Chapter Fourteen #2
Darcy took no more than ten steps along the walkway when he heard her voice.
Elizabeth stood in the darkened alleyway, talking loudly to someone even farther in the shadows.
He assumed Georgiana was also within. Obviously, someone could be holding a gun on both of them.
With a silent click of the switch and a twist of the handle, he slid the sword, a narrow blade edged on both sides, from the cane.
Then he reached for the small Queen Anne pistol he carried in his inside pocket.
Easing his body along the wall and line of boxes, Darcy maneuvered to a place where he could better assess the situation.
From his current angle, all he could view was Elizabeth’s skirt tail and the back of her bonnet.
He fought to control his breathing and to curb his urge to burst upon the scene.
If her assailant had a gun, she would be dead before Darcy could clear the stacked boxes.
“Mahkicw Egroeg!” Elizabeth called out bravely. Darcy wondered at her words.
Then he heard the voice he most dreaded. “Gibberish, Mrs. Darcy? You are grasping at straws, my dear.”
Elizabeth paused, seemingly at a loss. “Georgiana!” she called out, as Darcy edged close enough to view Elizabeth’s profile.
She stood with his crucifix dangling from a chain before her.
“You can see Wickham has no power to defeat the crucifix. You must believe, Georgiana,” Elizabeth urged her.
“You must believe in your brother and in me.”
Darcy wondered where she claimed her courage. Elizabeth faced Wickham’s demonic attack armed with nothing more than a jeweled cross.
Elizabeth took another step forward, and Darcy nearly groaned, knowing the danger she was in.
He wished he could observe his sister— view the situation in which Georgiana found herself.
“Release my sister at once!” Elizabeth demanded.
Darcy winced, knowing how Wickham detested orders and those who dared to issue them.
Intuitively, Elizabeth became aware of Darcy’s presence. He made no sound nor could she observe him, but she knew he was there. It was a heady experience. Emboldened by his nearness, she edged forward. “I tell you, Wickham, your plan is madness.You will be found and punished.”
Desperately seeking an escape, she returned to the image in the book, and immediately she recognized her error. The foul monster’s name was not really George Wickham. He was Seorais Winchcombe. George
Wickham was his Anglicized name. Again, she visualized his name. She thrust the crucifix forward, extending her arm and palming the cross.
“Ebmochcniw Siaroes!” The words shot through the darkness, and with a gust of wind, Wickham flew backwards, slamming against the brick wall behind him.
Instantly, Elizabeth grabbed Georgiana and tumbled with the girl to the ground.
Darcy fired the gun, aiming for Wickham’s heart, as the demon slid down the wall.
In triumph, Darcy strode forward, adjusting the sword in his grip as he moved.
He would decapitate the beast lying at his feet.
Poised above the limp body of his enemy, he could not have anticipated the attack.
In the shadows of the alley, a figure waited.
Phantom-like, it clung to the side of the building, blending in with the faded wooden slats.
So when Darcy stepped from his hiding place and fired on Wickham, Mrs. Younge reacted.
Like a wild animal, she charged, taking Darcy by surprise, clawing at his back and ripping his coat to shreds with just a few swipes.
Dropping the sword, Darcy hit the ground and rolled, attempting to escape the claws and the fangs snapping at him with great force and speed.
His face sustained a raking from the tips of her nails, but he fought on.
Calling forth his own powers, he pushed against her chest. Extending his arms, blue light streamed from him, wrapping the vampire with a force she never expected.
Even so, the lamia valiantly attacked a second time. She pressed Darcy backwards, her fangs dangerously close to his neck and ear. He struggled to right himself, but the she-devil drove a knee into his chest as she mounted him, forcing Darcy’s shoulders to the ground.
As they wrestled for control, neither Darcy nor Mrs. Younge saw Elizabeth move.
She grabbed the discarded sword and with a sweep and a lunge—a perfect envelopment―she came down upon the woman with all her might.
“No…o…o!” She screamed as she thrust the sword through Mrs.Younge’s back, sending it all the way through the woman’s body.
A blood-curdling scream reverberated throughout the small space. With the evil released, the body of Amelia Younge shriveled, becoming an empty shell. Her skin decayed before they could turn to look upon her.
Darcy scrambled to his feet, and he scooped the cowering Georgiana into his arms as he moved.
“Hurry!” he called to Elizabeth over his shoulder.
She hiked her skirts to follow him. He glanced back only long enough to observe Wickham crawl to where Mrs.Younge’s festering body rested before he disappeared in a puff of smoke.
Darcy bolted towards the waiting carriage, unceremoniously dumping Georgiana onto the floor of the coach before shoving Elizabeth in after her.
Heaving his own scratched and bruised body onto the seat, he pounded on the roof, and the coach lurched forward, throwing Darcy and Elizabeth into each other’s arms. Righting himself, but not releasing his wife, he called, “Retrieve Belton!” Then he turned his attention to Elizabeth, without whom he would undoubtedly be dead.
His hands slid up and down her arms, her back, searching, assuring himself of her safety.
“Tell me you are not injured,” he demanded.
“I am well,” she rasped.
The air rushed from him in relief. “Thank God.”