Jane Vows Vengeance

motioning for Jane to enter ahead of him. As Jane looked around the small, cluttered room Byron walked to the back and called out, “Solomon! Solomon, are you here?”

“Solomon?” Jane said, glancing at the window. “Solomon Grundy?”

“Indeed,” said Byron. “Do you know him? I thought you said—”

“No,” Jane interrupted. “I mean, I don’t know this Solomon Grundy. But there’s the rhyme. ‘Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday, christened on Tuesday, married on Wednesday, took ill on Thursday, grew worse on Friday—’ ”

“ ‘Died on Saturday, buried on Sunday,’ ” said a voice, followed by a violent cough. “ ‘This is the end of Solomon Grundy.’ ”

Standing before Jane was a very tall, very thin man who if not a century old was very close to it. He had long gray hair that fell in greasy strands to the shoulders of his worn black velvet frock coat, pale gray eyes that peered out at her from behind shockingly thick gold-rimmed spectacles, and a forehead creased like the spine of a well-read book. Most peculiar of all was his nose, which extended from his face almost like a beak and ended in a blunt point that was covered by a gold cap.

“Very good, young lady,” he said. “And what is today?”

“Thursday,” Jane answered, trying not to stare at his unusual appearance.

“Thursday,” the man repeated. “That explains the cough, then. It’s a good thing you didn’t come a day later, as I would almost certainly be unable to see you. And of course by Saturday I will be dead and of no use whatsoever. So before that happens, perhaps you should tell me why you have come.”

“Jane is in need of a passport, Solomon,” Byron explained.

“Indeed?” said Solomon. He eyed Jane with curiosity. “And who are you? Before, I mean. Not now.”

“Oh,” Jane said uncomfortably. Saying that she was Jane Austen always made her feel as if she were lying. Or boasting.

“Solomon, allow me to introduce you to Miss Jane Austen,” Byron said.

Solomon stepped back. “My, my,” he said. He bowed toward her. “It’s my distinct pleasure.”

Jane felt herself blush as much as someone with no beating heart could. “It’s lovely to meet you,” she said.

Solomon smiled, revealing a row of gleaming gold teeth. “I have long been a fan,” he told Jane. His eyes sparkled. “Just a moment,” he told her. “I want to show you something.”

He retreated to the rear of the shop, where Jane heard him rummaging around. There was a great deal of rustling, a very loud thud, and several rounds of enthusiastic sneezing. Then Solomon reappeared, clutching in one hand a trio of leather-bound volumes. He waved them at Jane, cackling gleefully. “I admit I haven’t read them in quite some time,” he said. “But here they are.”

He handed the books to Jane, who looked at the covers and gasped. “The first edition of Sense and Sensibility!” she exclaimed.

Solomon nodded. “I had them bound, of course. Otherwise they’re exactly as I bought them from a London bookstall on the day of their publication.”

Jane ran her fingertips over the leather, tracing the title of her book. She lifted the cover of the first volume and gazed upon the familiar title page. “Even I don’t have the first editions,” she said. “I did once upon a time, of course, but I’m afraid I lost them in a move. I believe I mistakenly threw them out along with a stack of old New Yorker issues.”

“Pity,” Solomon said, quickly taking the books back from her and slipping them into one of his coat pockets. Jane stared wistfully at the pocket, wondering if perhaps the watchmaker might be persuaded to part with the novels.

Byron cleared his throat. “Now that introductions have been made, perhaps we can get down to business,” he said.

“Ah, yes,” said Solomon. “A passport. For Miss Jane Austen.”

“Fairfax, actually,” Jane said. “It should say Jane Fairfax. That’s the name by which I’m now known.”

Solomon turned and walked toward the back of the shop. This time Jane followed him, arriving at a large workbench covered with tools and upon which were scattered various gears, faces, crystals, and minute and hour hands that had become detached and now lay disembodied among the corpses of broken watches. A lone stool sat before the table, and a single bare bulb was screwed into the end of an electrical cord that dangled from the ceiling.

Solomon seated himself on the stool, pulled open a drawer in the workbench, and removed several passport books. “Would you like to be English, Canadian, or American?” he asked.

“American, I suppose,” Jane answered. She felt a bit as if she were turning her back on her homeland by assuming an American identity, but she knew it was the most practical choice.

“American it is,” Solomon said, placing a blue passport on the table and returning the others to the drawer. “Now then, did you bring the photographs?”

Jane fished in her coat pocket and withdrew the small cardboard folder containing the photos she’d had taken the evening before at the copy shop near her bookstore. “I’m afraid they’re dreadful,” she told Solomon as she handed them to him.

“Nonsense,” Solomon assured her as he opened the folder. “I’m sure they’re perfectly love—” He hesitated, then looked at Jane. “Well, at least your eyes are nice and open,” he said.

Jane watched as Solomon took one of the photos and began trimming it to the correct size. “If you don’t mind my asking, do you do a lot of this sort of thing?” she asked.

“Oh, yes,” Solomon answered. “Passports. Driver’s licenses. Anything you need, I can forge it.”

Jane, intrigued, said, “And are all of your clients as we are?”

“Vampires, you mean?” said Solomon. He had removed his glasses and inserted a jeweler’s loupe in his left eye. His head was bent over the passport as he did something Jane couldn’t quite see. “Most are, but not all.”

“And are you …” Jane began. She decided the question was indelicate, however, and stopped.

“Am I a vampire?” said Solomon, lifting his head and grinning at her. “No. I’m something … different.”

He returned to his work. Jane, sensing that he didn’t want to be disturbed, went in search of Byron. She found him crouched on the floor, rummaging through a box of old pocket watches.

“How did you say you know Solomon?” she asked Byron.

Byron blew the dust from a watch, looked at the back, then returned it to the box. “I didn’t,” he replied. “And I really don’t remember. But he’s proved to be quite useful over the years.” He stood up and looked at Jane. “Do you know he once forged me a death certificate from the state of Missouri that was so realistic I almost believed the gentleman in question really had died of cardiac arrest?”

“Why would you need … Never mind,” Jane said. “I don’t want to know. I’m sure he’s very good at what he does. But what exactly is he?”

“Ahh,” Byron purred. “He wouldn’t tell you, would he?”

Jane shrugged, feigning disinterest. “I didn’t ask,” she said. “It only now occurred to me to.”

“Did it?” said Byron, smirking. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. He’s a zombie.”

“A zombie!” Jane said.

Byron made a shushing sound. “Quiet,” he said. “He doesn’t like to discuss it.”

Jane, chastened, lowered her voice to a whisper. “He doesn’t look like a zombie,” she said. “Well, not like any I’ve ever seen, although I’ll grant you those have only been in movies.”

“Solomon isn’t like that,” Byron explained. “Not exactly. Remember the rhyme?”

As Jane had only recently recited it to him, she assumed Byron’s question to be rhetorical, and said nothing. Byron continued, “He wasn’t joking when he said it was lucky we came on a Thursday. By tomorrow he’ll be quite ill, and by Saturday night he’ll be dead. Sunday he’ll—well, I don’t really know what becomes of him on Sunday—but on Monday he’ll be right as rain and it will start all over again.”

Jane made a face. “How awful,” she said. “How does a thing like that happen? I mean, surely he wasn’t always like this.”

“No, he wasn’t,” Byron agreed. “But I don’t know how he became what he is. As far as I know, he’s never told anyone, except perhaps his wife.”

“His wife?” said Jane.