Chapter 9

Elizabeth fell backwards with a sigh, dropping her head onto the pillow upon her bed. She growled in frustration. What did Wickham mean by they had better prepare? Was he sending a horde from Pemberley to attack Rosings?

Before she could inquire more Wickham had ordered for her to be forcibly removed from the dinning hall and she had been fuming in her room ever since. What was he planning?! And when would she learn to control her emotions? If she had, maybe she would have more information by now.

She turned on her side and faced the empty space next to her where Fitzwilliam should be. Absentmindedly, Elizabeth reached her hand out and brushed it over the fabric. How she missed him. Since the day Fitzwilliam proposed he had always been at her side. Sharing intimate glances from across the room. Sneaking private moments in the garden. Practicing in the dojo to regain Fitzwilliam's strength, warrior against warrior. She longed for the Fitzwilliam only she knew. The one who had removed all walls and defenses. The man who would go out of his way to do something kind for one of her sisters because he knew it would please her. The man who cared not what others thought of him, but only how he appeared in her eyes. The man who would put his arms around her and whisper sweet comments in her ear. The side of him that would smirk while she was scolding him for some act and, instead of retaliating, would pull her close and silence her with a kiss. The one who continued to write letters to her with overwhelming passion and intimacy. The man who would press the small of her back so she would be flush against his warm body. She longed for the feel of his soft hair under her fingertips. His strong hand upon her cheek. His deep eyes communicating silently with her what did not have to be said aloud.

She wanted him by her side here in their house, lying next her. Her frustration and anger turned tangible as she found herself weeping. She fisted the sheet and couldn't keep the tears from flowing down her face, dampening the soft pillow. How she loathed Wickham. She cursed the day she had met him in Meryton and even more the day she did not slaughter him in the In-Between. He had killed so many innocents and taken away from her what should be the happiest time in her life. What if Fitzwilliam didn't survive the attack? What if no one survived and all that she hoped for was in vain? Would Wickham keep her here as his prisoner forever? Or would he turn her?

Elizabeth cried until she had no tears left. Her sides ached and her eyelids were heavy. She stared at the ceiling for some time, thinking the worst. She tried to recall a happy memory, but as soon as one came to mind, it was immediately replaced with a vision of Fitzwilliam outnumbered against a horde of hungry undead, Jane decapitated, her father being tortured….

She fell asleep with agonizing thoughts in her head and awakened some time later from a nightmare only to recall that she was still living one. Elizabeth took in slow, steady breaths to calm herself and stood, using the moonlight to guide her way to the window. Sitting down upon the mantle, she saw the dark cluster roaming around below. Closing her eyes, she leaned back and stroked her gown. It was even dirtier now than when she arrived- almost all trace of its original white gone, but the movement comforted her as she thought back to their wedding day. Her mother's giddiness, Jane's matching glow, Fitzwilliam's face as she walked towards him. She opened her eyes and saw a shimmer mirrored against the glass. Glancing down, she saw her golden wedding band brilliant in the moonlight. Running her fingers over it, she soon fell to sleep in the windowpane. For she knew Fitzwilliam would live through this. He had to. Any attack Wickham would conjure up, he would fight his way to her. Their perseverance and love was echoed in the band around each of their fingers. For as long as she wore it there was hope. Hope in anther day. Hope that Wickham would meet the Maker. Hope that Fitzwilliam would rescue her. And hope that she would be in his arms once more.

Elizabeth followed slowly behind the undead guards as they guided her out the doorway leading into the gardens. The sun was already beginning its descent in the sky and the ground was cooling, to her relief. The undead surrounding the house immediately cleared a pathway much like Moses did when parting the Red Sea. The party walked towards a large tree where Wickham stood, staring blankly towards the south. He broke from his thoughtful state upon seeing them arrive. After she was within a close distance, he motioned for them to leave. She felt one of the undead stiffen beside her and glance her way, but Wickham dismissed them once again. This time they left without pause. Wickham stood and came to a stop beside her. He glanced over at her and extended his arm.

"Shall we walk together?" he asked, indicting for her to take it.

She longed for exercise but glared at him for some time before he lowered his arm and motioned for her to proceed through the gardens, his smile staying present upon his face.

"Very well then," he said.

Ashamedly, she too eagerly began walking the way he indicated. After only a few paces he caught up to her. They walked quietly about the grounds, rounding the vast back yard twice before he spoke.

"This was my favorite spot growing up: the gardens. It is where I held my first sword, rode my first pony… You know after you are turned your memories gradually slip your mind. The more you feed on humans, the more you forget your human self. You become barbaric, consumed with need for one thing, which is why I exist: to bring order to chaos. But the normal rules do not apply to me. No. I can recall every memory with perfect ease now, even those I did not remember from my infancy or youth. The most perfect memory, however, is the day I was bitten and reborn."

Elizabeth turned a questioning eye towards him but remained silent. He chuckled and said, "No need to hide your inquisitive nature, Miss Bennet… We were at a camp in the In-Between when a group of undead attacked. I was asleep in my barracks when an undead lurched onto me and bit me in the chest. I reached over, grasped a nearby knife and shoved it into its brains. Upon hearin a fellow leftenant calling my name, I quickly threw on a shirt to hide the puncture, knowing he would have no choice but to end me. It took many months before I realized the influence I had over the other undead. I was in the forest once doing a sweep around our camp with two other soldiers when I realized I could order an undead to do my bidding. And they would have no choice but concede. A female undead was stalking towards one of my fellow soldiers some paces in front of me, her teeth bared. The soldier closest to my position, a young boy, glanced at me in horror, his body frozen in place with fear. I did not even have to say the word 'stop' just think it and the undead stopped in its place. To keep up pretenses, I lifted my blade and sliced it down. The two other soldiers brushed it off as abnormal undead attributes, but I knew better. I went off on my own that night and realized I could get all the undead around my camp to do whatever I wished.

"At first I tried to find a way for undead and humans to live together in harmony. If I could achieve that, it would make me more renowned than your husband or his precious aunt. And it would not be for slaughtering undead, but for ending the war and bringing about peace. Knowing what I was, I could use my abilities, but I also wanted money. Why exhaust all my own resources and come up empty? Especially if they discovered I was one of the undead- they would strike me down without a moments hesitation. That was when I stumbled upon St. Lazarus. It was the perfect plan. Solicit the idea, say the money was going towards appeasement and instead I would pocket the funds myself and have authority over both the living and the undead. Then I could live with all of Great Britain at my feet. I just needed someone with the right influence to put my plan in motion. And, well, you know the rest," he concluded with a devilish smile.

"You're going to turn me," Elizabeth stated quietly. He would not be telling her all of this if he had any intention of her living.

He ignored her statement and steered them towards an old tree with a wooden circular bench around the trunk.

"This is where I bit the late Mr. Darcy," Wickham stated nonchalantly, pointing towards the ground before them. "And that," he continued, indicating the bench, "is where your beloved husband dismembered him."

Elizabeth remained defiantly silent. She did not judge her husband for slaying his own father for he had told her long ago of his story. She had even seen the results of the nightmares that still plagued him due to that night. The dark circles that rimmed his eyes. His ever-constant state of weariness. How he fought to remain strong but broke down on occasion when he could feel the blade piercing his father's flesh. How she too would strike down her own father should the same happen to him. For the living were tasked with annihilating Satan's undead. She trained for years, having that instilled into her very soul. Regardless of the person, whether they be husband, sister, mother, father, cousin, or aunt, they were no longer living the moment they were bitten and the transformation began.

"Why are you showing me this?" Elizabeth asked, her eyes fixated upon the bench where dry blood still stained the wood in painful memory. Fitzwilliam's words came rushing to her mind. It was left to me, his son, to provide a merciful ending. She had long ago wept for the man who wrote those words to her, but now, seeing the exact spot, she also wanted to weep for the man who died as well. The one who had left his children behind. The man who had raised such a strong son. The one who had molded him into one who was capable of such love and devotion; unshakable honor and sense of duty.

"Because I wanted you to learn some Pemberley history," he responded with a smirk before turning serious. "There are two types of undead, Miss Bennet: the kind that embrace what they are and those that do not. I admit I fought what I was for some time before coming to terms with it. I did not have the same cravings and yearnings I once had, but I lived with it and adjusted to the lifestyle. I ate the brains of animals in secret, avoided fellow officers when I had gone too long without consumption, and soon even took pleasure in my secret, knowing I had fooled all my superior officers and fellow soldiers. But through all this it was not my sustenance that fueled me. No. It was Darcy. He made me what I am by forcing me to enlist and soon after I was turned I realized the power I had over the undead. I could finally have something he did not. After growing up knowing he would inherit the estate, and seeing him be given the finest clothes and the sharpest blade, or being sent away to Japan for the finest training. I finally had something he did not and could not have. Influence of such immensity he could only dream of it."

"You are nothing more than a jealous git," Elizabeth spat back.

"Do you really think he would not hesitate to kill you?" asked Wickham as he stepped closer, leaning his head forward. "If I were to turn you now, would he even waver before slicing his blade through your skull?"

Elizabeth took in several rapid breaths.

"I thought so…" Wickham said. "And if that day comes, I will be there to protect you."

"I don't need you to protect me from my husband," Elizabeth said.

Wickham smiled and bared his teeth, bringing them closer to her flesh. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"Your threats are useless," she concluded. "You say Rosings isn't safe. I can only assume you mean to kill my husband and family. Then what will it matter?"

"Oh everything matters, Miss Bennet. It all serves a purpose. Like this," he said, standing straight once more. He places several strips of fabric into her hand. "I can endeavor to presume the purpose behind these."

She fisted the fabric tightly in her hand, but tried to remain calm. She glared up at him. So that is how the men had found her. The poor soul who laid in pieces upon their table last night had followed her clues right to death's doorway.

"They were found in his satchel, in case you were wondering," Wickham mocked. "But even if the surviving riders do make it back to Rosings, they wont live for much longer, just like the others."

"I don't believe you," Elizabeth said incredulously.

"All in good time, Miss Bennet," he responded simply.