Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  Oliver came up with me, jaw swinging, eyes wide with shock. His gaze dropped to my shirt and the substantial stains there, but I could do nothing about that for now. The effect on the witnesses was gratifying. The near ones fell back, the far ones leaned closer, but none could say that I was remotely near death.

  “Jonathan, in God’s name—?” came my cousin’s fierce whisper.

  I lowered my head and matched his tone. “It’s to do with my changed state. Trust me on this, I am all right.”

  His mouth opened and shut several times, and his eyes took on the flat cast of fear. “Dear God, you mean—”

  “Just play along and I’ll explain later. Please!”

  The poor fellow looked as though he’d been the one to take the wound, but he bit back all speech and nodded. He understood my urgency.

  That settled for the moment, I asked for the return of my sword. Mr. Dennehy came forward, holding it. “Mr. Barrett, are you sure you—”

  “I’ve business to finish, sir. If Mr. Ridley is up to the task, then so am I.”

  The man in question was not ten paces away and, if one could tell anything by his expression, was the most dumbfounded of the lot. He had every right to be since he’d certainly felt the blade go in and had had to pull it out again. From the twinges still echoing through me, I got the idea the bastard had turned his wrist at the time to increase the damage.

  He said nothing at first, his gaze going from me to his sword. The end of it was smeared with red for the length of a handspan. He murmured something to the wide-faced dandy who was his second. The young man came over to speak to Dennehy and Oliver. I couldn’t help but overhear.

  “Mr. Ridley has no wish to take the advantage over a wounded man,” he said.

  “Will Mr. Ridley offer a full, contrite and sincere apology for his insult?” I asked, my voice carrying to him.

  He jumped, startled that I had heard and glanced back to his friend. Ridley’s eyes blazed, then he shook his head. Even after this, he’d be damned before conceding defeat.

  “Then let things proceed as before. He has no advantage over me,” I said.

  The second hesitantly returned, backing all the way.

  “Are you sure?” asked Oliver. He regained some of his composure, I was glad to see.

  “Exceedingly so.” Though I’d been shaken, my unnatural state was such that I felt near-normal again.

  Or rather extra-normal. It was true that Ridley had no advantage on me, but I had a hellish one over him. He could stab me, unpleasant as it was, as much as he liked; sooner or later I would be able to shrug it off and return to the fray. Not that I planned to give him the chance. I’d learned my lesson and would be more careful than before.

  As had he, it seemed. Our next bout was slower, more calculated, more cautious, each seeking to find an opening or to make one. I beat him back twice but did not fall for his favorite stratagem, instead pulling away well before he could strike again using his reach. When he saw that was not going to work, he tried to use his strength and speed but found himself surprisingly outmatched. Having taken his measure I no longer held myself in check, and that changed the rules for him. The opponent he thought he’d beaten seemed a different man now, requiring a new appraisal.

  Ridley finally lost his smirk and looked worried. He was tiring, too. Physical chess is damned hard work.

  As he slowed, I maintained my pace, which made me seem the quicker as the minutes passed. I even had time now to notice that bets were being made on the outcome. Apparently the odds had changed since the start of this bout.

  Enough. Much more and he’d fall from exhaustion, and my honor demanded a greater payment. It wasn’t enough that I succeed; I wanted to serve him a harsh lesson.

  I made a rapid high cut, was blocked, got under it, flicked left, right, left, caught his blade, beat it hard to my right and lunged. It seemed fast to me, but to him it must have been bewildering. He barely made his defense in time for the first attack; the last one—and it was the last—took him out of the reckoning. He gave a guttural roar of rage and pain and dropped his sword to clutch at his right arm.

  Bloodsmell on the air.

  His.

  Ridley’s second rushed forward. Dennehy joined them. I dropped back and silently looked on.

  “Mr. Ridley is sore wounded, sir,” reported his second to mine.

  “Well blooded and disabled,” added Dennehy.

  But not dead, I thought. I stalked forward. They’d cut away his shirt sleeve, using the rags to bind his arm above the elbow to slow the blood loss. From the flow and the location of the wound, Ridley would fight no more this night or any other in the near future. With luck he’d be laid up for weeks. With bad luck, for him, his cut would fester and he’d lose his arm altogether.

  I raised my blade and touched it to Ridley’s bare shoulder, which stilled his groans for a moment. Through his pain he glared up. This wasn’t the first time a man had looked upon me with such visible hatred. Those others who had done so were dead. He did not know his good fortune.

  “I spare your life,” I declared loudly, for everyone to hear. By ancient custom I could have killed him then and there and none would have blamed me, but the Code had stated once and for all that that was not strictly necessary. With my supreme advantage over him it hardly seemed fair to hold to such a tradition, and besides, to a man like Ridley, mercy was much more humiliating than death.

  The dandy who had acted as his second scrambled to present me with Ridley’s dropped sword, and by rights I was entitled to break it. However, since it belonged to Brinsley, I chose not to do so. Instead, I handed both blades to him as he came up. “Thank you for the loan of ’em, sir. Uncommonly kind of you.”

  Brinsley stammered something, his face alight, but I had no ear for it, feeling suddenly awash with fatigue. My own blood loss was catching me up, along with the weariness that results from heavy toil.

  There was no respite, though, for I found myself abruptly in the center of a cheering, backslapping mob determined to whisk me away and drink to my good health whether I wanted it or not.

  “Best damned fight I’ve ever seen!”

  “A real fire-eater!”

  “Well done, sir! That was legend!”

  “By God, no one will believe it, but they’ll have to or face my challenge!”

  “Gentlemen! If you please!”

  This last half-strangled cry was from Oliver, who fought his way to me and seized my arm. I groaned, in gratitude this time, and leaned on him. With the immediate demands of the duel past, my legs were going weak.

  “Back to the house, if you don’t mind?” I asked.

  “Damned right, sir,” he promised, an ominous tone in his voice. He threw my inadequate red satin cloak over me, and I pulled it tight to conceal my stained shirtfront. We made a slow parade, but others ran ahead with the news and as we neared the house, more came to greet us and hear the story. It grew in the telling, unfortunately, and nothing I said could stop it. As it was fantastic to begin with, it became even more so in the span of only minutes.

  Enlisting Brinsley’s aid to speed things along, we were soon in the relative peace of a small upstairs chamber. I allowed myself to be stretched upon a settee and disdained offers of help as being too much fuss. What I wanted was solitude, but my earnest admirers took it as evidence of modest bravery. They held true to their promise and began toasting my health then and there, creating another problem for me since I could not join in their celebration.

  Just as things were becoming unbearable, Elizabeth appeared, pushing her way through the others. Her face was dreadfully white.

  “Jonathan, someone just told me that you—” She interrupted herself, giving forth a heartfelt shriek. My cloak had slipped open a little, revealing the bloodstains.

  “He’s in no danger,” Oliver hastened to assure her. �
��He just needs a bit of quiet. Gentlemen, would you please, please allow me to attend my patient?”

  Easier said than done, what with such a boisterous crowd. I finally had to ask for them to leave myself, though it was a sore disappointment to my well-wishers. Brinsley, with his authority as host, stepped forward and persuaded them to be herded outside.

  Throughout all this, Elizabeth pounded us both with angry questions. “A duel? How in God’s name did you get into a duel?” she demanded.

  “That blasted fellow in the Russian costume insulted you,” said Oliver. “If Jonathan hadn’t challenged him, I certainly would have, the filthy bounder.”

  “Insulted? What on earth did he say? Jonathan, are you all right? Oh, why did you do such a thing?”

  And so on. She said quite a lot in a very short time, torn as she was between rage and relief. I had to tell her over and over that I was fine, while keeping one eye on Oliver . . . who kept one eye on me.

  Once the door was closed and we were blessedly alone, Oliver pulled a chair close. I did not care for the sick worry that so obviously troubled him. He reached toward me, saying he needed to see my wound.

  I tried to wave him off. “This is not necessary. I’m fine. I just need a little rest.”

  Blinking and swallowing hard, he looked as though I’d slapped him. “I-I know what I saw, Jonathan. Please don’t make light of me.”

  “What does he mean?” asked Elizabeth. “Just how bad is that scratch?”

  “Bad enough,” I muttered.

  Oliver bowed his head, raised it, then quickly moved and opened my shirt. He gave a kind of gasping sob, full of fear. Just to the left of my breastbone was a fierce-looking red welt, like a fresh scar, as large around as my thumb. There was drying blood everywhere, but the wound itself had cleanly closed. The rest of the area was tender like a bruise and about as troubling.

  “It’s not possible,” he said, as miserable as any man can be on this side of hell. “Not . . . possible.”

  Elizabeth leaned close. “My God, Jonathan, what happened? What really happened?”

  “I was careless. Ridley got through. A palpable hit, it was.”

  “You—”

  “That angle and depth . . .” said Oliver. “I know it pierced your heart. I know it did.”

  Elizabeth seized my arm as though to assure herself I yet lived. “Jonathan?”

  My voice sounded rather hollow—little wonder when death comes so close. Even a mocking touch from the Reaper is enough to melt one’s bones. “Should have killed me, but didn’t. Thought I had been killed . . . then I was better. It hurt, but I’m fine now. I swear it.”

  “How can this be?” Oliver pleaded. Fear again. Fear sufficient for all of us to have a share.

  But no more for me. I was worn out by that dismal load. This was part and parcel of my changed state, and something I had to accept, not dread. I straightened as though to dislodge the weight from my shoulders. “Remember what I told you about Nora?”

  Elizabeth knew the full story on that and understood of what I was speaking. It took poor Oliver a little longer. To be fair, he’d been drunk when we’d had our talk; he might not possess a wholly clear recollection. Besides, being told something and actually witnessing it are two different things.

  “You were run right through the heart,” he insisted. “I saw it. So did the others, then you—”

  “Others?” Elizabeth fixed me with a look. “How many others?”

  “Most of the lot that Brinsley chased away for us,” I said.

  “And they saw everything?”

  “It was very fast and dark. They’ve already convinced themselves that they didn’t see what they thought they saw.”

  While she sorted that out, I turned back to Oliver.

  “There’s no need to be upset about this. It’s part of my changed nature, and I can no more explain why it is than you can tell me what causes the flying gout.”

  “But for you to survive such a—for you to heal so quickly . . . .”

  “I know. It’s one of the things that puzzles me as well. It’s why I have to see Nora and talk to her.”

  “But it’s just not natural.” he insisted.

  I asked, “What do you want me to do about it?”

  “I-I didn’t know you could do anything about it.”

  “Well . . . I can’t.”

  “Oh.” He sat back, a dull red blush creeping up his long face as the point came home. “Um, well, that is.”

  “Agreed,” I said.

  “I’m being an ass again,” he mumbled.

  “No more than myself for forgetting what happened to Nora until after the fact. I was so damned angry at Ridley I couldn’t think of anything except smashing his face in.”

  Elizabeth scowled. “Just what did he say about me?”

  My turn to blush.

  “It was that terrible?”

  “Let it suffice that I doubt he will ever be invited to one of the Bolyns’ gatherings ever again. He’s a genuine rotter, and a Mohock.”

  “No!” said Oliver, aghast. “Really?”

  “A Mohock?” asked Elizabeth. “He didn’t look like an Indian.”

  I quickly explained the difference between the colonial and London versions. “Saw him myself on my first night here. He was leading a pack of ’em, drunk as Davy’s sow—”

  “And you said nothing of it?” Elizabeth’s eyes fairly blazed.

  “Well, it hardly seemed important. . . .”

  Oliver leaned close once more looking annoyed. “I think you should tell us about this business.”

  “There’s not that much to tell.”

  “Nevertheless . . . .” He glanced at Elizabeth’s eloquent face.

  “Nevertheless,” I faintly echoed, needing no more prompting, but I was tired and in want of refreshment, so my recounting of my first meeting with Ridley was straightforward and as brief as I could make it. I thought longingly of Jericho and his clever juggling with teapots, but that was not a luxury I could enjoy just yet.

  As I finished, someone knocked at the door, and Brinsley hesitantly put his head in.

  “I say, won’t you be wanting some bandaging or water or something?” he asked of Oliver.

  It took a moment for my cousin to adjust his attention from my past exploit to his present dilemma. He gave me a wide-eyed look, a mute inquiry of what to do. I answered with a short nod, and he told Brinsley that he had use for those very items, if it would not be too much trouble.

  “None at all, old chap. How are you doing, Barrett?”

  “I’ll be up and about soon.”

  “What a relief! Can I get you anything?”

  “Perhaps you can spare an old shirt for me? Mine’s a bit—”

  “Heavens, man, I can do better than that!” He bobbed out again.

  “It seems to be working,” said Oliver. “Brinsley was right next to me and saw the blade go in, and look how he is now. He believes you were only scratched.”

  I sighed. “Thank heaven for that.”

  God have mercy, if I’d had to influence the lot of them into denying the evidence of their own eyes, I’d have burst my head from the effort. As things stood, the witnesses were accomplishing a much better job of it on their own.

  “Incredible.” Oliver shook his head. “And all this because you curtailed Ridley’s drunken sport. If he was that far gone in drink, I’m surprised he was able to remember you, especially with your being in that mask.”

  “No more than I was to find how he moves so easily between the gutter and polite company. He’s a dangerous fellow, and you must do all you can to avoid him.”

  “He’s got no quarrel with me, but you and I are blood kin and he might—I’ll do my best, Coz, but I doubt that he’ll be much of a problem for now. Once word of this has spread he
won’t be on any invitation lists to polite places. You skewered him properly, too; he shan’t soon be on his feet . . . though killing him would have been better.”

  “I’ve had enough of killing.” My rage vented, I had cooled enough to think again and knew that even in the worst of it that I’d have held myself back from such a fatal action. Ridley, as he had demonstrated, was not so charitable.

  “Still, he’s a spiteful sort, you can see that. It might be over for tonight, but he’s just the kind to come after you later. According to the Code, he cannot reopen the argument, but that won’t stop him from making a new one.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes open, not to fear,” I promised. “I wonder how he’s doing, anyway?”

  “If you really want to go find out . . .” he began doubtfully.

  “Not a bit of it! Just wondered is all.”

  “I suppose they’ve turned up another doctor to attend him or I’d have been called in by now. Just as well, I suppose.”

  Some of the Bolyn servants appeared, bearing the promised washing water, bandaging and a clean shirt of fine silk. Brinsley, it seemed, was in the midst of a severe bout of hero worship with myself as the object of adulation. I was rather nonplussed to be in such a position, feeling neither worthy of the honor nor comfortable, but it could not be helped.

  The room was cleared again, and this time Elizabeth went out to deliver a report to the waiting throng about my condition and to order Oliver’s carriage to be brought ’round. After all this it would have been too much to expect us to remain and participate in the rest of the evening’s festivities. There would be other events in the future, though; this incident had bestowed instant celebrity upon us, which meant countless invitations. Given the grim circumstances, I found the prospect to be a dubious honor. Had I not possessed my unique advantages, the next social gathering for our circle would have been my funeral.

  Ugh.

  I cleaned the dried blood away, donned Brinsley’s shirt and bundled up my torn and stained costume shirt and waistcoat for Jericho to deal with. Perhaps he could work a miracle and salvage them in some way, but I doubted that I’d ever be in a mood to don them ever again. Oliver, seeing that the bandages were unnecessary, stuffed them in one of his pockets.