Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  “You’ve quite a way with horses,” he remarked, quirking an eyebrow.

  I stroked Rolly’s nose and shrugged it off. Norwood continued to throw looks my way as I worked, but was soon distracted by the readying of his own mount.

  Nash’s man had not come alone; there were five others with him, all on foot. Father cursed under his breath as he swung onto his saddle.

  “It’s taking too long. I’m going ahead, laddie.” He’d been able to conceal it till now, but his fear for Mrs. Montagu had clawed its way past his self-control, shredding his patience.

  “Not alone, sir,” I said, and jumped up as well. We kicked our horses at the same time.

  Nash shouted as we dashed ahead, and the Hessians scattered before us. Norwood called something, and I heard him and Beldon gradually catching us up as we pounded down the lane to the main road.

  “We can get there faster over the fields,” I called to Father.

  “Lead on, then!” He knew I’d be able to see clearly enough to do it.

  I urged Rolly onto the road for a time, then cut away to the north, finding a narrow path that marked the informal boundary between our estate and the Montagu property. Sometimes we were at full gallop, but more often than not were reduced to a canter or even a trot depending how bad the footing was. Had I been alone, I might have left Rolly’s back and soared ahead, for I could have covered the distance more swiftly, but with Beldon and Norwood along I was forced to limit myself to something less precipitant.

  We came in sight of the house soon enough, approaching it from the side. No lights showed; not a single sign or sound came to us. Father cursed again and again. He started to press ahead, but I pleaded with him to wait a moment more.

  “Let me go first and see what awaits. It’ll be safer for all.”

  Torn between alarm and the sense of my request, he hesitated in agony for a few seconds, then finally nodded. I slipped from Rolly and gave Father the reins.

  “I’ll be right back,” I promised, hefting my sword cane.

  “Go with God, laddie,” he choked out.

  “I’m coming, too,” said Norwood.

  Rather shortly, Father told him to hold his place.

  “I beg your pardon, sir, but I only wish to help.”

  “You don’t know the lay of things, Lord James. My son does. Let him proceed in his own way.”

  This terse statement caused his lordship to subside, for Father had all but snarled it. Perhaps it had gotten through to Norwood that this was no adventurous lark, but something far more serious. I had no inclination to waste more time, and walked swiftly and softly toward the house.

  Tracks in the snow were all over the yard, but days had passed since the last fall, and the normal work of the household would account for them. Horses here, boot-shod feet there, I picked up the faint trails left by small animals, their shallow shadows pressed upon the patches of white. If any of the other markings were caused by rebel raiders, I could not rightly tell. I would find out soon enough.

  Reaching the wall of the house, I held hard against it and eased one eye around the corner. The yard on that side was also empty of activity, which I found ominous. The icy air was still, nearly windless; the least sound would have carried to me—had there been anyone about to make it.

  Another corner, and I saw the barn. Its doors were wide open, which was wrong. There was no sign of movement or sound there either, which meant the horses were gone. I didn’t know what to make of that. Getting closer, my gaze fell upon a limp pile of brown feathers lying just on the threshold. It was one of the many laying hens that nested in the barn. Some hand had twisted its neck, then cast it away.

  I quit the barn and went straight to the house. The front doors were open as well. This was bad. Cautiously, I took the steps, listening at every pause until I gained entry and stopped just inside . . . . The house had suffered a cruel invasion. Furniture was overturned, ornaments broken, it was a wretched mess. Seeing no immediate peril, I called out, but received no answer. I was met with silence and felt chilled right through.

  Where were they? Mrs. Montagu had several house servants, a coachman, some field laborers; there was no sign of them, not even of the noisy lap dog she doted on. I made my way toward the kitchen, pressing the catch on my cane and drawing the blade free. I’d have felt better with a pistol in my other hand—or that gang of Hessians to guard my back.

  It was dim there, but sufficient light from outside seeped in for me to see well enough. To anyone else, it would have been blacker than hell, and, indeed, the disarray I found might have been a part of that dread pit.

  The hearth fire was banked for the night, an indication that the house had been in order as usual before whatever had happened had happened. Order was gone, now, for this place was thoroughly ransacked. The smoked hams that should have been hanging from the rafters were gone. They’d been cut down and taken away except for a large one that might have been too heavy for the thief to carry. He’d dragged it a few feet, then abandoned it.

  Other signs of looting presented themselves, but I let them pass, as they were far less important than finding out the fate of Mrs. Montagu and her household.

  A sound . . . soft. At last.

  It was not repeated, and I couldn’t identify it, but it might have come from the cellar. With something like hope I strode toward the door and tried it.

  Locked. Most promising. The lock on this side was broken, therefore someone must be on the other side. They’d probably taken shelter there when the thieves had come and didn’t know that it was safe to emerge.

  I called Mrs. Montagu’s name and knocked several times. No answer. Well, they’d have to come out sometime. Perhaps they were too frightened to respond. I banged my fist a few more times, then decided to try forcing the door. Floating through it would have been less destructive, but much too difficult to explain. Besides, I was more than strong enough for the job.

  Setting myself, I gripped the handle and slammed a shoulder against the door. It gave a bit, opening a long crack along the point where I’d struck. I put my mouth to it and called again . . . .

  And something staggeringly loud exploded right in front of me.

  Thrown back with a shout of surprise, I crashed against a large table. My legs gave out. The floor came up, quick as lightning, striking hard all over when it hit.

  My ears rang from the blast, turning me sick and dizzy; I could not hear anything subtle, but was aware of some sort of clamor going on nearby. People yelling in fear and alarm, and somewhere a candle wavered and made the shadows dance.

  “Oh, my God, it’s Jonathan!” someone wailed. The voice was yet muffled by the ringing, but I thought it belonged to Mrs. Montagu.

  “Shut yer mouth, ye damned Tory bitch!” a man roughly ordered. The order was punctuated by something that sounded like a slap, and the woman cried out.

  Groaning, I tried to sit up, and that’s when truly terrible pain lanced through my whole body. My groan turned into a gasp and I instantly went still. The pain burned like fire and moving made it worse. What was wrong?

  A large, unkempt man loomed over me. He held a smoking pistol in one hand and wore an expression in which fear and hatred had been fused into a single vile mask. I did not know him, but recognized the face of a truly evil heart. All I could do was lie on the floor and gape as one of his coarse hands prodded heavily against my chest.

  Behind him, Mrs. Montagu stared down at me, her usually pleasant features marred by a look of utter horror.

  “This ’un’s dead, Nat,” said the man. “Or he’s a-dyin’. Either way, ’e won’t be troublin’ us.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “You sure?” asked Nat, sounding peevish.

  The big man’s hand was momentarily heavy on my chest. He pushed against me to get to his feet. “ ’E’s dead, I say. Let’s git ’fore others follow ’i
m.”

  “Too late. I see ’em comin’. They heard yer shot.”

  He’d shot me? Is that what happened? But I shouldn’t be like this.

  “I’ll give ’em ’nother, then.” He drew a second pistol from his belt.

  “Right, soon as one’s through the door, you take ’im an’ I get the next.”

  “For God’s sake, just leave!” Mrs. Montagu pleaded. I could see her huddled off to one side. Except for a red patch on her face where the brute had struck her, she seemed unharmed, though frightened. Gathered around her were several of her servants; they also appeared to be well, but thoroughly cowed by the two thieves.

  “Shut yer mouth or I’ll cut yer throat,” said Nat casually. He had a knife in one hand and a candle in the other. He blew the candle out and left it on the table, then stood with his partner on one side of the door leading to the scullery. Father and the others would use it, as that was the fastest way into the kitchen. After hearing the shot, they’d not wait, but charge in, and Father would be the first. . . .

  The pain gouged me, but so did an overwhelming rage, fueling the need to get up and do something. Gritting my teeth seemed to help. I was careful not to breathe in. With air in my lungs I might involuntarily vocalize what I felt. Mrs. Montagu gasped when I moved, startled that I could move. I feared she’d draw the attention of the villains toward me.

  “Shut yet face,” hissed Nat, and I wholeheartedly agreed with him. He did not, fortunately, turn around, but continued to listen at the door, waiting.

  Glaring at Mrs. Montagu, I raised one hand in a sharp gesture, hoping she would correctly take it as a sign to be silent. It cost me, for any motion on my right side doubled my hurt. I wasn’t sure she could see well enough to know what I wanted until she bit her lips and nodded, her eyes wide.

  “They’re comin’!” whispered the big one gleefully.

  Nat slipped back a little so as to be out of the line of fire. I was on my feet, ready to take them on. . . .

  . . . weaponless.

  The realization hammered home too late. I’d naught but my hands, not even a club. My swordstick . . . . God knows where that had dropped when I’d been shot.

  Father was almost here; I recognized his step.

  Hands. Both of them. Edge of the table.

  Push.

  It was a heavy piece of oak, sturdy enough to stand up to decades of abuse from cooks over the years, but for me it might have been made from paper, as it all but flew across the room. The far end struck the larger of the two men in the back just below the waist with an ugly sounding thud. He may have made a noise himself, but it was lost in the general scrape, rattle and bang of the table’s swift passage.

  His pistol went off toward the ceiling with a flash and a roar, and a stinging-sweet cloud of powder smoke filled the air. I saw that much out of the corner of my eye as I lunged forward, reaching for Nat.

  Surprised as he must have been, he was fast and whirled to meet me. He made a quick stab at my left side, but I just managed to knock his arm away before our collision. Balance lost, we crashed against a wall and fell. Kicking, beating, biting and finally flailing at me with his knife, he did me much damage as we rolled over the floor. My fingers found his throat in the chaos and froze around it. He thrashed and gurgled. I squeezed harder and harder. His face went red, then purple, with his tongue bulging out as I squeezed harder and harder and. . . .

  “Jonathan!” Father’s voice. Shouting.

  I could barely hear him. Didn’t want to hear him. Wanted to finish my work.

  “Let go, laddie! Let go, I say!”

  He’d never raised his voice to me like that before, not even when he was angry. What was wrong? What had . . . ?

  Hands on my arms. Pulling, tugging hands loose from their grip on Nat’s throat.

  What. . .?

  I let go, and was hauled away with a lurch. That’s when my strength departed. I went limp, shaken and shaking, and the agony of the shot hit me over again afresh. There was blood. The smell of it filled the room, mixed with the sweet powder . . . and the unforgettable stink of death. For one awful moment I seemed to be spinning back in time to that hot August day in the woods, right to the instant when I’d died.

  “No!” I said, forcing myself to sit up. I yelped and clutched at my wound.

  “Lie back, Jonathan,” said Father, kneeling by me. I tried to push him off.

  “Jonathan!”

  I could bear the pain far easier than the memory. There was no way I could lie still and let death steal up and seize me as it had before.

  “Laddie!” He caught my head in his hands, forcing me to look at him. “Wake out of it—you’re safe! D’ye hear? Safe!”

  That got through, finally. The memory had been much too real. I was certain I could taste my own blood again, and it was terrible. A choking sob rose within, but I forced it back, then sagged, exhausted.

  He pressed me close and stroked my hair as he used to do when I was little. “Steady, now, it’s all right. It’s all right.”

  Father’s soothing tone calmed me as nothing else could. The panic faded, and I came to see the kitchen was suddenly a crowded, noisy, place again; the faces and voices familiar, reassuring.

  Beldon appeared. He was pale, but in control, and issued a few quiet commands. Someone lighted candles; another went to find brandy. Before I knew it the stuff had been poured into a cup and was being pressed to my lips. I sputtered and turned my head away.

  “Don’t force him, Doctor. Let him catch his breath,” said Father. He looked up to Mrs. Montagu. “Mattie? How is it with you?”

  She grasped his extended hand, her eyes filled with tears. “I’ll be fine, but for God’s sake, see to Jonathan. The poor child was shot.”

  “Shot?” exclaimed Beldon, who was just starting a closer examination of my wound. “Come, gentlemen, help me with him. Quickly, please.”

  “I’m fine,” I whispered.

  They paid me no mind. Beldon, Father, and Norwood lifted me onto the table. Orders were given to fetch water and bandaging and more light. Those servants with their wits still in place hurried about to obey.

  “No, wait! Father . . . I’m—”

  “Be still, laddie.”

  “But I’m—”

  He bent over me. “Hush, laddie, let Beldon have a look at you.”

  “Remember my arm!” I whispered fiercely.

  “What?”

  Beldon pulled open my bloodied coat and unbuttoned an equally ruined waistcoat. This hurt like hellfire, as it pulled at something that seemed to be tearing my flesh. When I protested, he asked Norwood to hold my hands out of the way. While that gentleman obliged, Beldon completed the destruction of both waistcoat and shirt by cutting them to get to the source of all the bleeding.

  “My arm!” I repeated, trying to fight off the well-intentioned Norwood.

  Then Father remembered, but I could tell that he had no idea what to do next. To be fair, there wasn’t much that he could do, but no matter; it was a relief that he finally understood me.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  That was when I realized I had no idea, either. In the meanwhile, Beldon went on with his grim examination.

  “That’s odd,” he said, sounding mightily puzzled.

  Damnation. “Father? Get the others away, please?”

  He instantly grasped the wisdom in that and took steps to clear the kitchen. Mrs. Montagu was in a bad state, as might be expected and seemed in need of guidance. Father took her hand and urged her out, murmuring that everything was going to be all right. He herded the other servants before them, then called for Norwood.

  “Directly, sir,” he answered. I want to make sure these rebels are no more threat to us.” With me more quiet, he went now toward the scullery door, checking the fallen men. His inspection did not ta
ke long, and he slipped outside, presumably to search the grounds for stragglers.

  Distractions removed, I was better able to order my thoughts; however, I possessed far more questions than ready answers. Foremost in my mind was why I had not vanished. The last time I’d been shot, I had disappeared without any conscious effort, and upon my return had been fully healed of all wounds, old and new. What was different now?

  I squirmed to try to see what had happened.

  “Be still, Mr. Barrett,” Beldon cautioned.

  “Then tell me what’s wrong.”

  He met my gaze, but I exercised no influence on him. His puzzlement was firmly in place, and mixed with it was a touch of fear.

  “Tell me!”

  He jumped, for my voice was rapidly regaining its old strength. “You . . . there’s . . . that is . . . .”

  Impatient, I nudged things the tiniest bit. “Tell me, Doctor.”

  His expression wavered, then steadied. “The ball seems to have passed right through you, but the damage is . . . not as I expected. Perhaps I am mistaken. The bleeding makes it difficult to see clearly.”

  I lay back and tried to vanish. No matter if Beldon saw, I’d deal with his memory later. I tried . . . and failed. The pain flared and flashed along my side.

  “How bad?” I demanded through my teeth.

  He was at a loss for a reply. I pressed him again. More firmly. Face slack, he said, “There is no wound from the pistol ball. You’ve only some wood splinters embedded in your side. They’ll have to come out. That’s where all the blood is coming from.”

  It occurred to me that I could ill afford to lose much of that precious substance.

  “Then see to your work, if you please,” I said, knowing just how much I would hate the process.

  “I’ll need help.”

  “Get my father.”

  Dear God, but the next few moments were the longest I’d ever endured. Father was not an ideal doctor’s assistant, either. He was more than willing to help, but it was difficult for him to bear the sight of his child’s distress. Too late I thought of this as I watched him go from white to pale green as Beldon got on with the wretched business of drawing out the splinters.