Vampire Darcy's Desire

The colonel simply saluted cordially and walked away. “I will check the weapons one more time,” he called as he went towards the back of the church.

In semiprivacy, Darcy took Elizabeth in his arms. “You are to be careful, Elizabeth; I cannot live without you. Defeating Wickham would be a sour victory without you by my side.” He brushed Elizabeth’s hair away from her face.“I love you, Elizabeth Bennet Darcy.”

“Then I charge you, Sir, to protect yourself. My happiness depends upon your being my husband.You are not to leave me at twenty years to find my way in this world alone.”

“Are those orders, my love?” he said as he smiled down at her.

Elizabeth traced his lips with her fingertips. “They are, Mr. Darcy, and you need to address your bride’s wishes.”

“Might my bride wish to kiss me?” His voice sounded suddenly less sure.

“Wish to kiss you?” She shook her head.“Need to kiss you.” She went up on her tiptoes as Darcy lowered his head. It was a kiss that bound them to each other—not ravenous—but tender and giving, and, above all, loving. “Godspeed,” she whispered as they parted.

Almost instantly, the colonel returned. “It is time.” He handed Elizabeth a sword as Darcy took up one of his own. “Come, Elizabeth.” The colonel took her hand. “We will see you on the other side, Darcy,” he called as he led her away. Darcy prayed his cousin’s words had no double meaning.

He watched them exit the side entrance to the church. Just as

Still a few minutes before midnight, Darcy circled the graveyard on the outside of the hedgerow. Reaching the hill’s well-worn path, he glanced over his shoulder to where Damon lifted Elizabeth over the hedges, not wishing to disturb the salt line. He waited for his cousin to place her safely on the ground. They turned to face where he stood. Damon gestured with the sword, but Elizabeth simply stood tall and gazed at him. Through the dark, Darcy saw her every feature, the look of undying love clearly visible, and then he turned to make his descent.Tonight, no light came from Wickford Manor, but Darcy knew Wickham waited within. The full moon helped to illuminate the way as Darcy moved cautiously through the wooded field.

Reaching the house, he tried each of the doors and the windows, seeking an entrance, but each one was bolted shut. He preferred not to break in, not to sound an alarm, although he intuitively knew Wickham expected his arrival.

Circling the house, Darcy hid behind a large bush to observe the front of the manor; yet nothing moved within. Guardedly, he climbed the outside steps, trying to remain in the shadows. I can smell human blood. He heard Wickham’s words clearly now as he approached the front door.A shiver shook Darcy’s spine when he saw the door standing ajar. He waits for you. A warning rang in his head: Death calls you.

Shoring up his resolve, Darcy used his shoulder to push the door wider. For some reason, he did not fear Wickham’s lying in wait, hiding behind the door or some other darkened passageway. It was not of Wickham’s nature: They would face each other in a pivotal arena.

Waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dense darkness of the entranceway, he cautiously stepped inside. The moon reflected

Darcy warily moved to the room described by his cousin—the hub for the dance. He had seen it only briefly the night he came here alone. For two nights Darcy had listened to the cadent shuffling of feet—unaccented pulsations. He imagined the sway of the banshee-like disembodied spirits bending to Wickham’s gestures as his enemy orchestrated an improvised promenade.

Now he stood where those lost souls had stood. The double doors, fully wide, opened to a grand hall.The expanse of the room spoke of Seorais Winchcombe’s desire to be the gentleman he never was. Darcy again felt a twinge of empathy for the man who had lost everything because he loved Darcy’s relative. Finding a candle by the door, Darcy lit it, compelled to see the hall for himself.

Lighting it, Darcy held it aloft. Again, he knew Wickham was not in this room, but he moved guardedly. Broken and twisted furniture filled every corner and was piled high in the room’s center. Fine tapestries depicting forested scenes of animals and of pagan gods hung precariously from light fixtures, shredded by the force of what must have been a violent storm. Darcy recognized the destruction, knew automatically that it had come from Wickham. Every pretense his enemy had put in place lay destroyed, except for an ornately carved, thick-legged chair, resting in the dead center of the room. Moving to it, Darcy’s fingers traced the etching found in the wood, a horned god— resembling a human—surrounded by animals.The branching antlers stretched like tree-tops as the god sat, legs spread wide and holding a torque in one hand and a horned serpent in the other. Above the scene was the name Cernunnos, written in gold. Elizabeth and Mrs.Annesley were correct, Darcy thought.

Darcy circled the chair once, admiring its craftsmanship, and then moved to the doorway. Upstairs. He heard the word as if the walls spoke it. Setting the candle on the table, he took a fresh one and lit it from the first.

Taking a deep breath, he placed his foot tentatively on the first step and straightened his knee to move his weight upward. Darcy repeated the process, slowly approaching a final counterpoint. Step by step, he soon stood at the top of the staircase. Knowing that most people would turn automatically to the right, Darcy chose the passage on the left.

Again, the moon lit the way, a beacon in the night, to another open doorway. Unlike the rest of the house, this room radiated light; yet it was cold and uninviting all the same.The door tottered on its hinges, but Darcy moved through the doorway anyway, now drawn by a hypnotic spell.

The coffin was there, and Wickham was in it.Tantalized by the tranquility of the scene, Darcy first set down the candle and then reached for the sword by his side. Inching slowly towards the target, he overcame a powerful urge to run from the room and the scene depicting what he could easily become.

Wickham rested in his coffin, arms crossed about his waist, his eyes wide open, but as if seeing something not there. Darcy’s hate controlled him; this was the creature that had filled the lives of generations of Darcys with fear. Wickham left chaos and death wherever he looked. A beast of the night, Wickham indiscriminately discarded his victims, leaving them torn and broken, great gashes ripping apart their necks, or he took them as he had Lydia Bennet, small puncture wounds draining their life, one drop of blood at a time.

Impulsively drawn to Wickham’s figure, Darcy now stood over it. Poised, he placed the tip of the sword above the braggart’s heart and prepared to end it all. Wickham’s steel grey eyes told a tale of despair and of rage—and as they turned deathly pale, Darcy felt a fizzle of excitement course through his veins. Minutely, he shifted his weight and prepared to plunge the blade into Wickham’s flesh, but as he watched, silently, a serpent slithered forth from