Chapter Twenty-Five #3
Slipping cautiously down the passageway, he paused with his fingers on a door’s latch, before a muffled sound on the other side sent his heart racing.
Edward froze with fear, unable to move, and prayed that what was on the other side would not discover him.
He pressed his ear to the door, listening with all his senses, but he heard only a soft wind.
A mysterious presence moved past the closed portal, and the colonel could feel it so exactly, it was as if he could see through the wooden door.
He knew the moment it moved on, and he eased the latch to the right, sliding the door aside only far enough to fit his body through before silently resettling it.
Clinging to the wall, he stepped softly, attempting to escape his growing fear and what occurred in the house.
On the battlefield, he knew death was all around him, but he had never felt it before, never knew it to fill his lungs like acrid smoke, never smelled the stench of decay so clearly.
He felt totally unprepared for this battle.
A door stood ajar on the other side of the hearth—a door that was closed before, and despite his desperate impulse to flee the room and the house, he made himself peer into the space.
Before him, Wickham paced to and fro, but when he stepped to the side, Edward caught the frame to steady his stance.
Darcy slumped against the wall, held in place by attached chains.
Darcy is alive! Edward’s first instinct was to storm the scene and fight Wickham to the death, but how did one kill something already dead?
From a distance, he heard the murmuring increase, but he continued to watch as Wickham bent to taunt Darcy.
The tension rose between the two, and for a moment, Edward thought Wickham would attack Darcy, but then he realized Wickham would not feed again so soon.
And despite the number of vampires dancing ceremoniously in the main hall, Edward knew Wickham would allow no other to touch Darcy.
The fiend would destroy his enemy himself.
If Wickham wanted Darcy dead, his cousin would no longer be breathing.
Assured he could do nothing on this night, he let himself out the kitchen door.
He still was not safe if what his drinking consorts said was true.
He slipped the crucifix from his pocket and lifted his sword in readiness for any attack.
He wove his way among the trees and climbed the hill, but when he reached the cemetery, Edward circled the hedgerow on the outside.
Loudly repeating every prayer he could recall, he vigilantly watched as the fog he thought to be part of the countryside congregated solely in the church’s cemetery.
From it, specters formed and disintegrated before his eyes.
Some challenged his progress, but all retreated from the raised silver weapon he carried and from the sign of the Lord’s forgiveness.
Reaching the road to the inn, he followed the embankment.
The mist trailed him, but the spectral provocations—strange, unheard presences— kept their distance.
He congratulated himself for leaving the horses at the inn.
A nervous mount would serve no master. Edward kept up his litany of invocations and refused to look about to see what might trail him.
When he arrived at the inn, Peters permitted him entrance. Edward had set the man on guard when he left for Wickford Manor, and he was thankful for his foresight. He handed the garlic and the crucifix to Peters. “Keep them close,” he warned.
“I saw what followed you, Colonel. If these keep that evil away, ye will not be able to pry them from me.” The coachman bolted the door. “Will they not attempt to enter?” He listened closely to the howls of the night.
“This is more than for what we all bargained, Peters, but those creatures must be invited in by someone who lives here. No one will do that.” Edward leaned back against the door to steady his nerves.
The servant moved closer, fearing that someone might hear. “Did ye find him, Colonel? The Master? He be alive?”
Edward gave a curt nod. “Now I must determine how to release Mr. Darcy from that hellhole.”
“Bless you, Sir.” Peters started for his pallet before the fire. “When ye be needin’ me, I be prepared, Sir. The Master be a good man.”
“That he is, Peters.” Edward moved towards the stairs. “I must speak to Mrs. Darcy of what I learned.”
“The Mistress will assuredly be glad to hear it.” The coachman settled onto the straw-stuffed mattress.
Edward permitted his gaze to travel up the stairs. “Mrs. Darcy is an exceptional woman.” He knew she would be awake, waiting for his news. Slowly, he climbed the steps. They held a daunting task ahead of them. What if we cannot save Darcy?
“Someone looks for you, Darcy.” Wickham paced the cell in agitation.
Darcy refused to react. He forced his breathing to remain even, but the joy of knowing another knew of his capture played havoc with his composure. He kept his eyes closed, fearing Wickham could read his countenance.
Wickham leaned down, his face only inches from Darcy’s. “Do you want to know who it was?”
Darcy opened his eyes slowly and smiled. “As you appear intent on telling me, I see no reason to guess.”
Wickham walked away casually. “It was your beautiful wife, Mrs. Darcy.” Wickham straddled a straight-backed chair, turning it to where he could watch Darcy’s reaction.
For a split second, Darcy’s heart skipped a beat.
He did not want Elizabeth to put herself in danger for him, but then the truth flashed in Wickham’s eyes.
“You are quite amusing, Wickham, but the thought of my wife being here is ludicrous. I told you from the beginning that Elizabeth left me after your seduction of Miss Lydia. However, if what you purport were true, and my wife were here, you have not enough ghouls in your congregation to hold me in these chains, for she would not stop until I was free. Trust me, Wickham, there is no way you could defeat her. She is more than either of us can handle.”
Wickham sat in complete silence; Darcy chose to ignore him and closed his eyes again.
Finally, Wickham barked out a forced laugh.
“You have me there, Darcy. Your rescuer was a man. Mayhap you would have been better off with your wife. At least, she would not have abandoned you.” He stood with that statement.
“The man favored you in some ways, Darcy—not quite as tall, however. Should I send for reinforcements?”
“Likely a stranger enticed by tales of the unknown.” Darcy hoped to convince his enemy to ignore the incursion.
“I can smell human blood.” Wickham looked off, as if no longer seeing Darcy. “Did you know that? I smell it as easily as I once smelled a rose. It is metallic and bittersweet. Have you ever tasted it, Darcy? It is addictive.”
At first the words were offensive, but then Darcy’s pity replaced his anger.
Despite his personal loathing of Wickham’s baseness, Darcy felt empathy for what once must have been a proud and handsome man—a man who loved a woman too well and lost everything because of it.
“I have not tasted it,” Darcy spoke softly, not wishing to break the understanding between them.
Wickham laughed lightly at his own show of weakness. “That was a foolish question, was it not? Naturally, you never succumbed to the noxious hunger that consumes me. You are too honorable to permit the poison to cross your lips.”
Darcy shook his head, a deep sadness overcoming him. “I simply want it to end, Wickham. It is not honor which drives me. It is the fear that my child—my son—could know such despondency—could live an inconsolable life. I would not term that honorable. It is pure cowardice.”
Wickham watched as Darcy once more took up his resigned vigil against the wall.
An understanding passed between them. Darcy imagined that in another lifetime, he and Wickham might even have been friends, but circumstances prevented that idea ever becoming a reality.
Darcy respected Wickham as much as he abhorred him.
“Never fear, Darcy,” Wickham said as a way of parting. “I may yet do the honorable thing and fight you to the death, so to speak.”
Darcy attempted to relax the pain in his shoulders and arms. Wickham had imprisoned him twenty-four hours prior, and other than the occasional break Darcy negotiated to meet his personal needs, he remained restrained by the shackles.
Wickham, as he suspected, brought him no food or drink.
He was to die of starvation, and Darcy accepted it.
“You will bring me notice of when we meet on the battlefield,” he mumbled, closing his eyes to welcome sleep.
He heard the door close and knew when the bolt slid into the latch, but Darcy remained in repose.
Images of Elizabeth filled his mind. Their time together was all that brought him peace.