Jane Slayre (48 page)

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growing quiet with fewer vampyre attacks while news was spreading of an increase in activity in India, which needed his special skills more than we did here at home.

"And Rosamond Oliver?" suggested Mary, the words seeming to escape her lips involuntarily, for no sooner had she uttered them than she made a gesture as if wishing to recall them.

"Rosamond Oliver," said he, closing the book he habitually kept open, "is about to be married to Mr. Granby, grandson and heir to Sir Frederic Granby. I had the intelligence from her father yesterday."

We all three looked at him. He was serene as glass.

"The match must have been got up hastily," said Diana. "They cannot have known each other long."

"But two months. They met in October at a county ball. But where there are no obstacles to a union, as in the present case, where the connection is in every point desirable, delays are unnecessary. They will be married as soon as Sutton Place, which Sir Frederic gives up to them, can be refitted for their reception."

The first time I found St. John alone after this communication, I felt tempted to inquire if the event distressed him. But he seemed well enough, so I left it alone. Besides, I was out of practise in talking to him. He had not kept his promise of treating me like his sisters. He felt more distant to me than he had even when I was not known to be his relation, when we worked together in his shop, or training the children, or when he would teach me new ways to avoid a trap, or to grip a vampyre from behind to hold him steady while I planted the stake in his chest. When I remembered how far I had once been admitted to his confidence, I could hardly comprehend his present frigidity.

As the holiday passed and Diana, Mary, and I settled into a quieter character and we resumed our usual habits and regular studies, St. John stayed more at home. He sat with us in the same room, sometimes for hours together while we all pursued our own courses of study.

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I often noticed him looking at me. I wondered what it meant. I wondered, too, at the satisfaction he never failed to exhibit on my weekly visit to the Morton school to train with my former students. And still more was I puzzled when, if the day was unfavourable, if there was snow or rain or high wind, and his sisters urged me not to go, he would invariably make light of their solicitude and encourage me to accomplish the task without regard to the elements.

"Jane is not such a weakling as you would make her," he would say, beaming proudly at me in a way that looked almost ridiculous for a man of St. John's habitual calm. "She can bear a mountain blast, or a shower, or a few flakes of snow, as well as any of us."

One evening, on returning home later than planned, I nearly ran into a small group of strangers in the woods. At once, my instinct warned me what they were. I had thought they hadn't seen me, and I was without weapons save for a few stakes in my sleeve. I chose to avoid confronting them in favour of coming home to get St. John and the protection of some of our inventions first. But one followed me. He must have picked up my scent and, perhaps eager to keep a tasty morsel to himself, did not inform his friends of my presence. I felt his step gaining on me as I skirted through trees and stayed off the regular path to escape his notice. I did not want to lead him to Moor House. I hid behind a tree trunk and believed he had passed, but then he gripped me from the side.

"Late for a lady to be out," he drawled. "Perhaps I could accompany you home?"

"What a sweet offer," I replied, furtively dropping a stake from each sleeve into my waiting palms. "But thank you, I can find my way."

I sized him up. He was barely twenty, just a little taller than myself and not stout, or so it seemed. He wore a coat several sizes too big, something he'd possibly stripped off a previous victim.

"Mm, no. I don't think you can. Did your mother never warn you not to speak to strangers?" His dark hair fell with rakish abandon into his sharp black eyes.

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"My mother is dead," I answered, keeping up the conversation as I judged whether I had a better chance to lunge at him full on, or if I should try to put the tree between us and stake him from the side.

"Poor little orphan," he said with a lecherous smile. "Is there no one to take care of you? I could offer you a family, love. A whole new world."

"What do you mean?" I returned his smile, as if considering. Perhaps it would help if I could get close without his putting up a fight. If he thought I was complacent prey, willing to offer up my neck, I could stake him when he went in for the bite.

He paused as I drew near. "You smell so sweet. I haven't eaten in weeks."

"Surely, you don't mean to eat me, sir?"

"Aha." He wrapped his arm around my waist and drew me closer. "That was my original plan. But perhaps you might enjoy a little game? I bite you, you bite me. It could be quite amusing."

"What about your friends? How many, four? Five? If you mean to adopt me, I think you should know that I prefer to belong to a big family."

He was distractedly sniffing at my neck. I was about to make my move and stake him, but he had more to add. "We're all family, love. There are twenty-two more of them at home. They come tomorrow. The few of us are just here to take the lay of the land, so to speak."

"I know the land and could be helpful should you need assistance getting settled."

"Delightful. You might be very useful to keep around. Now give us a taste, hm?"

He bared his fangs and moved in towards my neck. I raised my arm, about to stake him through the back, praying I had properly calculated the location of his heart, when he, somehow, seemed to guess my purpose.

Spinning around, he caught my wrist and slammed me into the trunk of a tree.

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"Ah, ah! Now I'll have to kill you after all. Pity." He slapped me full across the face and I went tumbling off to the side.

He pounced, but I rolled out of the way in time. I ran at him, stake extended. He dodged left, right, got hold of my arm, knocked me to the ground, and wrenched the stake from my hand.

"How did you know? Who warned you we were coming?" he demanded.

"No one. I always carry stakes. Everyone in these parts believes in being prepared."

"In Morton? It never before was such." He clucked and rolled atop me, clearly believing me disarmed. "I'll have to be on my guard. In the meantime, a snack!"

His voice trailed off as he bared his fangs again. Memories of John Reed came flooding back, urging me to fight, but yet I froze. Would I not be better off to let him bite me? I could continue my slaying as one of them. True, I would sacrifice my soul, but think of the access I would have to their inner circles, the power I would gain! Was it not worth losing myself to help the greater good? I felt his teeth pierce my neck, my blood begin to drain. I grew weaker, but somehow blissfully dazed. I felt my attacker moving against me, taking pleasure in the warmth of my body and my blood. It would be over soon. I would drink from him and be strong again. But for now, I gave in to the exquisite sensation of, for once, being weak. Of choosing the wrong path instead of the right. If only I had chosen Mr. Rochester ...

Mr. Rochester! I could never be known to him again if I let myself go. I would be shamed. Defeated. With the remaining trace of strength I had, I raised my hand over my attacker. I did not hesitate to guess at my target. With as much force as I could muster, I simply rammed the stake, in my left hand, straight into his chest. He disintegrated, but perhaps because I was light-headed from blood loss, it seemed to take longer than usual. I watched his head rise from my neck, his face registering shock. His eyes rolled back. And then his skin seemed to dissolve, his eyes shrivel. From flesh, to bone, and

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finally--he disintegrated atop me. I shuddered, brushed him off--the overlarge coat rolling off with him--brushed brown leaves and muck from my dress with my hands. I steadied myself, getting to my feet with the aid of a branch, and then I leaned against the trunk of a tree to catch my breath and get my bearings.

A few great gasps of clean, fresh air seemed to restore me to my senses. How close I had come to losing myself, and all hope, forever! The feeling of triumph over not only the vampyre but over my own dark thoughts pulsed fierce in my veins, helping to recharge my sapped strength. Recovered at last, I ran home to warn St. John.

After I delivered my report, relating the attack, but not all that had transpired, St. John remained calm, as if nearly catatonic. Having heard what I'd been through--only that I had been attacked and bitten, not that I'd considered the worst--and my fear of the potential danger to the village, all he could say was "Jane, your dress. It's torn."

I looked down. Indeed, a slit in my skirts ran straight up to midthigh, baring my leg. I covered it and blushed, but St. John stared as if transfixed.

"Come," he said at last. "Let's get the weapons and warn the villagers."

After a quick change of frock, I led St. John to the edge of the woods where I'd seen the strangers gathering. The vampyres were there, now four of them, and St. John slew each one from a distance, taking them by surprise before they even realised what had happened. The stake-o-matic was a stunning success. I, armed with the lighter, recently improved version of the rapid-fire crossbow, never even needed to take a shot.

By the next afternoon, we'd alerted, gathered, trained, and armed most of Morton. It helped that the children knew basic techniques and could demonstrate for the adults. Before the vampyres arrived, the men and boys, led by St. John, waited in the moors and woods

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with stake-o-matics loaded and ready. My assignment was to keep watch over the women and younger children in the schoolroom so that none could be killed or terrorized in their homes. The girls who knew how to fight were prepared to do so, under the guidance of their new teacher, Dinah Winn, with my assistance.

As night fell and we waited for reports from the men, one of the girls, a former student, expressed her fear that vampyres might make it into town and she would have to employ the techniques she'd learned in school.

"I know what to do," she said. "I've practised. I just never imagined I would actually have to act in my own defence."

"If the time comes, you'll be able to trust your instincts," I assured her. "But the men are well armed and quite capable. I doubt any vampyres could infiltrate the village with Mr. St. John Rivers on guard. If it would help you to feel more secure, we could step out of doors and have some target practise with the crossbows?"

She declined, either confident in St. John's abilities or too afraid to venture into the open square. I thought of going out on my own. I enjoyed target practise, though it wasn't as satisfying as the actual charge of power that hummed in my veins after killing a vampyre.

"I wish Mother were here," the baker's daughter said after a moment.

"She isn't here?" I looked around. I'd thought Dinah had taken a count of heads, but perhaps she'd missed one or two in the tumult of assembling all in one place. "Where is she?"

"There were loaves in the oven and more ready to bake. We can ill afford to waste good flour. She instructed me to run on ahead and say that she was here, but she's not and I'm worried." The girl began to sob. I put her in the care of an older girl, then put Dinah Winn in charge of guarding the bunch. Armed with a loaded crossbow and pack of stakes, I set off in search of the baker, the widow Watson.

The moon lit my path and I found no reason to be alarmed along the way. When I reached Watsons' shop, which they lived above, the door was ajar. It was dark inside, but a light was in a window

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abovestairs. I proceeded carefully to the door, leading the way with my crossbow, and peeked inside, squinting through the darkness. There was the empty table I'd sat at my first day in Morton, when I'd tried to get information on employment as I'd struggled to find a way to trade my gloves for bread. The pastry cases sat empty, but the aroma of fresh-baked bread lingered. As I started towards the ovens in back, the sound of something crashing drew my attention overhead.

A stream of light led me to the stairs, and graceful on my feet though I wore boots St. John had provided me, I went up without making a sound. There, at the top of the stairs, I heard them.

"That's it," a deep voice crooned. "Let me drink my fill and then you have a taste of me."

"No, Richard." A woman cried softly. "Think of Lily. Someone's got to take care of Lily."

The widowed baker referred to her daughter. I followed the voices, rounded a corner, and saw what had crashed, a vase that might have been hurled or thrown, broken and scattered along the floor leading to a stout vampyre pressing a slender woman up against the wall, fangs bared as if poised to take a bite.

"Back away from her," I said in the harshest tone I could muster. "Release her and back away."

I couldn't get a shot at him without potentially harming her. The vampyre laughed in response, shaking his head before turning around, prepared to pounce on me until his black eyes widened at the sight of my well-aimed crossbow. A large man, he could not close his coat around his sizable belly, making him an easy target for me, except--

The woman screamed at the sight of me. Could she not see that I was trying to save her? "You don't understand," she said in shaky voice as she was still crying. "He's my husband."

I paused, the fatal pause St. John had always warned me about in training. The vampyre's reaction wasn't to be expected. He didn't lunge at me or try to wrest away my weapon. He reached behind