Chapter Nineteen #2
“Then nothing.” Elizabeth looked around sheepishly. “Then I woke.”
Georgiana wrinkled her nose in disappointment. “What could such a silly dream mean?”
Mrs. Annesley countered the girl, “I would say Mrs. Darcy’s dream reminds us the legends of vampires not tolerating running water holds merit, as well as what we read yesterday about driving an ash or white thorn stake through the heart with a single strike to destroy them.
We must learn more of the significance of the deer and the meaning of the many-colored blood.
All the answers are there. I am confident all answers lie within Mrs. Darcy’s dream.
We simply must ask the right questions.”
As it was Christmas Eve, he knew he would make little progress in his quest to claim Lydia Bennet as part of his revenge against Darcy, so Wickham took himself off to one of the gaming hells peppering London’s back streets.
Even with the religious holiday, patrons packed the place.
He supposed it was because the Black Ghost served as both a tavern and a gaming establishment.
The tavern, with its locals, was filled with boisterous drunks, while the three private rooms in the back held some of the ton’s finest. Men won and lost fortunes while laborers and sailors pissed away their hard-earned money on a tankard of watered-down ale.
Wickham did not gamble. Just as he did not eat or drink.
However, he took a jaunt through the gaming rooms. It did not matter whether his next victim was male or female.
The only difference was how he handled them.
With a woman, his natural charisma made her an easy mark.
He simply seduced her with a few precisely placed caresses.
Often the woman did not realize her mistake until he snapped her lovely neck with a well-planned crack.
He often did not kill her before he drank.
Sometimes he facilitated an exchange, filling his victim with the power he possessed and taking her lifeblood.
That was what he had done with Amelia Younge, keeping her as a follower, a soul imprisoned to fulfill his needs.
That was his plan for Lydia Bennet. He would bind her to him forever as part of his revenge.
However, if no woman were available, a man or a boy would do, just as well. In such cases, his actions were pure brute force.
Finding no one whom he thought might consider leaving with him, he made his way to the public rooms. In a narrow passageway, he reclaimed the image of James Denny.
He could not be seen leaving the bar as himself.
Drunken louts spoke loudly. Aware of the alcohol-induced happiness circulating around him, Wickham found a small table in a darkened corner, where he could watch the goings-on.
In a few minutes, an older, but bust, bar maid came to the table, swiping at it with a none-too-clean rag.
“Require some Christmas cheer, guv’nor?” she asked as she circled the table a second time with the cloth.
“A tankard of ale, if you please.” Wickham’s eyes found hers.
She was not what he would normally choose, but as he knew the Christian holiday kept many people at home, he would make do.
The woman’s breasts swelled from the tight-fitting bodice of an equally tight dress.
He let his eyes trace them and then slide up her neck, where he would have her.
“You do not know where a man might find some company for the evening? I have no desire to be alone on Christmas Eve.”
The woman took full note of his appearance, and he offered up a lonely smile.
He would prefer to take more time with his seduction, but after what happened in Meryton, the possibility of his disguise fading played on his mind.
The chaos swirled behind her as she made the mistake of looking deeply into his eyes to judge his character.
“I might be persuaded, dearie, if ye be interested.”
Wickham’s hand lightly stroked her bare forearm. “May I ask your name, sweet lady?”
The woman did not move. “Me mama named me Lucinda. Most call me Lucy.”
“I will call you Lucy or Love or My Heart.” The words made little difference because she could not withdraw even if she wished to do so. She was under his spell. “When do you leave work, my lovely Lucy?”
“Me thinks it be mighty soon. I’ve worked most the day.” She leaned into his light touch.
Wickham winked at her, solidifying his hold. “You have a place we might visit?”
“It be just a sleeping room.”
“I have no desire to sleep.” Wickham leaned back in the chair to release his hold on her. “Say we will not sleep, my lovely Lucy.”
The woman shook her head, attempting to clear it. “No, guv’nor, we will take no sleep.” She gave him a smile, showing one missing tooth. “I’ll bring ye the tankard. I be askin’ Harry about leavin’.”
“That would be capital, Lucy.”
Surprisingly, Lucy appeared at the table in less than a quarter hour. “Ye be prepared, guv’nor?” She extended a hand to him.
Wickham took her hand and tugged her into him as he stood. “Never been more so, lovely Lucy.”
He slung his arm about her shoulder and maneuvered the barmaid out into the crisp December air. “Whew,” she uttered, her breath forming a solid film, “it be colder.”
“I will keep you warm,” he growled close to her ear.
Lucy laughed, a bit nervously, but she never paused or faltered as they crossed the intersecting streets.
“I live just down here.” She pointed to a row of tenements, shabby-looking buildings even in the daylight.
In the cold night, they appeared to huddle together for warmth. “Ye be tellin’ Lucy yer name, guv’nor?”
“I am James,” he said as he followed her up the narrow stairs of the second row house.
“James be an honest soundin’ name,” she observed as they reached her door. Unlocking the bolt, Lucy opened it to a darkened room. “I find us a candle.” She fumbled along the mantelpiece.
“Allow me.” Needing no light to see clearly, Wickham managed to find the flint and the rush candle.
Lucy removed the scarf she wore around her neck. “My, ye be handy.”
“I am here to please.” He gave her an exaggerated bow. “You settle yourself, Lucy, and I will stoke the fire.”
He poured a handful of coal into the grate and added some bunched newsprints she likely had found on the streets.
Then he went to her. He did not kiss her, as she had anticipated.
Instead, Wickham caressed her jaw and raised her chin to look into her eyes.
He would do nothing else but rest his intense gaze upon her.
With a slight tilt of his head, he indicated the bed, and Lucy backed towards it.
She lay back and he straddled her, taking both her hands in his large grasp.
With the other hand, he traced circles across her breasts with his fingertips. He heard her quick intake of breath.
He lowered his mouth to the side of her neck.
She smelled of sweat and of tobacco and of cheap ale, but Lucy also smelled of life and of iron-filled blood, and Wickham required what she offered.
He looked down upon her a second time to judge whether she was completely under his spell.
Then came the snap of her neck, a quick movement of his hands, placing the thumbs at the indentation before giving a lethal jerk.
Lucy’s eyes rolled back in her head, the life leaving her.
Finally enjoying himself, he lowered his head to drink his fill.
The act of tasting her in the most personal of ways brought the erection the woman had thought to enjoy, and Wickham sated himself with a different sort of copulation with her lifeless, rapidly cooling body.
It was pure power—this lustful lapping of the woman’s life fluid.
It was the taking of a human life. It was the build-up of emotions—the control—his control— and the submission—her submission.
He lived for that one split second before they died—the moment his victims knew the folly of their decision.
He considered the act very much like the Christian Eucharist—a sacrifice inasmuch as it is offered up and a sacrament inasmuch as it is received.
Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me and I in him.