Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (138 page)

“It could be anywhere in this house,” she went on. “We could look all night and not find it or my jewels. He might have taken it to his bankers or even hidden it at Fonteyn House or with that dunce Oliver—”

Arthur started to rant to the best of his limited ability, but Clarinda forcefully interrupted.

“Don’t break a blood vessel, you fool! I’ve thought of a way around it!”

“Have you now? And what will you do, raise your damned husband from the dead and ask him nicely if you please?”

“That’s no fault of mine. If you hadn’t been so impatient to be rid of him—”

“If he hadn’t tried to shoot me—”

Edmond. . . oh, God.

“A moment, if you please,” said Summerhill calmly with a tilt of his head. Such was his air of command that the two of them stopped bickering long enough to glare at him. “Very good. Now, sir, Mrs. Fonteyn anticipated something like this might happen and prepared for it. It is to your advantage to hear her out.”

“What is it, then?” Arthur barked at her.

His temper did not sit well with sweet Clarinda. She closed her lips tight.

Summerhill intervened once more. “I believe there was a cabinet full of spirits in one of the downstairs rooms. Mr. Tyne looks in need of a restorative, and it may put him in a better mood to listen, dear lady.”

The practicality of the suggestion won their grudging agreement to act upon it. Arthur, leaning heavily on the banister, began his descent. Clarinda followed a moment later, picking up her skirts as she delicately stepped around me.

“Where’s Edmond?” I asked Summerhill when they’d gone. Damnation, but I sounded pathetically weak. My effort to influence Arthur had drained me to the dregs.

He glanced down. “Away behind the house. Not to worry, someone’s bound to sniff him out after the spring thaw. We’d put you in the same spot, but that would look just a little too suspicious. Once might be thought an accident, but twice. . . .” He lifted a hand, palm out.

“Killing me will only put you into more trouble,” I whispered.

“Really?”

“I’ve no proof against Arthur about Ridley, so I’m no danger to any of you.”

“I’m in no danger anyway, not with a dozen of my lads willing to swear themselves blue in the face on a Bible on my behalf.”

His ship’s crew? I’d speculate later. “Leaving me won’t harm you. Tyne’s just running off with another man’s wife; no one will pay mind to that. But kill me and people will blame him or Clarinda or both with you as an accomplice. You can’t afford the hue and cry of murder to be following you everywhere.”

“No one will blame any of us for your death, because it will really be just a tragic accident. Two in one night might cause some comment, but I think we can take that chance—or rather
they
will
,
since I’m not officially here.”

“Smuggler?”

“I prefer to be known as a gentleman who advocates the practice of free trade between nations.”

“Especially if it profits you.”

“Particularly when it profits me.”

“I’ll double whatever they’re paying you.”

His eyebrows went up. “That would be a princely sum, but I’m a man of my word and I have given it to—”

“Triple.”

He blinked, then shook his head. “Tempting, Mr. Barrett, but if all goes well, even that ransom will seem but a trifle to the bounty we’ll collect from the whole of your family”

“What are you planning?”

“Not I, but the redoubtable Mrs. Fonteyn. Quite a remarkable female she is, to be sure. I’ve seen more mercy in the most villainous of pirates. It’s too bad for you that you crossed her.”

“What are—”

“Soothe yourself, sir. It’s nothing you ever need worry about. Now say a prayer for your soul like a good chap while you yet have the time.” He quickly stooped and caught hold of my ankles, dragging me toward the edge of the stairs. “Mrs. Fonteyn thought Mr. Tyne might not be up to the labor of it yet—he’s still feeling thin—so she asked me to see to things. I’ve no personal grudge against you; this is just business, y’know”

Realizing what he had in mind, panic seized me. I kicked and struggled, putting up enough fight to inconvenience him. He let go, and with a deft move, gave me another bitter tap on the side of my head with his cane. Lights flashed behind my eyes. I heard myself pant out a last breath. My body went utterly limp.

He got a strong grip under my arms and with a great heave hauled me upright. I was maddeningly helpless. The room lurched. Sickness clawed my belly, threatening to turn it inside out. I couldn’t even gulp to hold back the rising vomit.

My legs were useless; my arms dangled loose. I had a hideous, dizzying view of the steep stairs and the entry hall miles below

“There now,” said Summerhill comfortingly into my ear as he swung me into place. “At least it’ll be quick, and that’s more than most of us get.” He planted a firm hand in the small of my back and pushed for all he was worth.

I was flying in open space for an instant, almost like those times when I floated.

The room tumbled madly, almost like my games with Richard.

Then something struck me lethally hard over my shoulders and back, like a hundred Summerhills attacking not with mere canes but with thick clubs. I heard thuds and thumps, a pain-filled cry, cut short. . . then nothing at all.

* * *

Mr. Barrett lay like a stone at the foot of the stairs, his body as beyond movement as his mind was beyond thought.

His head was at an unnatural angle in regard to his neck; one of his arms was also bent in an abnormal manner under him. Some distant and restive portion of his brain was aware of these and other, lesser injuries, but unable to do more than simply recognize their existence.

His enemies were gone. Two of them emerged from somewhere, surveyed the wreckage, congratulated the perpetrator, then all three left boldly by the front door, slamming it shut with a heavy boom.

The house around him turned deadly quiet.

A lifetime crawled by before his eyelids briefly fluttered. He got a vague glimpse of black-stained wood steps stretching upward into cold darkness. Try as he might, he could not open his eyes again. It seemed an important thing to do, though he could not recall why.

After another lifetime the fingers of his unbroken arm shivered once. He’d not consciously initiated the faint movement, but felt its occurrence.

When he attempted to repeat it, a white hot spike of lightning shot through his neck, forcing an unwelcome wakening upon his battered flesh. He tried to retreat to the kind sanctuary of unconsciousness, but the pain followed, tenacious as a shadow, not permitting any such mercy. He’d have whimpered a protest had there been air in his lungs. His fingers twitched again instead.

With them he felt the cold, hard surface of the floor he sprawled over and slowly came to understand his circumstance.

He was in desperate trouble.

And being quite alone now, he could expect no help. That terrified him, the aloneness.

But he had family, friends, even a stranger on the road would be moved to lend aid. None was present, though, or likely to come.

Internal protests against this unfairness rose, fell and died like a wave, but not the self-reproach. That whipped at him with a sting like sleet, unrelenting.

The aloneness worsened every ache and agony. It drained away what little strength remained in him. Even silently praying seemed too great a labor to dare.

But not weeping. That he could not control. The hurts of his body demanded tears, and they flowed over his face, burning like acid.

Then he heard his own drawn-out moan of despair and thought what an altogether wretched fellow he’d become. He was less a mass of pain from the injuries than a mass of self-pity from the misery of his heart, certainly not the sort of son his father could take pride in and not the sort of father his own son could admire.

And unless he sorted himself out, he wouldn’t see either of them or anyone else ever again.

* * *

I came fully and unhappily alert. The half-dreams, half-nightmares fled, leaving nothing behind except an earnest need to overcome the hopelessness they’d engendered. If the people I loved were not here, then by God I’d just have to
go
to them.

Somehow.

Any
movement was a torment, especially movement associated with my head and neck. There was something appallingly wrong in that area, and I feared making it worse. By comparison, my broken arm and bruises were nothing. That damned Summerhill had thrown me around like a sack of grain. When I got my hands on him. . . .

Anger helped. I drew it to me, held it fast, fed on the strength of it until it filled me, became
my
strength. There was an astonishing amount of it. . . for
them.

Arthur Tyne. Ruthless cutthroat. Not for long. He’d wish himself dead before I finished with him.

Clarinda. Unrepentant murderess. Instigator of all that had happened. Monsterous mother of my innocent son. I’d bring her back and take poor Edmond’s place as her jailer and rejoice at the privilege.

The anger flared to fury, warming me, quickening bone, muscle and nerve.

And for a very brief moment, it displaced the devastating agony. I seized the chance while it lasted.

Inside, I felt a shuddering swoop, as though falling again. Something harsh blasted through my vitals like a frost-charged wind. It scoured me from end to end. The sharp edges of the world swiftly twisted, suddenly faded. I’d have cried out, but suddenly had no voice for my fear and pain.

Then it was over.

I was sightless, weightless, formless.

Without a solid body to cling to, to torture, the pain lifted and floated away, even as I floated above the floor.

I was
free.

And so dreadfully tired. The effort to let go of the physical world had cost me and would surely cost more when I came back, but for now I reveled in the blessed liberty of this discarnate form. Whatever bones had been broken, whatever flesh had been bruised and torn, it didn’t matter. All would be whole again when it was time to return.

Sweet it was, and great was my desire to stay like this, but I had things to do or at least to attempt. Giving the alarm about Clarinda’s escape was the most important—but only after I’d fed. Even in this state every portion of my being cried out for the nourishment of fresh blood and plenty of it. I’d have to find the stables.

Tentatively I made myself stretch forth.

Using the stairs as a landmark, I pushed away from them in the general direction of the front door. Soon I bumped against the opposite wall and felt for openings with whatever it was that now served as hands. I could have tried materializing just enough to allow some vision, but was uncertain of my ability to maintain the shifting balance needed to hold to that partial condition. Instinct told me not to take that chance, lest I grow abruptly solid and be too feeble to vanish again. Bad luck for me if I did and found the door locked.

An opening, long and thin, presented itself to my questing senses—the slender crack between the door and the threshold. I dived for it, pouring through like a river mist. It seemed to take forever.

Outside.

I felt the familiar gentle tug of the wind and rode it, letting it carry me along the front of the house. Keeping the building’s fixed contours on my left, I turned one corner, then another, trying to remember what I’d seen of the place when I’d initially approached it. One wing, two? The track of carriage wheels in the gravel drive had been to the left, but how far? Easy as this form of travel was, I’d have to give it up before getting lost.

I found a clear space and tried a partial reformation, but alas, my instinct had been right. Once begun, the process continued unstoppable until I stood fully solid again.

Standing, but that changed quickly and with no warning; I dropped to my hands and knees, weak as a babe. Normally I hardly noticed the cold; now its talons gouged deep and held fast. I was hatless and with no cloak, having lost both in the house. The wind wasn’t high, but enough to urge me to movement again.

Luck was with me; I’d come fully around to the back of the house and was not far from the drive. Its gravel path broadened until it covered most of the yard, but some places were thin, allowing muddy patches churned up by wheels and hooves to show through. The tracks could have come from whatever conveyance they’d used. My guess was—since the doors to an empty carriage house gaped wide—they’d taken Edmond’s for their escape.

Where was he?

No one was in sight; I saw only the various outbuildings and yard clutter one would expect to find for such a household. Summerhill said the body was hidden in some way and that the death might look like an accident. Perhaps in the barn or the stables . . . but I had no time to look. With the return to solidity came the unimpaired resumption of physical need.

My corner teeth were well out and ready. I was ravenous.

Driven by the hunger, I got to my feet and reeled toward the stables.

I could hear and smell the horses, then I was at the nearest door and found a half dozen in their stalls. A few were curious, heads turned, ears twitched; others dozed on their feet. I went to the closest, a bay gelding with a drowsy eye. He hardly reacted when I slipped into his stall, and barely noticed when I knelt and cut into the vein of his near leg.

The stuff fair streamed into my mouth. I gulped and guzzled, swilling it down like a drunkard with his day’s first bottle of gin. Its glad warmth, its taste, its strength
flooded
through my hollow form, easing the last aches, healing the lingering bruises. The chill air retreated before this pulsing onslaught of hot, red life.

I drank deeply, vanished to heal, went solid, and drank again until filled to the brim.

Then I had to lean on the horse, fold my arms over his back and bury my head in them. The heavy beat of his heart coming up through his solid frame was a comfort to my battered senses and soul. After all the abuse, I needed to touch something that bore no ill will toward me, something to remind me that not all the world was evil. The big animal snuffled once and shoved his nose into the hay manger, supremely indifferent to my little concerns. I liked him for that.