Mr. Darcy, Vampire
Chapter Four:
Elizabeth froze, seized by a terror so complete that it stole the warmth from her body and set her limbs to trembling. She had thought many things of Mr. Darcy during the course of their acquaintance – some of them truly unkind – but she could never have imagined thisof him.
She raised one hand to press shaky fingers against the spot on her neck that still throbbed with a dull ache, surprised by the warm stickiness they found there. When she pulled her fingers away, Elizabeth was horrified to see that they were streaked with blood.
The same blood that now stained Darcy's lips.
Her blood.
Elizabeth's mind raced as she attempted, in vain, to make sense of what her eyes were seeing. Blood on his lips… Blood on her throat… Had he bitten her? It appeared so – but why? What purpose could such a thing serve?
The incident replayed itself in her mind's eye; the memory of the heated kisses they had shared made her cheeks flame even as the memory of Darcy's attack made her blood run cold. Yes, she felt certain that he had bitten her. Bitten her and… She remembered her frantic struggles to free herself from his determined grip. He had resisted her attempts at first, his mouth latched onto her throat, not just biting but… sucking?
It couldn't be. Elizabeth could scarce believe it; did not dare to trust her own memories. Mr. Darcy, drinking her blood? What manner of man would do such a thing?
Not man, she thought.
Of one thing Elizabeth was certain: this… this creature, which had been held up as the very model of English society, was nothing more than a wolf in sheep's clothing. Look the part though he might, Fitzwilliam Darcy was nota man – and certainly not a gentleman!
"What areyou?" she demanded, her chest heaving with the effort it took to inhale one laborious breath after another.
Darcy blinked away the confusion that clouded his features. Elizabeth stared, wide-eyed and disbelieving, and watched as the look of bewilderment he wore faded into realisation that was swiftly swept away by a tidal wave of self-loathing. He buried his face in his hands.
"My dearest Elizabeth," he groaned, the words muffled by his hands. "What have I done?"
Irrational though it was, Elizabeth's first thought was to offer comfort to Darcy. The remorse in his voice was a cold fist 'round her heart. She longed to reach out, to tell him that everything was all right, truly, that no harm had been done. But, though her arms ached to hold him, fear – of what he had done, of what he might yet do – held her immobile.
"Mr. Darcy?" When Elizabeth spoke, her voice sounded weak and timid, even to her own ears. "Are you... well?"
She thought she heard him laugh but it was a choked, humourless sound. Darcy shook his head.
"No," he replied, raising his head at long last. "I am not well. Not well at all."
He met her frightened gaze with eyes the colour of dark chocolate. They were, Elizabeth thought, the saddest eyes she had ever seen. "I am very ill indeed," he told her.
Perhaps it was the remorse she saw in his eyes. Perhaps it was the dejected slump of his shoulders. Whatever the reason, Elizabeth believed him; there was no doubt in her mind that Darcy spoke the truth when he told her that he was unwell.
Nonetheless, it did not stop her reaction – which was both violent and immediate – when, as if noticing Miss Bennet's position for the first time, Darcy took a step forward, extending his hand to offer her assistance in rising. As she dared not trust her legs to hold her weight, Elizabeth instead scuttled backward as she avoided his touch, using her hands and feet to propel herself until her shoulders slammed against the wall.
Darcy winced, his expression stricken as his hand dropped limply to his side. Retreating a few steps, he widened the distance between them.
"I cannot begin to imagine what you must be thinking," he said without looking at her, "now that you have seen me for the monster I really am."
Elizabeth cringed at his bitter use of the word monster. Had she not thought the very same thing herself, just moments before? Yet, hearing the words spoken from Darcy's own lips made her feel ashamed.
No man who hated himself that much could ever truly be a monster.
"My actions have been so reprehensible that I know not where to begin in begging your forgiveness."
Darcy dropped to his knees before her so abruptly that Elizabeth flinched. He caught and held her frightened gaze but did not attempt to draw any nearer.
"I do not offer my apologies because my actions cannot be forgiven," he told her. Regret softened his voice. "But believe me when I say that I am more sorry than you can ever know. I-"
Halting abruptly, Darcy tilted his head to the side as though perceiving some sound, too faint for Elizabeth to hear. She strained to listen but could hear nothing over the pounding of her own heart. Darcy, evidently, could hear something more – and what he heard made his movements frantic.
"I owe you an explanation, if naught else," he told her hurriedly. "But now is not the time, for I fear Mr. and Mrs. Collins will be upon us ere long."
Elizabeth could form no sensible reply; her mind was a whirling cloud of conflicting thoughts and emotions. Too much had occurred, in too short a time. She could hardly reconcile the gentleman she saw now with the red-eyed daemon who, only moments ago, had been intent upon leeching the life's blood from her body.
She could scarce breathe, much less make sense of the impossible situation in which she found herself.
"Please, Elizabeth," Darcy implored, his voice earnest. "I must beg you not to speak of this to anyone."
His eyes burned with an intensity she could not name. "I ask you not for my sake but for the sake of my dear sister, Georgiana," he said. "She – sweet, innocent soul that she is – knows no part of this, yet I fear it is she who would suffer worst of all were my secret be made public."
There was a real affection present in his tone when Darcy spoke of Georgiana. It made Eliza think of her own sisters. She would do anything to protect them – anything– and did not doubt Mr. Darcy felt the same about his own. She dared not ask herself how far he would go to protect his sister; in truth, she thought she knew the answer already – and it terrified her.
It also made her eager to agree when Darcy said, "I have no right, but I ask that you please, please, for the sake of my sister, keep secret what happened today between us. Will you promise me that, Elizabeth?"
"Yes," she said. What else couldshe say? "I promise."
Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but Elizabeth was proud, for it did not shake. If only the same could be said of her limbs!
Mr. Darcy's relief at her words was nearly palpable; his shoulders sagged, and he smiled. Elizabeth found herself wanting to return that smile, even though his lips were still stained red from her blood.
"I cannot thank you enough," he told her. Then, with many assurances that, though he could never make it right, he could – and would – offer her an explanation, Darcy quitted the Parsonage in a great hurry, leaving Elizabeth in a rumpled heap on the drawing room floor.
No sooner had he gone than did she hear the clatter of Lady Catherine's carriage approaching the house.
But how had he known they were come?she wondered dazedly.
He couldn'thave heard them from so great a distance... could he? No normal man could have heard the carriage so soon – but there was no doubt in Eliza's mind that Mr. Darcy was no ordinary man.
Elizabeth had, on more than one occasion, thought that Mr. Darcy was quite unlike any other gentleman of her acquaintance. Now she was beginning to suspect that what had just passed was but a glimpse of how different he truly was.
Though the thought terrified her, it intrigued her, too.
But Elizabeth was not at liberty to pursue that particular thought at any length for the present. If she did not make haste, Charlotte and Mr. Collins would be upon her, and she was in no fit state for their company.
She hauled herself to her feet, surprised they had strength enough to hold her. Elizabeth hurried from the drawing room, up the stairs, and into the room she'd been given where she promptly threw herself upon the bed. It was not long before her friend appeared at the door, making enquiries as to the state of her health. Lady Catherine, she was told, had been mostconcerned for her welfare.
Elizabeth evaded her friend's well-meaning scrutiny as best she could, promising that she would be right as rain after a good rest. Charlotte's narrowed eyes told Elizabeth that the lie was not as convincing as she had hoped, but her friend did not press the issue. Bidding her a good night, Charlotte left. Muffled voices rose in conversation on the other side of the door and then slowly faded as they moved down the hallway.
She closed her eyes, trying her best to do as Charlotte had suggested and rest. They flew open almost at once when her mind was filled with an image of Mr. Darcy, his lips pulled back in an inhuman snarl. Rolling on to her side, Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut again, telling herself that she would not think about thatDarcy; she would think only of the otherDarcy, the one whose kiss ignited a fire within her veins that-
No, it would not do.
The blissful unconsciousness that sleep offered was not to be hers. Elizabeth ceased her futile attempts to rest and was on her feet once more, pacing the length of the small chamber with short, agitated steps.
Regardless of how many times she replayed the day's events in her mind, Elizabeth could make no better sense of what had transpired. Worse, she could not say which was a cause of greater confusion: the passion or the pain. One was as unknown to her as the other.
As for her own behaviour, Elizabeth could not have been more mortified! To act in so wanton a manner was shameful and unbecoming of a lady. How she wished she could say that she regretted it. Truth be told, Darcy had awakened something within her that she had not known to even exist. Now that she didknow, now that she'd had a taste of it, she could not say that she did not want more.
Her thoughts were drawn to her impetuous younger sisters. She thought of the way that Lydia and Kitty chased after the coattails of the officers stationed near their home. Could it be that they were in possession of some knowledge of the kind of intimacies between a man and a woman that Elizabeth, until today, had lacked?
The thought of the regiment stationed in Meryton could not but draw her thoughts to a certain soldier; yet, the face of Mr. Wickham, who Eliza had formerly given no small amount of consideration, would not long stay in her mind, for it was quickly replaced with an image of blood-stained lips and warm brown eyes filled with sorrow.
Oh, but she was conflicted!
Elizabeth sank into a chair that sat before the room's small dressing table. She was startled at first to find that she could not see her own reflection in the mirror that sat upon the table. Her reverie had been so great that it had blinded her to the passing of time; so lost in thought was she that she had not noticed until that moment that night had long since fallen.
She was not usually a squeamish person, but, for some reason she could not name, Elizabeth found the darkness unnerving. It was as though every shadow was filled with strange, unnatural forms that loomed, menacing, in every corner. Striking a match to chase the shadows away, Elizabeth gasped at the image that was thrown back at her in the flickering candlelight. She stared, wide eyed and pale, back at herself from the mirror's depths, mesmerised by the two angry red welts that marred her slim throat.