I knew better. The taking of blood from another human had an entirely different significance for her than just to keep her body fed. I wasn’t remotely ready to consider the complications of that aspect of my changed nature yet. Like a thousand other things, it would have to wait until later.

  With a sigh of either resignation or acceptance, I got to my feet and opened the gates just enough to slip through. The weariness I’d noted before was much more pronounced. Manifested first in my bones, it had spread to the muscles and outward to drag at my very skin. I could lie down and rest, but knew that wouldn’t help. Every moment streaming past stole away a little more strength. The time would eventually come when none remained. I trudged along the d
rive, shoulders slumping and head down to watch where my steps fell.

  But my mind was wide awake and in need of distraction from the body. Unable to supply answers about my immediate future, I fell to speculation over my past. Without a doubt I had become like Nora, but what—and I used the word in the most literal sense—was Nora? What had I become?

  Most definitely not a ghost, I wryly concluded, not unless ghosts got hungry. I also had doubts that they expended much worry on whether road dust would permanently ruin the polish of their best shoes. (Yes, it was a foolish bit of diversion, but in my unsettled state of mind I needed it.) Anyway, I’d never believed in ghosts since I was a child. Even then, such lapses of reason had been limited to foggy nights when the normal atmosphere thickened by sea mist lent itself to imaginings of supernatural creatures.

  A demon, then? Since I believed in God, I knew there was also a devil. Had some fiend from hell taken possession of my mind and body, sending me forth from the grave to trouble the world? That did not seem likely, either. Besides, I’d had no difficulty calling upon God for help earlier when I’d panicked while trapped in . . .

  How had I escaped that damned box?

  For every other change within me I had some memory of Nora to serve as a pattern to follow, but this was a most singular exception. My recollection of what had happened was confused. The moment had been dominated by a solid and sour-tasting fear that was yet powerful enough to raise a groan and set me shuddering as though from fever . . .

  If I continue to give in to fear I’ll never learn anything.

  By force of will I straightened my shoulders and made myself stop trembling. Decisively, I shoved the fear away; an unwieldy thing, but controllable if I put my mind to it. Tempting as it was to sink to my haunches and wail like an infant, I would not surrender to it this time. There was too much to think about.

  One last shake of the head to clear out the remnants, a deep breath, and I was in command of myself again and not a slave to outside forces or inner alarms. Measured against the rest of the wide world it wasn’t much, a small victory, but it was mine, and I held it close and tight.