Bearleader?”
“The one who created you, is he or she not with you?”
She shook her head. “The gentleman who—who bit me—left. I do not know what he was supposed to do. Or what I am supposed to do.”
“You‧re slipping away. He should have stayed to see you through these first few months. Who was he?”
“A Mr. Smith. I doubt it was his real name.”
“Ah. And so you have not dined since?” He gazed at her with concern and compassion.
“I‧m not hungry.”
“No, my dear Jane. Not food.”
“My father gave me his blood.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Well, Mr. Austen has hidden depths, it seems.”
She glared at him with all the outrage she could muster in her weakened state. “He is the
Reverend
Mr. Austen, something you should probably know since you have greeted him as an old acquaintance, and his offer was made for love of me.”
Luke bowed. “I stand corrected.” He offered his arm. “Come with me, Miss Jane Austen.”
Chapter 5
Jane hesitated. The last time she had been alone with a gentleman—no, a vampire, and certainly no gentleman—had not been to her advantage.
“Do not fear,” Luke said.
“But—but I owe it to my family to—”
“To die? For that is what will happen if you do not dine soon.” He led her, half supporting her, through a doorway at the far end of the Pump Room into a narrow, dark passage and then into a small, dim room.
“I am come here to take the cure,” she said, her resistance ebbing away.
“A cadaver cannot take any sort of cure, my dear Miss Austen, and that is what you‧ll be soon enough. It‧s a delicate matter, the cure; you must be strong enough to withstand the poison of the waters—for such it is to us—yet the stronger you are the more difficult and painful the cure will become.”
“What is it to you? Why will you not leave me alone?” She hated herself for the whimper in her voice.
He pushed her into a chair. He stood over her, hands moving to the buttons of his coat. “My honor, as one of my kind, demands it, Miss Austen. This Mr. Smith abandoned you, a most dishonorable act, and it is my duty, honor, and privilege to do what he should have.” He shrugged the coat from his shoulders and let it fall.
“But what about me? My family fears me and rushes me to take the cure. Your honor, frankly, is no business of mine. No one asks me what I want … I …” Her voice faded away as Luke unbuttoned his shirt cuff. He raised his wrist to his mouth and breathed upon it, then showed her the blue veins against his pale skin.
“I cannot,” she said faintly. “Please, sir, do not …”
“My name is Luke.” He bent and held his wrist to her lips. “Your canines extend. We call it
en sanglant.
You cannot help yourself. You feel pain but that‧s only because it is a new sensation. With time you‧ll recognize the condition of
en sanglant
as a sign of desire, of need, of the pleasure you‧ll anticipate—oh, I beg your pardon, you are the daughter of a clergyman; I doubt you‧ll appreciate the—”
“Hold your tongue!” She grabbed his wrist and bit, hard.
“Ouch! A little more finesse, Jane, but no matter, you‧ll learn.”
Through a mouthful of blood she growled—yes, Jane Austen, the cultured and respectable daughter of the Austen family
growled,
and then laughed messily.
And the taste—like lightning, like the way she felt once, in another life, when the words flowed and she laughed aloud at her own cleverness and the delicious interplay of her characters. This was a far cry from the tender comfort of her father‧s blood.
She raised her head and looked up at him, a warm trickle running down her chin.
“Dear, dear, you are a sight. No manners at all,” said Luke, handkerchief in hand.
“You taste like … like heaven.”
“Of course I do. I‧m old. Now, hurry up before we‧re discovered.”
“I don‧t care if we are.”
He laughed. “Spoken like a true vampire.”
She drew away. “I am not a
“The one who created you, is he or she not with you?”
She shook her head. “The gentleman who—who bit me—left. I do not know what he was supposed to do. Or what I am supposed to do.”
“You‧re slipping away. He should have stayed to see you through these first few months. Who was he?”
“A Mr. Smith. I doubt it was his real name.”
“Ah. And so you have not dined since?” He gazed at her with concern and compassion.
“I‧m not hungry.”
“No, my dear Jane. Not food.”
“My father gave me his blood.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Well, Mr. Austen has hidden depths, it seems.”
She glared at him with all the outrage she could muster in her weakened state. “He is the
Reverend
Mr. Austen, something you should probably know since you have greeted him as an old acquaintance, and his offer was made for love of me.”
Luke bowed. “I stand corrected.” He offered his arm. “Come with me, Miss Jane Austen.”
Chapter 5
Jane hesitated. The last time she had been alone with a gentleman—no, a vampire, and certainly no gentleman—had not been to her advantage.
“Do not fear,” Luke said.
“But—but I owe it to my family to—”
“To die? For that is what will happen if you do not dine soon.” He led her, half supporting her, through a doorway at the far end of the Pump Room into a narrow, dark passage and then into a small, dim room.
“I am come here to take the cure,” she said, her resistance ebbing away.
“A cadaver cannot take any sort of cure, my dear Miss Austen, and that is what you‧ll be soon enough. It‧s a delicate matter, the cure; you must be strong enough to withstand the poison of the waters—for such it is to us—yet the stronger you are the more difficult and painful the cure will become.”
“What is it to you? Why will you not leave me alone?” She hated herself for the whimper in her voice.
He pushed her into a chair. He stood over her, hands moving to the buttons of his coat. “My honor, as one of my kind, demands it, Miss Austen. This Mr. Smith abandoned you, a most dishonorable act, and it is my duty, honor, and privilege to do what he should have.” He shrugged the coat from his shoulders and let it fall.
“But what about me? My family fears me and rushes me to take the cure. Your honor, frankly, is no business of mine. No one asks me what I want … I …” Her voice faded away as Luke unbuttoned his shirt cuff. He raised his wrist to his mouth and breathed upon it, then showed her the blue veins against his pale skin.
“I cannot,” she said faintly. “Please, sir, do not …”
“My name is Luke.” He bent and held his wrist to her lips. “Your canines extend. We call it
en sanglant.
You cannot help yourself. You feel pain but that‧s only because it is a new sensation. With time you‧ll recognize the condition of
en sanglant
as a sign of desire, of need, of the pleasure you‧ll anticipate—oh, I beg your pardon, you are the daughter of a clergyman; I doubt you‧ll appreciate the—”
“Hold your tongue!” She grabbed his wrist and bit, hard.
“Ouch! A little more finesse, Jane, but no matter, you‧ll learn.”
Through a mouthful of blood she growled—yes, Jane Austen, the cultured and respectable daughter of the Austen family
growled,
and then laughed messily.
And the taste—like lightning, like the way she felt once, in another life, when the words flowed and she laughed aloud at her own cleverness and the delicious interplay of her characters. This was a far cry from the tender comfort of her father‧s blood.
She raised her head and looked up at him, a warm trickle running down her chin.
“Dear, dear, you are a sight. No manners at all,” said Luke, handkerchief in hand.
“You taste like … like heaven.”
“Of course I do. I‧m old. Now, hurry up before we‧re discovered.”
“I don‧t care if we are.”
He laughed. “Spoken like a true vampire.”
She drew away. “I am not a
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