Jane Austen: Blood Persuasion (10 page)

“We are.” He stopped, a pistol in his hand. “Look to your right.”

She saw the trees end raggedly at the road, the ruts showing clear in the moonlight, and someone moved ahead of them. Not William or Tom—she thought they and Luke were a little farther off. This creature was one of
les Sales,
lean to the point of emaciation and desperately hungry, scenting her.

“Come, my pretty,” he crooned.

“Try. You won’t forget.” Jane felt a familiar jolt of pain in her canines, a rush of power in her limbs. Her gaze on
le Sale,
she bent to grasp a fallen branch. Behind her Raphael cocked the pistol.

But
le Sale
was distracted, and a few seconds later Jane heard the cause of his interest, the sounds of an approaching carriage, the thud of hooves and creak of wheels. The carriage lights appeared first, and the horses snorted, uneasy at the presence of the Damned—there were more of them, Jane knew, hidden among the trees, waiting.
Le Sale
erupted from the trees and flung himself at the closest horse, which came to a rearing stop. The horse next to it plunged in the traces, and the carriage came to a jolting stop.

The driver fumbled among the capes of his coat, possibly looking for a weapon, and then gave a shout of terror and aimed his whip at the team. “Get off, you devil!”

“He dines on the horse,” Raphael said.

Sure enough,
le Sale
had leaped onto the horse, which screamed half mad with terror. A jet of blood sprayed onto the road.

The window of the carriage was pushed down from the inside, and a gentleman poked his head out. “What the devil—”

The Damned, maybe a half dozen of them, swarmed over the carriage, bearing its occupant down inside, the door half wrenched off its hinges. Meanwhile the screaming, plunging horse had fallen, crushing
le Sale
beneath its hooves. The air was thick with terror and the scent of blood.

“Shoot them!” Jane said, horrified. She tried to pull the pistol from Raphael’s grasp.

“Have a care! It’s cocked. We’ll not shoot unless they attack us.”

William touched her shoulder. “Remember they are armed with worse than pistols. We have seen enough. Come, Jane, Raphael. We must leave.”

He led the way back through the woods at a slower pace.

Jane’s teeth chattered, her legs felt weak, and she stumbled on the path. Raphael put an arm around her shoulders. “Be brave, Jane.”

“We should have saved him—them. Why did we do nothing?”

“William wanted you to see how dangerous they are, how they use
les Sales
as their cannon fodder.
Les Sales
will destroy themselves willingly, for they have lost their honor and their family.”

“Why cannot they join another household? Why must they wander like beasts?”

“They are dishonored,” Raphael said. “No respectable household would wish to have them join, and they would refuse.”

“How many are there?”

“A dozen or so, we think, but it is their masters, Duval and the others, we must fear. He has made it clear that he will tolerate them. So he assembles an army of sorts, ready for the day when civil war breaks out among the Damned.”

“You think it cannot be avoided? So that is why William wishes his fledglings to return.”

“Indeed.”

She realized now where they were, close to the Great House, and leaving the woods for an open meadow. A little light came from the shuttered cottages that lined the road ahead.

“And you, Raphael. You too are what Luke calls a eunuch, neither Damned nor mortal? Are you one whose metamorphosis is halted? What is William to you?”

To Jane’s annoyance, William, ahead of them, turned at the mention of his name, thus effectively breaking the flow of conversation. For someone who was so keen to have her take Raphael as her lover, William’s behavior was certainly contradictory.

“Raphael, if you will, fetch some lanterns and bring them to the barn.” He waited for Jane to catch up with him. “I hope you realize now the severity of our situation. I see you are shocked by what you witnessed.”

Tom handed her a flask and the brandy fumes made her eyes sting, but a good gulp of the spirits made her feel a little stronger. “Indeed I am. How long before more in the village are attacked? What of my family?”

“You should persuade your family to leave the cottage to visit one of your brothers, and you should move to the Great House. They will be safer elsewhere and you may continue your metamorphosis. I am concerned you have progressed no further.” He led her to the outbuildings that clustered at the side of the house.

“But . . . I pray I shall remain mortal. Every night, William. I do not wish to progress.”

“So be it. If it is any consolation, Jane,
les Sales
rarely hunt in the day, despite your friend’s unfortunate experience. You should, however, be concerned with Duval’s interest in your niece.”

“What do you think he intends? You think seduction or draining her is not bad enough?”

“He may intend to create her. She is not of high rank, but you, even in your half-formed state, have power, and it is likely he believes she may have the same potential.” He pushed open the door of one of the larger buildings. “He needs more to rally to his cause.”

“As do you, William.” She couldn’t help the ironic laugh that welled within her. “How the mighty are fallen, that the Damned stoop to create from among the gentry.”

His expression, however, was serious. “Be assured, Jane, I shall do all in my power to have you return as one of us, however hard you pray. Did you enjoy wearing men’s clothes and running through the darkness tonight?—nay, you do not need to answer, for I see you did. Do you not remember what it was to be even stronger and swifter, invincible? Do you remember the pulse of blood on your tongue? No?”

“Where do you want these lanterns?” Raphael, carrying a pair of lanterns, approached them.

William gave him a brief nod of thanks and gestured to a nearby bench. He continued, “At the least, you must be armed. I shall provide you with pistols and a knife. I remember you had some skill in fighting.”

Jane nodded and yawned. The effect of the brandy, after its initial bracing shock, was to now make her feel discontented and sleepy. She longed for her bed. “Could we not resume this tomorrow?”

“I regret not. Mr. Papillon has invited me to view his collection of curiosities and to dine.”

Jane laughed. “You will certainly need to reserve your strength, then. I trust he will not display his sister in his cabinet of curiosities. Tongues will wag, you know.”

“I see you still possess the unfortunate tendency to speak to your Creator with disrespect. Let us continue.” William gave a curt nod to Raphael. “Pray show her how to use the pistol.”

A glint of amusement in Raphael’s eyes nearly sent Jane into a fit of inappropriate laughter, but she managed to keep her countenance.

Raphael removed his coat. “It’s best to learn in your shirtsleeves, Miss Jane. You have a greater range of movement.”

Aware that she had been watching him slide the garment from his shoulders and admiring his form as he stood before her in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, she nodded and removed her own coat. She wore no waistcoat; her skin prickled with a chill that was only partly the effect of the cool air.

“So.” Raphael handed her one of his pistols. “A beautiful instrument of death, Jane.”

She weighed it in her hand, sliding her fingertips over the polished wood and the delicate tooling. Inlaid ivory and silver scrollwork depicted flowers, as though it were a piece of embroidery. “It is very fine work,” she said.

He came to her side, his shoulder touching hers. “So, here. This is at half cock. And now full cock, ready to fire. It is empty, so it is safe to show you. Try it.”

She placed her thumb on the silver lever and imitated his movements, hearing the quiet clicks as she manipulated it.

“Good. Now raise it. You practice first as though for sport, not for real life.” His hands on her shoulders turned her so she stood directly in front of him, her back against him, sharing the heat of his skin. His hand grasped her wrist. “Sight. Look along the barrel. Keep your arm straight. When you fire, you hold your breath. Aim at that knothole in the timber there. You see it?”

She nodded. The barrel wavered at the end of her outstretched arm, and she laughed.

“Try again. Hold your breath. Fire.”

“May I try with it loaded now?” She lowered the pistol and turned her head to Raphael’s.

They stood for a moment, their lips almost touching, his chest close to her shoulders, their skin separated by only a few layers of cotton. “So,” he said and stepped away. “Yes. Yes, I think so.”

He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket. “Here. This is your powder. Hand me the pistol, Miss Jane, and I shall show you.” He held a small twist of paper and bit the top off quickly, so Jane could not tell if he was
en sanglant
or not. “Some of the powder down the barrel. You keep a little for the firing pan. This is the ball. It goes after the powder, and you ram it firm with the rod.” He drew a slender steel rod from the underside of the pistol, so cunningly nestled in a groove, Jane had not seen it there. “You learn to do this fast.”

He handed the pistol back to Jane. “Place it on half cock, if you please. The rest of the powder goes into the firing pan. And now it is ready to fire when you place it on full cock.”

He stepped away and Jane raised the pistol, aiming at the knot in the wood she had sighted before. She held her breath and pulled the trigger and was taken aback by the loud explosion and the scent of burned powder. Through a haze of smoke, the walls of the barn turned into a row of houses built of Bath stone and the shouts of battle echoed in her ears.

The illusion lasted but a moment, and as she came to her senses she caught William’s disapproving stare.

Her canines were bared in a snarl, not
en sanglant
(not yet) but sharp and sensitive.

“I beg your pardon,” she muttered, and raised her other hand to her mouth.

“Not bad,” Tom said. “You missed the timber but not by much.”

“Good.” Raphael, leaning against the wall of the barn, arms crossed, smiled at her with friendly encouragement. “Try again. This time you load. Here.” He held out another packet of powder and a ball.

She ran through the routine again and again, until the beaten earth floor around her feet was littered with scraps of paper, and a pall of gray smoke hung around the barn. The pistol gained a familiarity in her hand as she learned to appreciate its heft and balance and grew accustomed to the kick of firing, the sharp explosion that rang in her ears. She could load without thought, her movements swift and economical.

“Well enough,” William said. “Try a moving target.”

“I beg your pardon?” She lowered the pistol.

“Tom, if you will?” At William’s suggestion, Tom moved into the center of the barn, his coat removed to save the garment from damage.

“Not my head, if you please,” Tom said. “Or my bollocks, however much you resent my intimacy with Martha.”

“I quite understand,” Jane said. “In short, I should avoid an injury to the part that governs you.”

Tom grinned with great good nature and took a turn around the barn, hands linked beneath his coattails.

Jane raised and sighted down the barrel. Tom darted out of range, moving with the unearthly rapidity of the Damned. She swung the pistol, her finger tightening, and her shot went wide.

“Try again.” Raphael handed her a loaded pistol.

This time Tom ran slowly, zigzagging across the barn, but making sudden, unexpected feints. “Look lively, Jane. I’m barely moving.”

“Keep your arm straight,” Raphael said. “Don’t let him taunt you.”

She concentrated, her arm weaving, finger stilled, then took a breath, held it, and fired.

“Ow!” Tom staggered, clutching his arm, and the dim space filled with the intoxicating scent of blood. He dropped to one knee, a dark stain spreading over his shirtsleeve.

“Serves you right,” Jane said. She lowered her arm and took a deep breath.

There was no denying the desire she felt for the spilled blood, the gorgeous richness of a fellow vampire’s blood, and the invitation in Tom’s gaze.

Victor’s spoils. She remembered fighting with Luke, lapping the blood from his skin, a rare and luxurious flavor . . .

She took a step toward him. The blood had soaked the sleeve and spread onto his hand. He clenched his fist and scarlet drops fell onto the floor, the tiny splashes magnified by her sensitivity.

“Come,” Tom said.

She knew what he expected, that she should lick his wound clean and breathe it closed.

“Does the ball remain in your flesh?” Her voice was hoarse.

Another step.

“No, it passed through the muscle. Two wounds for you, Jane.”

He unbuttoned his cuff and rolled up the sleeve, the light from the lanterns gilding the hairs on his arm and turning the streaks of scarlet to glistening trails.

Her breath caught.

He smiled. “Drink, Jane. Come back to us.”

Come back, my dear fledgling.

And then she knew. She turned to William, and the rejection of the blood of the Damned felt like a rip in her own heart, leaving her raw and hungering. “So this is what this is all really about, is it not?”

William bowed his head in acknowledgment. “I told you I would do all I could to persuade you to throw your lot in with ours.”

“You have played me for a fool!”

“I seek to hasten what is inevitable, Jane.”

She turned to the bench where the second of the pair of pistols lay. It was loaded, she knew, and she moved faster than she would have thought possible.

She raised the pistol and pointed it at Tom’s head. “You shall lose an ally and a companion, William. Is this really what you want?”

No one moved. Tom, who had watched the scene with amusement, now became still and serious, staring into the barrel of the pistol.

“Tell me, why I should not dispatch him. I have been deceived, by you, William, my Creator.”