Chapter Thirteen A Ball of Excellent ution Part II #2
Thick dark blood spread through the scarlet uniform, blackening the cloth as it travelled. Mr Wickham attempted to pull the stake free, but Mr Collins pressed harder, his boots sliding against the carpet while the stick sank deeper.
Mr Darcy entered with Mr Hurst close behind him. Mr Darcy’s face contorted for an instant, and one hand seized the doorframe as though a force inside his body had been torn loose. Fletcher appeared at the service door near the shelves, carrying keys and several folded lengths of linen.
Mr Darcy did not approach Mr Wickham. His eyes found Elizabeth’s face, throat, and hands, then fixed on the space separating her from the dying vampire.
“Did he touch you?”
“No.”
“Did he compel you?”
“He attempted it. It did not work.”
Mr Darcy released the doorframe. Relief did not soften him; it passed through his body and left fury behind.
Mr Wickham turned his failing gaze towards his creator. “Darcy.”
Mr Darcy did not move closer. “You chose this.”
“I chose nothing.”
“You attempted to take the True Blood without consent. The sentence was yours before Collins entered the room.”
Mr Wickham’s lips drew back from his teeth, but whatever response he intended never emerged. The skin around his mouth contracted. His cheeks hollowed, his hair lost its lustre, and the hand gripping the stake shrank inside its glove.
The change spread through him rapidly. Fifty-one years denied by vampirism returned without mercy, carrying decay rather than age.
His face collapsed around the bones, his eyes receded into blackened sockets, and his uniform sagged over a body which had become too narrow to support it.
The fresh blood on his coat dried into a grey crust. A final tremor moved through his fingers, then nothing was left of George Wickham’s charm, youth, or carefully practised injuries.
Mr Collins released the stick.
Mr Wickham fell backwards, the stick still buried in his heart. His body struck the carpet and released a cloud of grey residue from the scarlet coat.
The punch bowl rolled to Elizabeth and stationed itself between her slippers and the corpse.
No one spoke for several seconds. Music continued beyond the walls, the country dance brisk and cheerful while death settled over Mr Bingley’s study. Elizabeth lowered one hand to the rim of the bowl. It pressed against her fingers, its cold silver offering comfort to her.
Charlotte entered behind Mr Hurst.
Her eyes moved from the corpse to the stake and to the blood before finding Mr Collins. He was beside Mr Wickham, staring at his own hands as they began to shake.
Charlotte went to him.
“Are you injured?” She caught his wrist, examined his palm, and then took his hand between both of hers. Her fingers paused for the briefest instant before they closed over his. Mr Collins’s skin was warm. Too warm. His pulse beat wildly under her hands.
“I have killed him.” Mr Collins continued staring at Mr Wickham. “I drove the stick into his chest.”
“Yes.” Charlotte guided him away from the body. “You must sit down.”
“I intended only to protect my cousin.”
“You did.”
“He became old.”
Mr Hurst opened his mouth.
Charlotte turned to him, lifting a finger in warning. “Do not.”
He closed it again.
She brought Mr Collins to one of the chairs, tested its stability, and pressed him into it. He sat without invoking his dignity, his patroness, or the proper respect owed to a clergyman. He wiped one hand against his coat, saw the blood left on the fabric, and stopped.
“Lady Catherine did not prepare me for this.”
Mr Hurst surveyed Mr Wickham’s remains. “No education is ever complete.”
Charlotte gave him a warning glance but permitted the observation to stand.
Mr Darcy moved nearer at last, avoiding the corpse and the dark stain spreading through the carpet. He stopped three feet from Elizabeth, close enough to assure himself that she was whole but not close enough to touch her without permission.
“You are certain that he did not reach you?”
“The bowl reached him first.”
Mr Darcy’s eyes descended to the silver vessel pressing itself against her skirts. “It was locked in my chamber.”
“That never stopped it before.”
Fletcher moved behind Mr Wickham’s body and opened the service door wider. “I discovered the chair outside your chamber overturned and the door standing open shortly after Miss Elizabeth left the ballroom. I had intended to retrieve it before it entered the public rooms.”
“It found a less public one,” Mr Hurst observed.
The valet gave no indication that he had heard.
Mr Darcy returned his gaze to Elizabeth. “What did he do?”
“He attempted to compel Mr Collins, who left and then returned. He offered me the transformation and claimed you intended to secure my consent through affection. When I refused, he attempted to compel me. After that failed, he threatened to convert me by force so that I would no longer be the True Blood.”
“Did he state the intention clearly?”
“He told me that once I carried his blood, I would belong to him.”
Mr Collins raised his head from the chair. “He exposed his teeth and advanced towards her. Miss Elizabeth had placed a chair between them. He would have reached her if the bowl had not interfered.”
Mr Darcy’s expression became remote, governed by an authority older than the house around them. “I felt him exert compulsion through the bond between creator and creation. The bond broke when he died.”
Elizabeth glanced at Mr Wickham. “Will your elders accept what happened?”
“They must. An attempt to compel the True Blood, corrupt her blood, or take her by force carries automatic extinction. He announced his intention, exposed his fangs, and advanced. You and Mr Collins witnessed the offence, and I felt the compulsion. Mr Collins acted in immediate defence of a protected human.”
Mr Collins stared at him. “Protected human?”
Mr Darcy turned towards him. “There are matters which must now be explained.”
“That would be welcome, thank you.”
“The officer you killed was a vampire.”
Mr Collins’s gaze travelled to the corpse. “I had reached a similar conclusion.”
“I am also a vampire. Bingley, Hurst, Miss Bingley, and Mrs Hurst share the condition.”
Mr Collins regarded Mr Darcy, turned to Mr Hurst, and then examined Fletcher as though uncertain whether servants should be included in the count.
“Fletcher is human,” Mr Darcy clarified.
“Thank you.” Mr Collins gripped the arms of the chair. “I should prefer a stronger chair.”
“This one is mahogany,” Mr Hurst assured him.
“I was speaking morally.”
Charlotte stayed beside him, one hand resting against the back of the chair. “You suspected the truth.”
“I suspected that Mrs Hurst and Mr Wickham were unnatural. This is why I carried the stick. I had not considered that Netherfield is a den containing an organised population.”
“We prefer household,” Mr Hurst responded.
Mr Collins twisted towards Charlotte. “You knew?”
“Yes.”
“And you came to the ball?”
“Elizabeth required a chaperone.”
“You knowingly entered a house containing five vampires to provide propriety?”
“Six, Mr Collins, before you reduced the number.”
Mr Collins returned his eyes to Mr Wickham’s remains. “I believe my original question concerning the chair retains force.”
Mr Darcy considered the sharpened walking stick. “Where did you obtain the weapon?”
Mr Collins became defensive enough to recover part of his former character. “It is my own property.”
“You were instructed not to arm yourself.”
“I was forbidden to carry a cross, holy water, or an ecclesiastical object intended for hostile employment.” He gestured to the ash shaft embedded in Mr Wickham. “My walking stick is secular.”
Mr Hurst inclined his head. “The distinction is sound.”
“It has a sharpened end, though.”
“I encountered a book in Mr Bennet’s study a few days ago. A learned Benedictine recommended the method.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly. “Calmet.”
“The volume was open on the desk. I interpreted its presence as providential guidance.”
Mr Darcy walked nearer to the corpse but did not touch it. “You concealed the point under the brass ferrule.”
Fletcher spoke without turning from the service door. “I observed the join in the ferrule when Mr Collins surrendered his hat, sir.”
Mr Darcy turned to him. “And you permitted it.”
“I did, sir. The gentleman was to stand between Miss Elizabeth and a vampire. It seemed unkind to disarm him.”
“My injured toe permitted me to retain the stick,” Mr Collins offered.
“Your toe is not injured.”
“No.” Mr Collins folded his bloodstained hands. “I regret the deception, although subsequent events have justified it.”
Mr Hurst moved forward and offered a formal bow. “Mr Collins, I withdraw several objections to your character.”
“Only several?”
“We have known each other for less than a fortnight. Allow the friendship to develop naturally.” Mr Hurst surveyed the clergyman with fresh attention. “You were furnished with a watchword, Mr Collins. I listened for it throughout the evening. It never came.”
Mr Collins straightened in the chair. “There was insufficient time for Lady Catherine, sir. The circumstances required brevity.”
“Her name comes more often than your own, and on the single occasion it was actually wanted, you economised.”
“I shall confess the omission when I next write to her.” Mr Collins regarded the corpse. “Although the letter may present certain difficulties of composition.”
The service door opened. Two servants entered carrying a long storage chest between them. Neither reacted visibly to the corpse, the stake, or the clergyman sitting beside Charlotte, which suggested that Fletcher had selected them for qualities extending beyond strength.
Fletcher locked the door before directing the servants to place the chest near Mr Wickham. Heavy linen was spread on the floor. Mr Hurst assisted in rolling the remains from the carpet, careful not to disturb the stake or the residue gathered around it.