Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  As for Nora . . . well, Nora hadn’t been as careful or considerate with me.

  No, not fair, for I recalled all that happened between us that night when we’d first exchanged blood. It had been a deliberate act on her part. She’d asked if I trusted her and I had. If only she’d trusted me in return and given over the knowledge of the change that lay ahead, she’d have spared me from much fear and sorrow.

  Perhaps she thought her condition to be unique to herself, that it could not be passed on. But if such were so, then why not exchange blood with her other courtiers and afford herself the fullness of carnal pleasure all the time? No, there was some other reason involved. I’d been special to her, or so she said. She might not have wanted to share it with the others, only me. She might not have known I’d become like her and had thought there would be no need to explain things. Perhaps her ignorance about this unnatural state was equal to my own.

  Horrible thought, that. I shook it right out of my head.

  I carried first Yasmin back to the settee, then Samar, laying them close together and pulling over them some sheets to spare them from becoming chilled. They made a sweet picture, like two black-haired angels. I went to the chair where they’d put my clothes and found my money purse. They were honest girls, I noted; neither had filched so much as a penny when they’d undressed me earlier, but then Mandy had ever been strict about that at her other place of business. I placed a guinea each in their hands as they slept. Aware of it or not, they’d performed above and beyond their usual duties for the house and deserved a special vale for their trouble.

  The wound I’d made on my neck reminded me of its existence by a prickling itch. I started to scratch and halted just as my fingertips made contact with the flesh. Close, Johnny-boy, close. I might have opened it up again. To eliminate the problem, I vanished for a moment so it could heal. The vanishing was strangely difficult, taking longer than usual to accomplish; I blamed it on the lingering effect of the wine.

  The fire burned low. I saw to its replenishment for the sake of my drowsing houris, then sought the solace of the bath once more. There was time enough and more for me to loll in its welcome heat and clean away the last of the blood. The water had turned a bit pink. I tried to think of some way to explain it, should anyone ask, then thought better of it. Say nothing and let them come up with their own reasons, but chances were no one would notice.

  Resting my head on the most shallow of the steps so my face was out of the water, I let my body relax and float. The pool was just large enough for it. I had nothing remotely like it at home—though that might change—and would enjoy the luxury while it was yet mine to have. Already I was forming plans to return to this earthly paradise next week. I might indulge myself with the company of but one lady, though, and see to it that she not partake of wine or spirits until afterward. Much safer for both of us that way.

  Notwithstanding the turmoil of soul my lapse of control had thrown upon me, I was well content with Oliver’s munificent gift. I felt tired, refreshed, weak and strong all at once. Not an easy combination to attain, but wonderfully satisfying. I’d have to think of a suitable thank you to give in return.

  As I mused on possibilities, my quick ears caught the distant beginnings of a commotion elsewhere in the house. Raised voices, from both men and women, but nothing alarming. One of the men was drunk and singing a bawdy song, sometimes even in key. A little row was only to be expected in a brothel, even in those as well run as this one. Mandy had vast experience in dealing with them, and like any sensible procuress, would have several bully boys in her employ to enforce the peace.

  The song soon died away to drunken laughter, then loud talk that progressed toward my end of the hall. The men had imbibed just enough to make them randy, but not so much to prevent them from doing anything about it, I judged. I hoped their ladies for tonight were as hardy as Mandy claimed, for these noise makers would likely give them a strenuous time of it.

  I relaxed again, glad that they were someone else’s problem and not mine.

  Wrong you are entirely, Johnny-boy, I thought with disgust as the door to my chamber abruptly opened. Water sloshing, I sat up and turned to face the intrusion, standing in the deep part of the bath.

  There were three of them, all masked, but that caused no alarm. Titled men often wanted anonymity while cavorting outside of their class, and I assumed this lot were no different. They were cloaked, gloved and muffled to the ears, and their hats obscured the rest. All I could see was a bit of mouth and nose and little enough of those.

  The men spilled unsteadily into the room, still laughing at whatever obscure jest had just been made. I debated whether it was worth the trouble to call for assistance or deal with them myself.

  “We’re in the wrong room,” one of them observed, stopping to stare at me. “Not unless they’ve got uncommonly ugly wenches here.”

  “That’s a man, not a wench,” said another with heavy humor. “Though it might not make any difference to you.”

  The third member of the party whooped in appreciation. For the joke, I hoped. I tried to look past them to see any sign of help, but the view was blocked by their bodies.

  “Gentlemen,” I said, “as you can see, this room is already occupied—”

  “Right you are—by us,” declared the wit. “So you can just remove yourself.”

  I ignored his ridiculous command. “Perhaps your room is just next to this one. If you but look, I’m sure you’ll find some impatient ladies waiting for you there.” Quite an assumption to make on my part, but I wanted to be rid of them. There was a draft.

  “Don’t I know you, sir?” he asked peevishly, stumbling forward.

  “I doubt it, sir.” Two more steps and he’d be in the bath.

  “Yes, I do, you’re Percy Mott, aren’t you?”

  “My name is Barrett, and I’d very much appreciate it if you—”

  “His name’s Barrett, lads.”

  And with those words, spoken in an unexpectedly stone cold sober voice, the farce forthwith and bereft of warning changed to catastrophe.

  Like an idiot, I still tried to finish my sentence, but the words died on my lips when from the folds of his cloak he drew forth a primed dueler and aimed the muzzle right at me. Though not faster than thought, he was certainly faster than my thought. I had less than an instant to react, but pure shock was sufficient for me to waste it. Few others would have had the presence of mind to do aught else but stare as I did for that blink in time between seeing his pistol and the tardy of comprehension of his purpose.

  But there it was: a blink and nothing more.

  Then, at the distance of two short paces, he fired straight into my chest.

  The roar of discharge did not impress itself upon my senses so much as the powder smoke. The acrid stuff filled the whole room more thoroughly than the deafening noise. I saw, rather than felt, the ball reaming through me, leaving behind a great hole spurting blood. My body gave a violent jerk, then pitched heavily forward into the water. I had no time to bring my arms up; I could not feel, much less control them. With all my inert weight I struck the shallow step with my forehead, feeling and hearing the shattering crack of the impact with my whole being. Paralyzed, I lay as one dead, yet living through lifetimes of undiluted agony.

  * * *

  Voices and shouts and alarms went unheeded somewhere above him. In the confusion the pistol shooter and his companions would make an easy escape.

  But he didn’t care about them.

  He simply was not able.

  All inner awareness had been brutally compressed down to nothing, and what had once been Jonathan Barrett was replaced by a blazing sphere of misery. He didn’t exist, only his pain. Perhaps in a hundred years or so when the pain went away he might think about returning, but no sooner.

  His body floated facedown, bobbing and bumping against the sides of the bath, ar
ms and legs dangling and useless in the bloodied water.

  People swarmed into the room, raising more noise. Somewhere a frightened woman wept; another tried to calm her. A large man seized one of Barrett’s arms and turned him over, then dragged his motionless body from the pool. Others stooped to help or backed out of the way. Water streamed from Barrett’s nose and open mouth. His open eyes were fixed in place like those painted on a doll.

  He could not move, only lie where they left him. The humiliating helplessness should have brought him great distress, but nothing, no thought or action from within—for both were beyond him—no pleas, no prayers, no tears of anguish from without could break past the bloated wall of pain that had fixed itself between him and the rest of the world.

  The large man pressed an ear to Barrett’s immobile chest, and pronounced him dead. Comments were made about the blood in the pool and the singular lack of a wound showing on the body. Other people joined the press to see for themselves and ask what had happened. They questioned the two girls who had been with Barrett, but could learn nothing useful since both had been fast asleep. Then all talk stopped when an unanticipated tremor ran through Barrett’s body, and it gave a powerful cough, dislodging water in its throat. This inspired a fresh bout of commotion as they concluded, with reasonable doubts attached, that he might be alive after all.

  The wall of pain marginally shrank, but Mr. Barrett was too prudent a man to rush right back into things again. He waited, in no hurry to answer the frantic questions flung at him by these absurd strangers. They weren’t in his body; they had no hint to what it was going through, and until the ordeal ended, they could damned well wait themselves.

  Then his cousin Oliver was next to him, and care and concern for this one man’s fear prompted Barrett to attempt a response. The wall of pain between them was thinner, perhaps enough now to allow him to speak past it and be heard.

  “‘M all ri—” he mumbled, lying.

  That held things together for a little, kept them busy. Coverings were thrown upon his nakedness; a pillow was slipped under his head. The jarring involved in the latter nearly sent him away to a safe, gray sanctuary, but hovering just within him there existed a vague but compelling need to remain where he was. Exactly why was out of his ken for the moment.

  “God, he’s cold as a corpse,” Oliver urgently observed to no one in particular.

  “This will help,” said a woman.

  “No, don’t do—”

  But the deed was done. Someone—probably the woman—poured what seemed like a gallon of brandy past the lips of Mr. Barrett.

  “Told you,” she said with a degree of smugness in her tone as Mr. Barrett’s otherwise numbed and lax body twitched and rolled over into a fit of forceful and messy coughing.

  * * *

  That burning, vile, hideous excuse for drink accomplished what coddling and sympathy could not—brought me straightway back into the thick of things, groaning and cursing and holding my exploding head. This caused relieved murmuring among the crowd. A man who could still curse his pain had a good chance of surviving it.

  Exhausted by the business, I eased onto my back again. Whatever good feeling had been mine while in the company of Yasmin and Samar had vanished completely. I was shaken to the core and trembling despite the coverings heaped over me.

  Between weakening spasms as my body sought to rid itself of the poisonous brandy, I managed a feeble scowl for my benefactress, Mandy Winkle, who knelt on one side of me with a flask in her hand. She scowled right back, but with more ferocity. Couldn’t blame her for it; this sort of row could not only get her closed down, but land her in Bridewell.

  Oliver regarded me with more compassion (mixed with barely controlled terror) and strove to find out if I really was all right and if I might give an account of what had happened. I assured him of the partial truth of the one, but had to be circumspect about the other.

  “One of the bastards shot at me.” My voice was so faint I hardly knew it.

  “Shot at you?” he echoed.

  “Missed. Hit my head when I ducked.” Dear God, but hadn’t I just? I wasn’t able to decide which had suffered the worst, my head or my chest. They pounded and ached for all they were worth, though in different ways. One at a time I might have managed, with considerably less hardship to myself and others, but both at once had been too much.

  “Who was it?” demanded Mrs. Winkle, bristling with anger. Whether for me or for my attacker was hard to judge.

  “Don’t know. Masked. They were together. You must have seen. Did you not know them?”

  Some of her anger faded. “They were new or pretended to be so. I’ve an eye for faces, but that doesn’t work when the face is covered. Why in God’s name did they shoot you?”

  I could not give a good reply, only adding again that I’d not been shot. A blatant lie, for I’d been caught square in the chest, but it was important—I remembered why, now—that I maintain the fiction that the shootist had missed.

  “You must be wrong, sir,” she said, glancing at the pool. “There’s blood aplenty in that bath or my name is Queen Charlotte.”

  I followed her gaze and saw the water was not a faint pink, but a decidedly nasty and unmistakable red. The pistol ball had inflicted a substantial portion of damage to my flesh, but that same flesh had healed itself, a miraculous but painful process made worse when my head struck the tile steps. Either injury should have caused me to vanish, but I had a lurking suspicion the wine had mucked things up.

  Oliver stared at me, wide of eye and open of jaw. I’d told him about my past experiences with pistols and rifles, and he’d apparently just worked out what had really happened. Afraid he might blurt something, I fastened him with sharp look and shook my head once. He gulped and cleared his throat.

  “Nosebleed,” he pronounced in good imitation of the pedantic tones used by physicians when they were absolutely certain about something, particularly about something beneath their notice.

  “Nosebleed?” asked Mandy.

  He nodded emphatically and with a delicate touch pried one of my eyelids up with his thumb as though he were giving a normal examination to any of his other patients. “Oh, yes. My poor cousin is frequently subject to them. Alarming, but harmless. This one must have been brought on by this unconscionable attack.”

  Mandy snorted, either in acceptance of or derision for his diagnosis; it was hard to say. She then noticed all the people who had crowded in and barked an order for them to remove themselves. While she was occupied, Oliver caught my eye and mouthed the word Mohocks, drawing up his eyebrows to make it into a question. I nodded once. We frowned at each other.

  “I would very much like to go home,” I whispered.

  “Are you able?” he asked, astonished.

  “I should be. And if not, I will be regardless.”

  Mandy overheard. “Lord bless you, sir, but you can stay until you’re more recovered.” I could see in her face that this invitation was anything but what she really wanted to say. Hers was a reluctant hospitality, her desire for us to immediately leave coming hard against common Christian charity and the natural wish not to lose a client with such deep pockets as my cousin.

  “You’re kind, but it’s best that we go so you can put your house in order as soon as may be.”

  “Perhaps,” Oliver added, “you might have one of your men hire a carriage from somewhere to take us home.”

  Not quite successful at hiding her relief at this proposal, Mandy promised to see what she could do and left to do it. On her way out she cleared the room of remaining stragglers.

  Oliver continued to kneel by me, playing the part of attending physician, but as soon as the door closed his shoulders drooped and he released a great sigh.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes, though I’ve been better. I just need a little time.”


  “What really happened?”

  “I was shot. Dueling pistol. You’ll likely find the ball still in the bath.”

  He went back on his heels, biting his lip. “Dear God. And there’s no mark on you. How can that be?”

  “I’ll ask Nora, should I get the chance.”

  “And I shall thank her, should I get one as well. If not for her you’d be—” His gaze flicked to the pool, then he suddenly rose up to pace the room. He’d passed the point of being able to hold in his emotions any longer and was in sore need of expressing them. “Of all the vicious, cowardly. . . .”

  I rested and let him rant against my would-be killer. I’d have indulged in some myself, but was yet feeling a bit frail. Strength would soon return in full measure; if only peace of mind could come as well. The horror I’d been through made that impossible, nor would I know peace again until I’d dealt with the instigators of this outrage.

  When Oliver divested himself of the worst of his anger, I asked for his assistance to stand, which he instantly provided. The pain in my head was more of an unpleasant hindrance than the one in my chest, for it affected my ability to balance. I excused myself to him and sought relief by briefly vanishing. Again, though difficult to achieve, it worked a charm on both complaints, but upon returning, I found I’d traded two specifically located hurts for an overall weariness.

  “You look perfectly awful,” he said. He didn’t look too well himself, but at least he was dressed or nearly so with only a partially tied neck cloth and some buttons left undone. He must have finished early with his evening’s entertainment.