Chapter Nine A Bright Idea in a Dark Room #2
Wickham should have lied. He had lied successfully for most of his mortal life and the whole of his immortal one. But his first year as a vampire had given him the confidence that he could survive hanging, and therefore he considered judgement optional.
“Love is not the principal attraction,” he admitted. “Her fortune is considerable, and the connection would improve my rank. Affection may develop once the practical matters are settled.”
The door opened behind him. He turned to see Georgiana standing at the threshold.
She made no sound. Her face simply emptied, leaving Wickham to understand that she had heard enough.
Darcy moved before Wickham could speak. One moment he stood behind the desk; the next his hand closed around Wickham’s throat and drove him against the wall. Plaster cracked behind his head. The master’s command entered his blood and paralysed every limb.
“You will never approach her again.”
Wickham attempted to answer, but Darcy’s fingers prevented speech.
Georgiana remained in the doorway. Tears did not fall easily from their kind, but blood coloured the corners of her eyes. Wickham remembered thinking that the effect was distressing and would probably stain her gown.
Darcy could not destroy him. Vampire law did not permit a master to execute a lesser vampire for greed, seduction, or injury to a member of his family.
Georgiana had consented, no binding had taken place, and Wickham’s motives, though ungentlemanly, were not capital crimes.
The elders had written the law to prevent masters from destroying their subordinates through private displeasure.
They had apparently never met Darcy in private displeasure.
He expelled Wickham from Pemberley and forbade him from contacting Georgiana.
The last report Wickham heard claimed that she had taken the veil and entered a secluded convent in Flanders.
Three hundred years of protected existence had ended in a religious retreat because she had trusted him.
Wickham considered the response excessive, but Georgiana had always had a sensitive nature.
During the fifty years since, Darcy had followed him from London to Bath, Portsmouth, Dover, and every other place where a stranger could feed without attracting suspicion. He collected statements, traced abandoned converts, and presented accusations whenever he believed the evidence sufficient.
It never was.
Some victims disappeared before they could testify.
Others remembered nothing after compulsion.
A few had destroyed themselves in sunlight before learning enough to accuse anyone.
The elders required proof of a fresh violation because vampire law had been written by vampires, and vampires understood that old accusations were often lies told by people with excellent memories and insufficient hobbies.
Wickham had survived every enquiry.
Darcy’s warning in Meryton suggested that he believed survival was nearing its end.
Wickham dried his hands on the blanket covering the shutters. Anger had accompanied him into the room, but another sensation now moved beneath it, awakened by the memory of Miss Elizabeth’s skin.
Her blood had not provoked ordinary hunger.
He knew hunger. Hunger sharpened the teeth, narrowed thought, and turned every heartbeat into invitation.
What happened when his lips touched her hand had been deeper.
Her blood had answered something ancient inside him, a recognition carried through the first vampire and every creature descended from that bloodline.
For one instant, he had felt heat.
Not warmth stolen from a recent meal, but living heat moving through his dead flesh.
His eyes had blackened before he could control them.
The clergyman had sensed the change, although Mr Collins had no understanding of what frightened him.
Miss Elizabeth had seen it. Wickham remembered the steadiness with which she withdrew her hand and the authority she used to remove her family.
Fear had not reduced her intelligence, which was inconsiderate but potentially useful.
The old prophecy returned in fragments. Once in a century, a mortal would be born whose blood remained untouched by death, corruption, or immortal ancestry.
The True Blood could restore what the first death had stolen.
Some versions promised mortality. Others spoke only of release.
None agreed on the method, which Wickham considered typical of a prophecy.
People capable of seeing the future rarely had the courtesy to describe it clearly.
Darcy had studied every version. For centuries, he had worn immortality with the disapproval of a gentleman forced into an unfashionable coat.
He despised his hunger, controlled every appetite, and regarded eternity as a sentence he was too dutiful to evade.
Beneath all his authority lay the same impossible desire: to become human again.
If Elizabeth Bennet were the True Blood, Darcy would want her.
Wickham moved to the bed and sat on its edge, the mattress sagging. His circumstances were modest, his future uncertain, and Darcy’s evidence apparently approaching adequacy, but the day had improved.
Miss Elizabeth would attend the Netherfield ball. Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty had already ensured Wickham’s invitation. Wickham would have another opportunity to approach her, confirm what she was, and discover what Darcy had told her.
He might persuade her that Darcy’s interest lay solely in her blood.
The argument had the advantage of being partially true, which made any lie easier to maintain.
He might threaten her safety and force Darcy to withdraw his accusations.
He might turn her before Darcy could use her, destroying whatever promise her mortal blood carried.
And if Darcy had developed a personal attachment to her, the injury would improve from useful to exquisite.
There was also extortion. Wickham had always considered extortion an inelegant word for a negotiation in which one party had prepared properly.
Darcy had spent fifty years assembling the evidence required to destroy him. In a single afternoon, Wickham might have discovered the only living creature capable of making that evidence irrelevant.
His anger settled into purpose.
He stretched on the bed without removing his coat or boots. Darkness pressed on the walls, complete and protective, while the afternoon sounds of Meryton continued below. A carriage passed, a door closed, and a woman laughed in the street, unaware that a plan had been contrived above her bonnet.
Wickham folded his hands behind his head and smiled.
Revenge, leverage, extortion, and survival had all acquired the same intelligent eyes, the same impertinent mouth, and the same warm hand.
He closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.