by P. N. Elrod
The thought seemed to take weight and size in my skull. I didn’t want it there, but hadn’t the strength to get rid of it. No other thoughts could raise themselves against it.
You have to get up. You must get away.
But I was hurt. I could not move. To move meant more pain.
To not move means death.
Very well, but something small first. Like opening my eyes.
High overhead, thick with shadows, stretched a broad slice of marble ceiling. Walls of the same pale stone seemed to rush straight toward me.
The hard and cold thing I lay upon . . . also marble, but not part of the floor; I was somewhat higher, as if floating above it. Where . . . ?
The mausoleum? How had I come to be here? They’d taken me . . . one of them had . . . .
First I’d been hurt, then helped—no, not right. One of them had struck me . . . .
Struck my arm. Struck to maim, kill.
The whimpering within increased, became a full-throated howl of terror, its echoes battering upon my inner ear.
Ridley and Arthur.
There, I’d put names to the dread shapes that had attacked, had taken me to his house of death.
They weren’t here. That was good.
I was quite alone.
And . . . lying on Grandfather Fonteyn’s sarcophagus.
Already frightened and not thinking rationally, I lurched up, instantly regretting the action. The fire in my arm blazed anew, and the top of my head felt as though it was coming off. I fell back the way I’d been, breathless, though I had no need of air.
Lying quietly did not aggravate the hurts, so I did that and tried to reason away the superstitious terror that had seized me. After all, the silent residents here were long past doing harm to anyone. It had just been a shock to realize I was on the old devil’s last resting place. It’s one thing to dance on it when one is in control, and very much another to waken on so harsh a bed, injured and frightened and trying understand what is going on.
I listened and watched, wanting to find some understanding. Ridley and Arthur, if they were still nearby, were out of sight of the mausoleum door and either keeping quiet or too far away to be heard. Nothing outside the structure moved, except the wind shivering against the trees. I hated the sound, the loneliness of it, as though God had abandoned us and the dead together forever in this bleak spot.
Steady, Johnny-boy. No need for that, you’re scared enough.
Right. Back to the problem at hand.
That Ridley was determined to avenge himself for the humiliation of losing the duel was obvious. He’d recruited a cousin to be his ally; for all I knew Arthur might even have been one of the Mohocks who had plagued me on my first night in London. I hadn’t seen their faces—
Oh, bother that. I wanted refuge. Healing. Mine, if I could but vanish.
Cursing myself for a dolt for not thinking of it sooner, I tried to summon the gray nothingness. Why had it not helped before? Had that been an illusion? I should have shot straight into it ages ago.
This was not the swift, effortless leaving to which I was accustomed, but an imperfect and prolonged striving. My vision clouded, slowly, and did not quite depart, which meant that I did not quite depart.
Raising my left hand to judge my progress, I saw that it was only partially transparent and, no matter how hard I tried, stubbornly remained in that halfway state. Disturbed, I ceased and became solid again.
Much too solid. My poor body seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. I was as weak as an infant. My guts felt as if they’d been scraped out, jumbled, and dropped carelessly back, not quite into place. For several bad moments I thought I might faint once more.
Lie still, still, still. Let it pass.
Thus did I obey the soft dictate of instinct, not that I was able to ignore it.
Bit by bit, my strength returned, a ghost of it, anyway. At least I was able to move a little and not lie flaccid as a corpse.
Ugh. Shouldn’t think of such things.
Must have been my surroundings.
For all this, my arm . . . was improved. The furnace still raged, still seared my flesh, but its heat was focused on a single area rather than the whole limb. Healing had begun.
Cautiously I lifted up on my left elbow to take a look at myself. The right sleeve of my coat had been cut through; it and much of the rest of my clothing on that side was soaked with blood. I’d lost a terrifying amount of it. No wonder I was so wretchedly enervated.
And with that knowledge came the hunger.
Now it awakened and surged, washing over me, colder than sea spray. My mouth sagged with need. My corner teeth budded, lengthened, fixing themselves into place. I absolutely had to feed. Feed immediately.
But how? I barely had the strength to sit, much less walk, much less seek out food. But to lie here like a starving dog in the gutter—
No. Not for me. I had to get up and would. The hunger would not let me do otherwise. I had to supply myself or go mad from it.
Heaven help anyone who crossed my path.
I pushed stiffly at the freezing stone slab, twisting at the hips to drag my legs around. They dangled off the edge of the sarcophagus. I shifted again and dropped, jolting as my feet struck the floor.
Swaying. God, but I was dizzy.
I slapped a hand on the stone, desperately trying to steady myself. Falling would only complicate things further, and I had enough difficult tasks to occupy me.
Like getting to the doorway. If I could get to the house . . . Elizabeth would know what to do.
One step, another, teetering like a drunk. Two more steps and I was at the door, left hand flailing to grab for its iron gate. I caught it just in time, saving myself from dropping on my face.
None of this activity made me feel better. I paused to get a look at the source of my agony. The coat sleeve gaped wide over a fearful wound. Arthur’s blade had cut through the thick part of my forearm right down to the bone. The flesh was well parted here, revealing details about the layers of skin and muscle that I would much rather not have known. I looked away, belly churning, ready to turn itself out.
At least I wasn’t bleeding. My body probably had nothing more to spare.
Cold. Colder than before. Cloak useless against it, for this was from the inside.
Then move.
It was a quarter mile to the house . . . less than that to the stables. All the blood I’d ever need waited there. I had only to walk to get it.
Walk.
Or crawl. I would crawl if need be.
I pushed on the gate, following its outward swing. The hinges squawked.
“Here! What’s this?”
God have mercy. Arthur stood five paces away. I’d given him a start. Fair enough, for he’d done the same and more for me. I couldn’t budge. What would be the point? I was caught and too weak to fight or run.
“Thought you’d gone and died on us,” he said, hurrying close. “Not that it matters, but Tom’ll be more than pleased. Come along with you.”
He’d just as much said that we were alone. Well and good, though if we’d been in the middle of Covent Garden on a theater night, I’d not have been able to stop myself.
With a frightening burst of starvation-inspired strength I lunged at him, reaching, clutching, bringing him down.
Instinct is a strange thing. Much of the time we ignore it, but in select and extreme moments, it can completely take us over, driving us to do extraordinary things that we would never otherwise attempt. Had I been in my right mind I’d have known it to be impossible to tackle Arthur the way I did. Nor would I have been able to knock him senseless, rip away his neck cloth and tear into his throat as I did.
But I was not in my right mind.
I was hurt and hungry and terrified and desperate, and he was my enemy.
&n
bsp; And his body flowed with life. Red deliverance.
The stuff crashed into my mouth, the first swallow gone before I was aware of the act. This was not a leisurely feeding for refreshment, but a frantic gorging for survival. I drank deeply, not tasting, aware of little else other than the overwhelming necessity to keep drinking until the hurt ended and the vast hollow within was filled.
I woke out of spell I know not how long later, but it came as quickly as I’d succumbed. One second I was a mindless thing of raw need and appetite, the next, a man again, suddenly realizing what I was doing.
Dear God, I was killing him.
I broke away. Blood on my lips. Blood seeping from the wounds in his throat.
Arthur was deathly white and still, but I put an ear to his chest and detected the fluttering of his heart. It beat too fast, I thought, but as long as he was yet alive . . .. In truth, I was less concerned with the prospect of his death than the possibility of my being blamed for it. Callous? Yes, but I placed a higher value on my skin than his, and it would have been a damned shame to hang at Tyburn for the likes of him.
I found my feet and stood, the horrible dizziness fading. The burning in my arm was less pronounced. I’d have looked to see how far the healing had progressed, but decided to spare myself. Instead, I shut my eyes, concentrated, and felt the glad lightness slipping ’round me like a soft blanket as I vanished.
No burning. No pain at all. I felt the tug of wind, nothing more. How tempting it would be to let it carry me away through the woods and far from this place and its problems. So wonderfully, sweetly tempting.
But not the best thing to do, especially for Arthur. Like it or not, I would have to take care of him, which meant resuming form again and deciding how best to go about dealing with this disaster.
The next time I felt the wind it seemed as solid as myself, catching my cloak as if to sweep it from my shoulders. I grabbed the ends and pulled them close.
Using both hands.
Now I braved a glance at my wound and found it to be no more than a thick red welt of a scar halfway circling my arm, which was sore to the touch but otherwise fine. Overall, I was extremely shaky. The blood had saved me, but much of its good had gone toward my healing. I’d want more before the night was out, and this time from a source that could spare it in abundance. A trip to the Fonteyn stables was in order, but before that I had to decide what to do about Arthur Tyne.
He’d freeze to death out here. He’d need warmth and care, though God knows what Oliver could do for him. I winced at the thought of Oliver, of having to try to explain this. Elizabeth would understand, but then she’d had longer to get used to certain facts about my condition.
Later. I’d worry on it later.
Had I been up to my full strength I could have carried him back to the house, but I was not, being hard pressed even to drag him into the paltry shelter of the mausoleum. As he’d done before with me, now did I lay him out on the sarcophagus. I noticed bloodstains on the marble from my occupation of the same spot and wondered if they might prove permanent, then concluded I didn’t really care to know.
I further noticed my hat, lost when Arthur had attacked me, was at the foot of the thing, along with someone’s sword and my own sword-stick. The former’s presence puzzled me, the latter I gladly repossessed. It was still in two pieces, which I remedied, slipping the blade into the stick and engaging the catch. I’d find a good use for it as a simple cane again, until I could bolster myself with more blood.
The wounds I’d made on Arthur’s neck had ceased bleeding, but his skin had taken on a bluish cast. Whether from the cold or the damage I’d inflicted by draining him mattered not; with a grimace, I stripped off my cloak and drew it over him. It would be only a quick walk to the house, and I could stand up to the chill better than he for that long. As an afterthought, I pulled his neck cloth back and more or less into place, thus ensuring a bit more protection as well as covering the evidence of my madness.
“I’ll be seeing you shortly,” I muttered to him and turned to leave.
And alas, did not get far. Only to the threshold, just in time to see Ridley hurrying down the path from Fonteyn House with another figure behind him. A woman. What the—?
I would have liked to quit the business then and there, to vanish and pass them by and let them find Arthur and do as they pleased, but tired as I was, I was also recklessly curious.
And angry. I’d paid Arthur back for my injury, but not Ridley, who had decoyed me into it.
He and the woman headed purposefully toward the mausoleum. Melting into the shadows within the doorway, I slipped behind the far side of the huge sarcophagus and lay flat on the floor between it and the wall. If it looked as if one of them might come ’round, then would I vanish, but not before. I was of a mind to hear their talk.
“Arthur!” Ridley called impatiently for his cousin. He pushed the gate open and came in.
“Arthur!” called the woman in turn.
I recognized her voice, and the sheer surprise of it nearly made me raise up. As it was, all my skin seemed to leap from the shock. What in God’s name was Clarinda doing out here with Thomas Ridley?
“Where is he gotten to?” she demanded of him, annoyed.
“How the devil should I know?”
“Then find him. I’m freezing.”
Well-a-day. Wrapped in my cloak and in the darkness, it seemed that they’d mistaken Arthur’s body for mine. I wondered how long that would last.
“You could have stayed in the house,” Ridley pointed out.
“No. I want to see it done.”
He snorted. “You’ve already missed the best part.”
She moved closer to the Aunt Fonteyn’s sarcophagus, but not too close to Grandfather’s, thank heaven. “You’re sure he’s—”
“Arthur took care of him, you needn’t worry.”
“But he was supposed to be shot,” she said peevishly.
What?
“Too late now. I’ll just put swords in their hands and leave it at that.”
“But if it doesn’t look right . . .”
“It will, and if anyone should raise a question, you and your precious Oliver can easily hush it up.”
Oliver? My God, how was he involved in this? It was hard enough to believe that Clarinda was here and up to heaven knows what, but Oliver? I felt a sickening shift in my belly, ten times worse than any illness I’d ever known. Betrayal. Pale, ugly, unforgivable betrayal. I’d faced it before from Caroline Norwood, but for it to come from my good cousin, my dearest friend . . .
“Have you a candle and tinderbox?” Ridley asked her. “Good, then be useful and make some light. It’s black as Hades in here.”
“Afraid of the dark, are you?” she countered good-naturedly.
“No, but I can’t work in it—not unless it’s the right kind of work.”
“Time for that afterward, my dear. Now get you along and find that fool cousin of yours.”
With a grunt of disappointment, Ridley went out, calling Arthur’s name.
I waited with a patience I’d not been aware of possessing as she played with the tinderbox and coaxed sufficient flame from it to transfer to the candle. Its light was unsteady because of the air flowing in from the entry, but it served.
She placed the candle on one corner of the sarcophagus, then paced up and down to keep warm. When the sound of her steps indicated that she walked away from me, I boosted up. Damnation, but I was yet insidiously weak, shaking from the exertion. The look on Clarinda’s face when she turned and saw me made the effort worth it.
An instant’s surprise, an instinctive falling back and then unhappy recognition.
“Good evening Cousin,” I said calmly.
Oh, but she was clever. Her gaze swept from me to the unconscious Arthur Tyne and returned. Just that fast she divined who was
really wrapped in the cloak. Her gaze next fastened on my cut sleeve. In the dim light she’d not be able to see the blood against the black cloth, but the stains had crept as far as my waistcoat and shirt.
“Why, Jonathan! What a start you gave me.” She made a step forward, one hand out as though to help. “You’re hurt,” she observed, putting a convincing tone of concern into her voice.
“But not dead.” My own tone let her understand I was impervious to further attempts at deception.
She let her hand drop to rest on her skirts and suppressed a shiver. She was wrapped well for the weather, but I fancied any chill she felt now was not connected to the cold. Abandoning her play-acting for a more sober demeanor, she pointed at Arthur. “What went wrong?” she asked evenly.
“Does it matter?”
She made no reply.
“Why, Clarinda?” I whispered. “Tell me why.”
More silence.
“Ridley I can understand, he wants revenge for the duel, but why are you involved in this? How?” I waited in vain. She pressed her sweet lips hard together. “Is he one of your lovers, then? Is he doing it for you because of that? Did he force a fight on me because of what happened with us four years past?” It sounded ludicrous even as I spoke it, but I couldn’t imagine any other reason.
A smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. A singularly unpleasant smile. “You’re remarkably close to the truth, Jonathan, but are overly flattering to yourself.”
“Then why? Why are you a part of this? What have you against me?” I moved closer, fully intending to force an answer from her, but in the blink of an eye she drew a dueling pistol from the pocket of her skirt and aimed it right at my chest. I stopped hardly two paces from its muzzle. Even an inexperienced shooter could not miss at that distance, and Clarinda appeared to be well acquainted with the workings of her firearm.
“I’ve nothing against you, dear boy,” she said, “but it’s better for all concerned that you not be around Fonteyn House any longer.”
“But why? And how is Oliver involved? Where is he?”
“Drunk in his room where you left him, I’m sure.”
