Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  He staggered to the door and was out before I could quite make up my mind on the wisdom of his course. Just as I was to the point of getting up to follow, he returned, arms around two of the women from downstairs.

  “Cousin Jonathan, y’ have the honor of meeting Miss Frances and Miss Jemma, who ’r’ ex’llent good friends of mine, aren’t you, girls?” With that he pinched or tickled each, causing them to scream and giggle. They were painted and powdered and dressed as gorgeously as peacocks, as fine a pair of London trollops as any man could wish for when he has the time and money. Neither of them looked too drunk for sport, I judged. Perhaps Oliver was on to something here. This was borne out when I found Jemma suddenly squirming on my knee.

  “I think she likes you,” Oliver said unnecessarily.

  “Doctor Owly ’ere sez yer new ’n town, ’zat true?” Jemma asked, looking me over.

  “This isn’t my first visit, but I have just come from America,” I politely responded.

  “That means he’s been on board ship for months, girls,” Oliver put in, “so watch yourselves.”

  They cooed mightily over that one, and from then on the jesting got much more suggestive. Jemma made it her business to ask about American men and if they were any measure against the English and I tried my best to answer, but there comes a point when speech fails and one must fall back upon demonstration.

  Again, this might have been easier had I been drunk, for Jemma was definitely past the first blush of youth to be instantly thought attractive. On the other hand, she knew her business well enough and seemed unconcerned to find that I was in no headlong hurry to conclude things. Most whores are in a hurry so they can have more customers in the least amount of time, but apparently these girls had been hired for the remainder of the evening and Oliver was a generous sort. At some point in the proceedings, Oliver and Frances disappeared, which was just as well, since Jemma and I grew increasingly more intimate in our activity. We removed ourselves to a convenient settee by one wall.

  She had a solid figure under her gown, a little thick in the thighs but smooth skinned and warm. I found my interest, among other things, quickening at the sight of the treasure concealed beneath her clothes and was happy to oblige her when it came to loosening my own. My breeches were soon unbuttoned, and next I forsook the restrictions of coat and waistcoat. One was on the floor and the other wide open when I came to see that though active, Jemma was not exactly caught up in the fever of the event.

  I thought of Molly Audy and her habit of saving herself lest she be too exhausted for the work of the evening and divined that Jemma was doing the same thing. Well and good for her, but I became determined to provide this English houri with an equal share of delight. I had my pride, after all, and derived quite a lot of pleasure from sharing my partner’s enthusiasm.

  Jemma noted the change as I began to concentrate more on her likes than my own, even protesting that she was fine as she was. I said I was glad to hear it and went on regardless, hands and mouth working together over her lush body. It took persuasion on my part, but the outcome would be worth the effort. Then it was my turn to notice the change in her as she began to succumb, which caused me to be more eager. Eventually we were happily riding away.

  When it was obvious that she was fast approaching her peak, and I was likewise in a state of release, I buried my corner teeth hard into her throat, hurtling us both over the edge. She was so far gone that pleasure rather than pain was her reward for this second, most unorthodox invasion of her person. She could not have been prepared for the intensity of rapture it would engender, nor the length of it. Having finally worked things up to this point I wasn’t about to abandon them after but a few seconds of fulfillment as would be the case for a normal man reaching a climax. I continued on, drawing a few drops at a time, relishing her writhings against me as much as the taste of her blood.

  Here indeed was a surrender for me, to a different kind of heavy-limbed comfort, and here I intended to stay for as long as it pleased us both. I had no worries for Jemma; she seemed to be well and truly lost to it. As for myself, I knew I could continue for hours if I was careful with her.

  However, I had not reckoned on Cousin Oliver walking in on us.

  He was hardly quiet about it, but I was so enmeshed in what I was doing that I paid no mind when he knocked, and none at all when he pushed the door open a crack. What he found was likely a familiar sight if he came to this house with any regularity: a half dressed man and woman each well occupied, this time it being myself holding Jemma tight, passionately kissing her neck. She was atop me, her skirts covering most of us.

  “I say, Coz, I forgot m’ brandy ’n’—”

  I gave a start and glared up at this unwelcome intrusion. Jemma moaned at the interruption and, half swooning, reached to pull me back to her throat.

  Nothing unexpected for Oliver, but that’s not what made him stop cold to stare.

  There was blood oozing from her flesh. Unmistakable. Alarming. Blood also stained my lips. Perturbing. Repellent.

  And my eyes . . . wholly suffused with blood, crimson orbs showing no trace of white, the pupils lost in the wash of what I’d fed upon.

  All plainly visible to Oliver standing not two paces from us. A fearful sight to anyone, however forewarned they might be. My good cousin, alas, was not.

  Oliver was as one petrified, frozen in mid-word and mid-movement. Only his gaze shifted, from me to Jemma and back again, his face gradually going from shock to gaping horror as he understood what he was seeing.

  I was frozen as well, not knowing what to do or say, and so we remained for an unguessable time, until Jemma moaned another gentle complaint.

  “Why’d y’ stop, luv?” she said groggily, trying to sit up.

  Instinct told me that it would be best to keep her ignorant of what was to come. Tearing my gaze from Oliver, I focused entirely on her. “Hush, Jemma, hush. Go to sleep, there’s a good girl.” As my emotions rose in pitch, so did the strength of my influence. She promptly fell into an instantaneous slumber.

  Oliver, still openmouthed, gave a frightened little gasp at this. “God’s mercy, man, what are you doing to her?”

  I didn’t quite look at him. “She’s all right, I promise you. Now come in here and close the door. Please.”

  He hesitated, then surprised me and did as requested. I got Jemma off me, laid her on the settee and hastily ordered my clothing.

  Like it or not, the time of explanations was upon us, but for the life of me I just didn’t know where to begin.

  Slowly, he came closer. I continued to avoid his gaze, making myself busy buttoning things. He leaned over and extended one hand toward Jemma, probing the skin close to the small wounds, studying them.

  “She’s all right,” I repeated, a little desperately. I tasted her blood on my lips again and, turning from him, quickly wiped it away on my handkerchief. He came ’round to face me.

  “I need to see,” Oliver said, in a strange, dark voice.

  I looked up and allowed it, and if he was afraid of what he’d find, then I was also for how he might react.

  As though conducting an examination on a patient, he used his thumbs to lift my upper lip, and studied my corner teeth for what seemed a long while. I felt them gradually receding to a normal length.

  He backed off a step, his breath rushing in and out twice as either a sob or a laugh before he got hold of himself.

  “Please, Oliver, I’m not—”

  What, I thought, a Blutsäuger? What could I tell him? What could I possibly say to ease his fear? There was a way around this awkwardness, of course. I could force him to acceptance. Nora had done so with me. But what was right for her was not my way, especially in this case. To try would be enormously unfair to Oliver. Dishonorable. Cruel.

  “You’re like her,” he whispered, breaking the impossible silence.

 
I resisted the urge to glance at Jemma. No, he was speaking not of her but—

  “She would do that . . . to me. Nora. . . .”

  The influence Nora had imposed that caused him to forget certain things about her had finally failed.

  His hand went to his throat, and he made a terrible mewling sound as he stumbled backward. He got as far as a chair and fell into it and stayed there. He shivered again, not from fear of me but from the onrush of restored memory.

  “Oh, my God, my God,” he groaned over and over, holding his head, giving a voice to his misery.

  I swallowed my own anxieties. How unimportant they were against his pain. Standing, I finished with the buttons and donned my remaining clothes. This done, I went to Jemma and saw to her wounds. Their flow had ceased, but the drying blood was a nuisance. Slopping brandy on my handkerchief, I dabbed away until she was clean, then gently woke her.

  “You’re a lovely darling,” I told her, pressing coins into her hand. “But I need to speak with my cousin, so if you don’t mind . . . .”

  She had no chance for argument as I smoothly bundled her and her trailing skirts out the door, shutting it. I trusted the money would be a more than sufficient compensation for my rudeness.

  Oliver watched, saying nothing. I pulled a chair from the other side of the table and sat across from him.

  “Y-you’ve done that before,” he murmured, making a vague gesture to mean Jemma.

  “Yes.”

  “You . . . take from them.”

  “I drink their blood,” I said, deciding to be as plain as possible. “Just as Nora once did from you. And from me.”

  He shuddered, then mastered himself. “I suddenly remembered what she did to me.”

  “And she stopped. She knew you did not enjoy it.”

  “But you did?”

  “I was—I am—in love with her. It makes a difference.”

  “So this is just some form of pleasure you’ve taken to li-like old Dexter and his need for birch rods?”

  “No, it’s not that way for us.”

  “Then what is it?” He waited for me to go on. When the pause became too lengthy, he asked, “Why are your eyes like that?”

  At this reminder I briefly averted them. “It’s . . . . This is damned difficult for me, Oliver. I’m terrified of-of losing your friendship because of what’s happened to me.”

  He shook his head, puffing out air in a kind of bitter laugh. “One may lose friends, but never relatives. Rely on that, if nothing else.”

  He’d surprised me again with this crooked humor, God bless him. I softly matched his laugh, but with relief, not bitterness inspiring it. “Thank you.”

  “Right.” He sat up, squaring his shoulders. “Now, talk to me.”

  And so I did. For a very long, long time.

  CHAPTER NINE

  LONDON, DECEMBER 1777

  “What’s happened today, Jericho? Any new staff taken on?” I asked.

  “No, sir. Miss Elizabeth was too busy receiving visitors and had no time for interviewing anyone.”

  “What visitors, then?”

  “Miss Charlotte Bolyn called today. She wanted to confirm again that you, Miss Elizabeth and Dr. Oliver will attend the Masque tonight. Then she flew off elsewhere, but was rapidly succeeded by a horde of other young ladies and their mothers.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “A number of them were most disappointed that you were not available.”

  “Which? The young ladies or their mothers?”

  “Both, sir.”

  “Oh, dear, oh, dear.”

  “Indeed, sir. Some of them had a decidedly predatory air about them.”

  “And I was hoping to be spared. Damnation, you’d think they’d realize that not every bachelor is looking for a wife. Can’t imagine where they get the idea.”

  “I believe it has more to do with them seeking a husband, sir.”

  “You’re perfectly right, of course, and it’s wretched bad judgment on their part thinking they’d be better off with one. I’ve seen what’s on the market and ’tis poor pickings. I shall have to acquire a horrible reputation to put them off my scent. Perhaps I can tell the truth about my drinking habits. That would send them away screaming.”

  “I have serious doubts such a ploy would be particularly effective as a means of avoiding matrimony, sir.”

  “You’re right. There are some perfect rotters out there drinking far worse stuff than blood who’ve gotten themselves thrown headlong into wedlock-and-key. Well, I’ll think of something to make myself repulsive. What else for the day? Anything?”

  “Several boxes addressed to Dr. Oliver arrived in the early afternoon from Fonteyn House.”

  “Sounds ominous. Any idea what’s in ’em?”

  “None, sir. Everything was taken to his consulting room. When he came back from his rounds he shut himself in with the items and has not yet emerged. That was some hours ago.”

  “Most mysterious. Are we done here?”

  He gave me a critical look to determine whether or not I was presentable. Since no glass would throw back my image, I’d come to rely solely upon Jericho’s fine judgment in the matter of my personal toilet. He had excellent taste, though tending to be too much the perfectionist for my patience.

  “You will do, sir,” he said grudgingly. “But you want some new shirts.”

  “I’ve already ordered several from the fellow who’s done my costume for the Masque.”

  “Oh, sir, do you really think—”

  “Not to worry, it’s Oliver’s tailor, a most careful and experienced man.

  That mollified him. Oliver’s own taste was sometimes eccentric, but he was wonderfully sensible when it came to shirts.

  Released from the evening’s ritual, I went unhurriedly downstairs to join the others, giving a polite nod to the new housemaid as she ducked out of my way. She was a shy sort. Hopefully she would become more at ease as she got used to the habits of the household. Her eyes were somewhat crossed, but she seemed energetic enough for the work, sober, was a devoted churchgoer, and had already had the pox. Elizabeth had engaged her only yesterday morning; that same night I’d conducted my own interview with the girl, influencing her into not being at all curious about my sleeping or eating habits. Or lack thereof. For the last week it seemed that each time I woke up there was a new servant on the premises requiring my attention. Thus far, not one of them had taken the least notice of my differences, not within Jericho’s hearing, anyway. It was his job to look for chinks in my work and give warning when reinforcement seemed required.

  But for now, all was safe. My traveling trunk with its bags of earth was secreted in a remote section of Oliver’s cellar, allowing me to rest undisturbed through the day. At sunset I made my invisible way up through the floors of the house to re-form in my bedroom and there submit to Jericho’s grooming ministrations. It wasn’t quite the same as it had been back home, but the inconvenience of curling myself into the trunk each night rather than stretching out on a cot was negligible. Such totality of rest that had me indifferent to my surroundings did have an advantage.

  As for my excellent good cousin, well, our talk at The Red Swan had been mutually harrowing, but the experience created a solid bond of friendship between us, something I’d needed and was humbly grateful to have, and all without having to impose my influence upon him. Without doubt it was the most difficult conversation I’d been through since my first night out of the grave when I encountered Elizabeth. The topic was essentially the same: an explanation of myself, of the changes I’d gone through, and the desperate, unspoken plea for acceptance of the impossible.

  But Oliver, my friend as well as my kin, had a great enough heart to hear that which was not asked aloud and then freely give it.

  Not that any of what he heard was particularly easy for him
. It took a goodly time to persuade him that I really was not like old Dexter, one of the Cambridge administrators whose nature with women was such that he could not achieve satisfaction unless his partner birched his backside raw. We students found out about it from one of the town whores, who was not as discreet as Molly Audy when it came to gossiping about her clients. Most of us thought him a strange fellow, though still likable.

  But once I’d convinced Oliver that my need to drink blood was a physical requirement equivalent in importance to his eating every day, things went more smoothly. His medical training (and curiosity) won out over his initial trepidation, and once loosed, he fairly hammered me with questions. Unfortunately, I could not answer them all; many were the very ones I had in store for Nora.

  Oliver had much to speak of for himself, mostly of his own feelings toward her, which might best be defined as ambivalent. Certainly he’d found her beautiful, even bewitching, the same as many of the other men in our circle, but he’d been highly disturbed by her habits, then and now. With his memories restored he had much to unburden.

  “She was using us—every one of us—to feed on like a wolf upon sheep,” he’d said at one point with something close to anger.

  “One may look at it like that, but on the other hand, she willingly gave of herself to pleasure others.”

  “But that makes her a—” He cut off, realizing that I might take exception to his conclusion.

  “I know what it makes her, and I’ll not deny the similarities between herself and the two ladies we’ve enjoyed tonight. But God’s death, man, I shan’t begrudge the woman the right to make a living in whatever way that she’s able. Look at the limitations our condition imposes. She can no more open a dress shop or a coffee house than I can go to court to practice the law. Both require that we be up and about during the day, y’know, which is utterly impossible. I came to see it as a fair trade for her to ply, and you’ll recall she never imposed herself on anyone who could not afford to indulge.”