Jane and the Damned (7 page)

“Luke Venning, ma‧am. You should know we do not stand on ceremony.”

“I know nothing.” She looked around for her father, who had disappeared into the throng around the fountain.

“Do not let them do it to you, ma‧am. It is against your will, is it not?”

She shook her head. “I don‧t know.”

He frowned. “You are but recently created, I believe. You need sustenance.”

“Sir, my family wishes—”

“And what do you wish, Miss …?”

“I am Jane Austen.”

He bowed. “I beg of you, ma‧am, consider carefully what you do.” His gaze shifted away from her, to a beautiful, frail woman in a wheelchair.

“Who is she?” Jane asked.

“Mrs. Margaret Cole. She risks her life for the sake of mortality. Twenty years ago she left her husband for me. Recently she changed her mind, and attempts to take the cure.”

“So that is why she looks so ill. I am so very sorry!” she exclaimed,
and caught his hand in a burst of sympathy. He squeezed her hand briefly before returning it.

The woman looked near death, her lips bloodless, purple shadows beneath her eyes.

“That is what the cure does?” Jane asked.

He shrugged. “She has been one of us for some time, so the turning back is of necessity painful and dangerous. She may not survive. She turned down immortality—and myself—for twenty acres of grazing land and respectability. And children.”

A stout, balding gentleman hurried to Mrs. Cole‧s side, carrying a glass. She looked at the yellowish, steamy water and took it with one thin, blue-veined hand.

“That is Mr. Cole.” Luke shook his head.

“I see vanity is not absent,” Jane murmured. “That she should turn down a young, handsome man for that.”

“Oh, I am far older than Mr. Cole,” Luke said. “But I am sure once she has the children she craves and he needs she will take a younger lover. I—oh, I do beg your pardon, sir.”

Had he deliberately jogged her father‧s elbow? Mr. Austen looked at the empty glass and splash of water on the floor with dismay. “My dear, I am afraid I must brave the fray once more.” He turned to Luke. “I regret we have not been introduced, sir.”

“A thousand apologies, sir!” Luke produced a handkerchief and patted him down. “A dreadful crush in here today, as I was mentioning to Miss Austen. You know Lord Barnhill, I believe. No? Oh, a capital fellow. He has some most interesting theories on the old Romans of the city; why, everywhere you see a hole dug in the ground there‧s all sorts of Roman rubbish—allow me to introduce you.”

“Most kind, sir, but I—”

“Do not be concerned, sir. With your permission, I shall fetch Miss Austen as much water as she can tolerate.”

Jane watched with some interest as Luke made fluent introductions and Mr. Austen was whisked away by a group of gentlemen passionately debating the ancients. Her father cast a concerned glance back at her and she smiled as best she could.

“How do you do that?” she asked when Mr. Venning returned. “Why does my father not know you for what you are? When I—the gentleman and his sister who—that is, the whole company recognized them.”

He smiled. “We learn to dissemble and of course we can charm. Sometimes it pleases us to reveal ourselves; it is most amusing to see the mortals stare and whisper and find excuses to seek us out. And there are also a few, a very few, who recognize us for what we are, whether we will or not; you must be careful of them. I can see you have a lot to learn, Jane. May I ask how long …?”

“Last Thursday.”

“Last Thursday!” He looked at her with alarm. “No wonder you are so weak. I could scarce feel your spark. What is your Bearleader about, to let this happen to you?”

She smiled a little at the term. “You mean, as though I were a young gentleman taking the Grand Tour with an unfortunate, long-suffering tutor to keep me out of trouble? Why should I have a Bearleader?”

“The one who created you, is he or she not with you?”

She shook her head. “The gentleman who—who bit me—left. I do not know what he was supposed to do. Or what I am supposed to do.”

“You‧re slipping away. He should have stayed to see you through these first few months. Who was he?”

“A Mr. Smith. I doubt it was his real name.”

“Ah. And so you have not dined since?” He gazed at her with concern and compassion.

“I‧m not hungry.”

“No, my dear Jane. Not food.”

“My father gave me his blood.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Well, Mr. Austen has hidden depths, it seems.”

She glared at him with all the outrage she could muster in her weakened state. “He is the
Reverend
Mr. Austen, something you should probably know since you have greeted him as an old acquaintance, and his offer was made for love of me.”

Luke bowed. “I stand corrected.” He offered his arm. “Come with me, Miss Jane Austen.”

Jane hesitated. The last time she had been alone with a gentleman—no, a vampire, and certainly no gentleman—had not been to her advantage.

“Do not fear,” Luke said.

“But—but I owe it to my family to—”

“To die? For that is what will happen if you do not dine soon.” He led her, half supporting her, through a doorway at the far end of the Pump Room into a narrow, dark passage and then into a small, dim room.

“I am come here to take the cure,” she said, her resistance ebbing away.

“A cadaver cannot take any sort of cure, my dear Miss Austen, and that is what you‧ll be soon enough. It‧s a delicate matter, the cure; you must be strong enough to withstand the poison of the waters—for such it is to us—yet the stronger you are the more difficult and painful the cure will become.”

“What is it to you? Why will you not leave me alone?” She hated herself for the whimper in her voice.

He pushed her into a chair. He stood over her, hands moving to the buttons of his coat. “My honor, as one of my kind, demands it, Miss Austen. This Mr. Smith abandoned you, a most dishonorable act, and it is my duty, honor, and privilege to do what he should have.” He shrugged the coat from his shoulders and let it fall.

“But what about me? My family fears me and rushes me to take the cure. Your honor, frankly, is no business of mine. No one asks me what I want … I …” Her voice faded away as Luke unbuttoned his shirt cuff. He raised his wrist to his mouth and breathed upon it, then showed her the blue veins against his pale skin.

“I cannot,” she said faintly. “Please, sir, do not …”

“My name is Luke.” He bent and held his wrist to her lips. “Your canines extend. We call it
en sanglant.
You cannot help yourself. You feel pain but that‧s only because it is a new sensation. With time you‧ll recognize the condition of
en sanglant
as a sign of desire, of need, of the pleasure you‧ll anticipate—oh, I beg your pardon, you are the daughter of a clergyman; I doubt you‧ll appreciate the—”

“Hold your tongue!” She grabbed his wrist and bit, hard.

“Ouch! A little more finesse, Jane, but no matter, you‧ll learn.”

Through a mouthful of blood she growled—yes, Jane Austen, the cultured and respectable daughter of the Austen family
growled,
and then laughed messily.

And the taste—like lightning, like the way she felt once, in another life, when the words flowed and she laughed aloud at her own cleverness and the delicious interplay of her characters. This was a far cry from the tender comfort of her father‧s blood.

She raised her head and looked up at him, a warm trickle running down her chin.

“Dear, dear, you are a sight. No manners at all,” said Luke, handkerchief in hand.

“You taste like … like heaven.”

“Of course I do. I‧m old. Now, hurry up before we‧re discovered.”

“I don‧t care if we are.”

He laughed. “Spoken like a true vampire.”

She drew away. “I am not a vampire.” Even as she spoke she flicked out her tongue to catch the last few precious drops.

“Indeed. You sit there
en sanglant,
blood on your lips, and claim you are not a vampire? By the way, it‧s customary to breathe on the wound, a small courtesy, if you have finished.”

“I beg your pardon.” She did so.

He dabbed at his wrist with the handkerchief, a pained expression on his face, and she became aware that she had breached etiquette once more in not cleaning the wound.

“I meant,” she said, “that I shall not be a … that is … I shall take the cure.” For the first time she looked at their surroundings, a dusty room with a pile of chairs, some with broken legs, in one corner. A dirty window let in a little light. “Now I feel a little more revived, I must return to my father.”

He knelt in front of her, not attempting to hide his extended canines, and placed a hand on hers. “Say it, Jane. Say what you are.”

She shook her head. “I beg your pardon, sir, I cannot.”

He stood, his hand still resting on hers. “Very well. How do you feel, now?”

She considered. “Strong. As though a new world opens up. Excited.” She shivered. “No, I really cannot … But will you tell me something, sir? Why is it that your kind do not drink only from each other? For then you would be no threat to the rest of us.”

He let her hand drop and reached for his coat. “Ah, you have a lot to learn. It is considered a high honor for one of the Damned to drink from another; such occasions as the present do not count, of course, for I seek only your survival, whichever path you may choose.

“Besides, there are many mortals who wish us to drink from them. They find the sensation stimulating and delightful, the lightheadedness that follows enjoyable. In short, it is a sensual experience. And of course, we vampires have both charm and skill in the amorous arts that often accompany such an experience—we‧ve had years to practice them. Oho, now you look shocked, Miss Jane.”

“Of course I am.” She hesitated. “On the journey, a maid at one of the inns offered herself to me. She wanted money.”

“Indeed, that is also a possibility for us, that we buy mortals’ favors. A pity you did not accept her, for you would be much stronger now. But as to why we do not dine often from each other—we are vampires, dear Jane, put upon the earth to seduce and delight mortals. However, when one of us becomes a Bearleader, it is his or her duty to teach the fledgling manners.”

“Oh. You mean you have become my Bearleader?” And then, “But I don‧t feel wicked. And my manners are generally acknowledged to be beyond reproach. What you have just described sounds dreadful.”

He squeezed her hand before releasing it. “You are quite charming. I am sure that under my tutelage you will assume what you call ‘wickedness,’ and we ‘polish,’ soon enough.”

“But I don‧t want to.” She stood. “I thank you—at least, I think I do. I am not sure, although I do feel much better. But, Mr. Venning, my family cares for me deeply and it is my duty to take the cure.”

“You‧d turn down immortality?” He raised an eyebrow as he adjusted the cuffs of his coat.

“Yes, sir. I would.” She stood and bounced a little on the soles of her feet. How she would like to run, or at least take a vigorous walk. “I love my family, my friends. I have no wish to outlive them.”

“You feel well, I see,” he said. “Well, my offer stands, for the moment, Jane. And if you refuse, you‧ll surely have a story for your grandchildren. We must return so your reputation may be preserved.”

She lingered, not wanting to leave the company of the only person who accepted her condition with calm rationality instead of fear and bewilderment. Although what he had done was shocking, he had shown her kindness, even if it was only to lay more temptations in her way. There was so much she wanted to ask him; when would she get this chance again?

“Probably never,” he said. “Shall we leave, Miss Austen?”

“You knew what I was thinking?”

“Of course. You have my blood. I am part of you now.”

“Oh!” She raised her hands to her mouth, horrified. “Could—could you try not to?”

“Listen.” He raised a hand. “What the devil is that?”

She listened, and she could hear something now, a heavy toll of the Abbey bells, the sound of voices shouting, and a general tumult outside.

“Something‧s happened,” Luke said. “Were we in the north I would suspect a riot—but here in Bath? We should go and investigate. It‧s been an odd sort of day, so far; you know the post failed to arrive this morning.”

“What can that signify? You mean I should accompany you?”

“You‧re a vampire who‧s just dined. I don‧t believe you are in any danger. You‧re no shrinking spinster now.”

“I am never a shrinking spinster!” She almost growled again. “So you need me for protection?”

“No, for company. We like to stick together with our own kind, dear Jane.” He offered his arm.

He led her down a dimly lit passage, and she realized they took a different way out. “My father will—”

He pushed a door open with some caution onto the Pump Yard. Small knots of people stood around, talking, gesturing, some weeping; groups dispersed, gathered, surged, restless and unsettled. It reminded Jane of an anthill: so much scurrying activity and no apparent purpose. Overhead, the bell tolled and tolled and the stone angels of the Abbey, oblivious to the noise and the human passions below, continued their journey up and down the ladders that graced the frontage.