Jane and the Damned (24 page)

“Is it true you can‧t abide garlic?” one of the men asked.

“Can you?” Luke asked.

The man wrinkled his nose. “Nasty stuff. My brother‧s a farmer, spends half his time looking for garlic in his fields for it ruins the butter and cream.”

“Reckon you‧re one of them, then, Jake,” the man seated next to him said to general laughter.

“How about crucifixes? Not that I hold with papist trappings,” another asked.

“Ah, I regret that is another myth,” Luke replied. “You are more like us than you may think. We associate the crucifix with the Inquisition, so we have no great liking for the symbol.”

Conversation moved on to news from other parts of the country, in particular from London and the whereabouts of the Royal Family, and the guests helped themselves to clay pipes and a jar of tobacco, both of which were met with great appreciation.

“I hope the old King‧s safe, even if he‧s mad half the time,” one of the men said. “I reckon I‧d be off my head with that Prince of Wales as my son.”

George opened his mouth to make an indignant reply, but a stern look from William quelled him.

“Aye, he‧s a terrible rake,” another replied, leaning to fetch a coal from the fire to light his pipe. “The Frenchies are welcome to him, if you ask me.”

“We‧ve heard the Royal Family is safe,” William said. “There‧s unrest against the French in almost every town and city. We shall prevail, gentlemen.”

There were murmurs of agreement and approval, but the man whose brother owned the garlic-loving cows shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “That‧s all very well, sir, but you see, we don‧t want things to go back to the way they have been. Say what you will about the French, and I don‧t hold with cutting off people‧s heads, but they‧d give us common men the vote. Neither Whigs nor Tories nor King George will do that, or not any time soon. Not in my lifetime, I‧ll warrant.”

“The Prince of Wales has long been a friend of reform,” George said.

The man snorted. “A friend to anyone who‧ll pay his debts, if you ask me. But you do see, sirs, that England under French rule might be better for some of us.”

“Then why are you here?” George asked.

“Well.” The man tamped tobacco into his clay pipe. He reached for a candle to light his pipe and blew a cloud of fragrant smoke into the air. “I never thought I‧d see the
tricouleur
fly from the Abbey or that I‧d fight side by side with vampires—let alone female ones—but in a couple of hours we‧ll be doing just that. I don‧t trust you Damned, or Parliament or the King, but I trust the French less, and better the devils you know than the one you don‧t.”

The night was cold and damp, with a steady rain. The wide streets of Bath lent little cover to those who could not blend into shadows, and the mortals of the party took the precaution of smearing their faces with ashes before they left the house. With some of the vampires, they left for St. Michaels Church, only a few streets away where Broad Street and Walcot Street joined.

The remaining Damned continued north on Walcot Street, taking refuge in the dark shadows of the church‧s burial ground to the east. They waited until the sound of marching feet and creaks of heavily loaded vehicles announced that the carts had arrived. The guards offered a challenge and some conversation took place between the soldiers.

The French officer on horseback, who led the wagons and its accompanying guard, cursed as his mount scented the presence of the Damned, put back its ears and shied.

He turned in the saddle.
“Allons!
” he shouted, indicating that the wagons were to follow him onto Cornwall Street that would run into Walcot Street and thus directly to the church, which was their destination.

Some of the Damned ran ahead, invisible in the shadows, to find any guards stationed along the route and dispatch them before they could raise an alarm when the ambush took place, a scant quarter mile away. The rest of them, Jane included, followed silently behind, far enough away so they would not panic the horses.

The train of carts creaked down the road, accompanied by the soldiers, who had no idea that soon they were to be attacked from rear and fore, trapped in the road, and that their attackers would have superior, terrifying powers of strength and speed.

Jane and the others encountered a mass of panicked French soldiers, while the horses that led the wagons reared and fought the drivers. A French soldier aimed his musket at her, changed his mind, and used it as a club. The blow landed on her shoulder as she ducked, missing her head, and the musket fired, nearly deafening her. She stabbed up and under, and the soldier frothed blood and fell. She pushed him out of the way, kicking another soldier on the knee, and saw him go down beneath the hooves of a terrified horse—the mount of the officer who led the convoy.

The horse screamed and reared, steel-shod hooves waving over her head.

“Steady, steady!” The man who cared neither for the King, the French, or the Damned dodged between Jane and the horse, grabbing its reins, and tossing his coat over its head. Temporarily blinded, the horse calmed enough to stay on all four feet.

Jane fought her way to the front of the wagon and swung herself onto the seat next to the driver. To her surprise, it was not a Frenchman, but an English boy of about twelve.

“Don‧t kill me!” the child cried, cowering away from her.

“Drive forward!” Jane shouted, and grabbed the whip from his hand. She cracked it over the backs of the pair of horses drawing the wagon, and it lurched forward. “Follow the other
wagons. You‧ll be safe and you shall have food. But keep your head down—these gentlemen will fire muskets.”

She pressed his head down as Luke, James, and George clambered aboard the wagon, muskets in hand. She slipped the bag of ammunition from her shoulders and launched herself onto the back of a French soldier, stabbing down as she landed. Behind her, the officer‧s horse had broken free and galloped down the street away from them, stirrups swinging wildly.

The street beside the wagon was a tight mass of men and vampires, the air thick with the scents of blood and sweat and panic.

To me.
Luke‧s command broke clear into her mind and she fought her way forward, her feet slipping on blood. A French soldier confronted her, sword at the ready, and she growled, fangs out, and dodged beneath his guard. His eyes widened with fear and shock as she stabbed and bit simultaneously, his blood astringent and strong with terror.

So now you fight like a vampire.
Luke‧s amused drawl.

The wagon lurched forward and she ran after, smelling her own blood—she must have been wounded but could not tell where. Soon, she suspected, she would feel some pain before the wounds closed and healed.

The wagon swerved right, pulling up outside the church. Luke wrenched apart the heavy chain and padlock on the doors and pushed them open wide to admit the carts.

Inside the church a man labored over a flintbox, a lantern to hand. His hat and coat dripped water and his hands were pinched and red with cold. Of course, it must be near pitch dark here, and the horses were uneasy at the presence of the Damned. The vampires stood back as the horses were freed from the shafts of the wagons and led back outside. The townspeople began to unload the carts, exclaiming over the variety and quality of the food.

“What will happen to the horses and carts?” Jane asked Luke.

“Taken to the outskirts of the town—the horses, that is. The carts they‧ll leave here. Come with me.” He swung himself into an emptied cart that still held a faint smell of cabbage and onions and held his hand to her. “We must wait for the town to rouse. When curfew ends, people will arrive to take these goods to the market. Let me see where you are hurt. You were brave but careless.”

She pushed cabbage leaves aside and settled next to him. He peeled a glove from her hand.

“Ouch!”

“Yes, you‧ve smashed a knuckle here. On a man‧s teeth, I trust.”

“No, I think it was his musket.” She watched, fascinated, as he breathed on the wound and it closed and disappeared. “Something is wrong with my side.”

“You were stabbed?”

“No.” She remembered the details now. “A cart swung and trapped me against the wall. I didn‧t think much of it then, but now I remember. It‧s odd.”

“No, it‧s good. You‧re becoming stronger. Our perception is different from that of mortals, particularly when we fight or are in other situations where we are purely physical creatures. Then we do not think.” He unbuttoned her coat and waistcoat as he spoke. “Afterward we may remember small details, a touch, a breath, a glance.”

“Are you sure you speak of fighting?”

“What do you think?” He tugged at her shirt. “Undo the fall of your breeches, if you will, so I may loosen your shirt. Where are you injured?”

“Here.” She pointed to her side.

His fingertips probed and pushed at her skin and she let out a yelp of pain.

“A broken rib. You‧d be in pain for weeks with this as a
mortal.” He bent his head to her side and the cold of his tongue and breath burned and seared. “Keep still and stop being such a vicar‧s daughter, Jane.”

“But you—I want—I don‧t know what I want.” With an effort she ceased babbling.

“I do. Whether I should be the one to provide you with what you need is another matter. Does that still hurt?”

“A little.” But the feeling of unease, the unaccustomed burning heat of his touch remained. “Why does that feel hot? I didn‧t think I‧d feel heat again.”

“You can get a sensation of burning by touching ice with your tongue. Have you never done that? Bitten into an icicle?” His expression was far-off and dreamy. She had a vivid impression of a small child, dressed in outlandish embroidered clothes, reaching to snap an icicle that hung from a low eave, snow all around.

That is you?

I have told you, I will not reveal my past to you.

“But you just did,” she said, confused.

His hand rested on her side, on her bare skin. “You have the capacity for great power. In a decade or so, we shall see what you are truly made of.”

“We? You will be there with me still?”

“I have become your Bearleader.” His finger moved, tracing the bumps of her ribs. “I will be there. Yet I do not know whether I can be all things to you.”

“Why?”

“Because although you become stronger and more like one of us, I do not know whether you will stay. Do you intend still to return to your previous existence?”

“I don‧t know.” She lay next to him, her head pillowed on his arm. “I cannot write. When I look at my novel it is as though I see only marks on paper. I can read the words, yet they make no
sense to me, and as every day passes it becomes more extraordinary to me that once I was the slave to my fancy and the passions of imagined people. I have lost that which gave me the greatest joy and the greatest sorrow of my life. And I miss my sister. Will you and the others be more of a family to me than my mortal family? Maybe I shall regret it when my sister and brothers are dust.”

“There are always regrets, Jane.” He pulled her shirt down and tucked it inside her breeches. “We are at war. Do you think you would write if you were not one of the Damned under such circumstances?”

“I don‧t know. I think I would miss it more. As it is, I find I don‧t care, and that seems extraordinary to me.”

“Beg your pardon, sirs. We must move this cart.” The young driver whom Jane had met briefly during the ambush stood staring at her and Luke. “They made me come and tell you.”

If she could have, Jane would have blushed at the discovery. She sat and hastily buttoned her waistcoat and coat, and pushed herself from the cart, feeling only a slight twinge in her ribs and a sudden, huge hunger.

“When do we dine?” she muttered to Luke.

“Not until after dawn,” he said. “Did you not partake during the fighting?”

She shook her head. “As much as I could, but there was not much time.” She couldn‧t understand this hunger. Normally she would have found herself eyeing the nearby mortals, scenting their blood, discovering the rhythm of their heartbeats. But this was different. She was vaguely aware of the presence of those from whom she might feed, but it was Luke who occupied her senses and whose every gesture and movement roused a response in her own blood and bone.

Luke gazed at her, shaking his head, with a faint smile on his face.

“And what does that supercilious smile portend?” She wanted to fight him, caress him, savage him and soothe him all at once. She wanted his blood, his breath, his strength to subdue her own. Her fangs extended.

“I shall have to ask William‧s permission.”

“Why? Ask William what?” She caught his hand, bewildered, as they walked away from the wagon, but the contact was too great, sending her into a spin of desire. She snatched her hand back before he could sense it, although his continued quiet amusement suggested he was very much aware of her mood.

“It‧s rather awkward, you see. I‧ve become your Bearleader, but if I am to be your lover I must request permission from the one who created you, and that‧s William. Normally Creator and Bearleader would be one and the same and it would be a great breach of propriety.”