Jane Vows Vengeance

This was true. Jane remembered it well. At the time, the notion that the eruption of a volcano in Indonesia could affect the weather in Europe had seemed fantastical. Some of the more superstitious among the population even suggested that black magic played a role in the events, inventing covens of black-robed witches summoning forth the demons of hell. For what reason they might do this no one ever fully explained, but it was a thrilling idea and the subject of more than one penny dreadful.

Chumsley continued with his story. “Because there was little that could be done outside, the party amused themselves by telling ghost stories,” he said. “Several of them—most notably Mary Godwin and Byron’s personal physician, John Polidori—committed their stories to paper and gave us Frankenstein and The Vampyre.”

“We should do that,” Sam said.

“Do what?” Genevieve asked.

“Tell ghost stories,” said Sam. “Tonight. After dinner.”

“What a wonderful idea,” Chumsley said.

And so they did. Following a light supper of salad, grilled trout, and apfelkuchlein prepared by a girl from the village, they gathered in the salon, where Chumsley surprised them by producing a bottle of absinthe. He poured it into eleven delicate reservoir glasses, then for each one repeated the process of pouring water over a sugar cube balanced on a cunning slotted spoon. The air was soon filled with a woody, herbal smell.

“You’ve counted wrong,” Enid said as Chumsley handed round the glasses. “There’s only ten of us.”

“The eleventh glass is for our friend Lord Byron,” Chumsley said. “I’m hoping he will be kind enough to join us for the evening’s storytelling.”

Oh, good gods, you have no idea what you’re asking, Jane thought. But part of her did wonder what Byron would make of their little party. She would have to tell him about it when they got home.

There was a fire in the fireplace, and for the occasion the lights had been turned off and candles placed throughout the room. The flickering flames cast shadows on the walls and lit up the faces of the assembled group. All in all, Jane thought, it was very atmospheric, even if it did make her feel wistful. She leaned against Walter, who sat beside her on the sofa, and he put his arm around her shoulders.

“Who will start us off?” Chumsley asked.

“Jane likes to tell stories,” Genevieve said. “I think she should begin.”

Jane bristled at the implication but decided to take the high road. “All right,” she said. “Just give me a moment to think.”

She considered various tales she had heard throughout the years. In the end, though, she decided to make up one of her own. It was about a girl who had no heart. The girl tried to make a heart out of many things—the innards of a clock, a rose, a bell. But nothing made her feel alive. Then one night she awoke to the sound of a thunderstorm. Going to the window, she watched as lightning lit up the sky. She ran outside with a jar and waited until the lightning flashed again. She caught it in the jar along with some wind and rain, then screwed the top on tightly. She placed the jar where her heart should have been, and she felt the storm raging inside her. Then she felt truly alive.

It wasn’t really a ghost story, but Jane was pleased with it nonetheless. When she finished, there was polite applause.

“I do believe la fee verte is working its magic,” Chumsley said, saluting Jane with his glass of absinthe. “That was a most macabre tale. Now who’s next?”

Jane sipped some absinthe and snuggled closer to Walter. She only half listened as Sam began to tell a story about a church haunted by a headless vicar. Closing her eyes, she let the sound of the voices around her become a gentle murmur, the tone changing as each story finished and a new one began. She was very tired, and when Walter shook her gently to wake her she wondered if she’d slept all night. But it was only a little past midnight.

She went upstairs with Walter and got ready for bed. Walter fell asleep almost immediately, but Jane’s nap had revived her, and she found herself awake. Her thoughts turned to Crispin’s Needle, then to Suzu and Miriam. What am I going to do? she wondered.

It had begun to rain, and the pattering on the window distracted her. When lightning flashed, followed by the boom of a thunderclap, she decided to get up. The storm was reminiscent of the one that had shaken the valley the night of her transformation into a vampire so long ago. She wondered how Walter could sleep through it, but he dozed peacefully as another crackle of lightning lit up his face.

Jane got out of bed and went into the hallway. The house was quiet. I’m the only one awake, she thought as she crept downstairs. She was drawn to the front door of the house, which she opened, then stepped out onto the porch. She stood there as the rain fell, not caring that she was getting wet.

“It’s just like the night he turned me,” she said.

“Isn’t it?” said a voice. “Although I believe you were wearing a different nightgown. One a bit sexier.”

Jane jumped. When she turned she saw Byron standing on the steps. Despite the shorter hair and modern clothes, he looked just as he had the first time she saw him. For a moment she thought she might be dreaming. Then she saw the suitcase at his feet.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I thought you might be in need of my assistance,” he said.

“But how did you—”

“Second sight, vampire powers, cosmic woo-hoo,” Byron replied, waving his hands in the air. “Something like that.”

Another figure emerged from the storm, coming to stand beside Byron.

“Oh,” Byron said. “And I brought a friend.”

Chapter 24

Friday: Geneva

“You look awfully familiar,” Chumsley said as he spread marmalade on a scone. “I could swear I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

“I hear that a lot,” said Byron. “I have one of those faces.”

Indeed you do, Jane thought. And if anyone looks at the portrait of you hanging in the sitting room, they’ll know why that is.

“How did you say you know Rosemary and Guy?” asked Chumsley, referring to their absent hosts.

“I didn’t,” Byron replied. “But since you asked, I’m the godfather to their baby. I saw them at the Berlin Film Festival last week—Rosemary won a Silberner Bar, by the way—and mentioned that I would be passing through Geneva. They suggested I overnight here. I know they wish they could be here with all of us, but you know how it is when you have a film to promote.”

“Of course,” said Chumsley. “Well, it’s certainly a happy coincidence that you’ve come at the same time your friends are here.”

“Isn’t it?” said Byron as he poured himself another cup of tea.

Jane was still getting over the shock of Byron’s midnight arrival. She was also still wondering exactly who his friend was. The man was very good-looking, with thick blond hair, dark eyes, and a rugged physique. He appeared to be in his early forties. His name, as Byron had introduced him, was William. Byron had yet to explain why they were there. He and William had retired for the night shortly after Jane had encountered them. The only information she’d gotten out of Byron was that Sarah was being looked after by Shelby, a bit of news that greatly relieved Ben when he walked into breakfast to see the man supposedly taking care of his daughter seated there leisurely drinking a cup of coffee.

This left Jane with numerous unasked, and therefore unanswered, questions. Nor could she ask them now, as the room was filled with people getting their breakfasts. Byron and William were proving to be quite popular with