Jane Bites Back

impossibly young, impossibly skinny, and impossibly ambitious. She spoke almost exclusively in declarative sentences, which had the effect of unnerving most people. To Jane’s irritation, Miranda assumed Sherman’s place on the sofa.

“I was in your shop earlier this week,” said Miranda.

Jane waited for Miranda to continue, allowing the silence to grow. She was unsure whether to thank Miranda or defend herself. Imbuing her words with absolutely no emotion whatsoever was another hallmark of Miranda’s speech.

“You have a particularly conspicuous display of that book combining the text of Pride and Prejudice with—how do they describe it—ultraviolent zombie mayhem,” Miranda continued.

“It’s one of our bestsellers,” Jane replied cautiously.

This was true. The book, which had come out earlier in the year, was a surprise hit. Part of her bristled at the notion of someone taking her novel and inserting new, decidedly unorthodox text into it, and she’d briefly considered visiting some unpleasantness upon the author, but ultimately amusement had won out over irritation and she’d even begun to recommend the book to customers. Although receiving royalties from it would be nice.

“I know it’s only Austen,” Miranda continued. “Even so, polluting a beloved novel with something so crass …” She shook her head as if bemoaning a great tragedy.

“Have you read the book?” asked Jane.

Miranda snorted. “Of course not,” she said. “I wouldn’t read such trash.”

“Perhaps you should,” Jane said. “It’s quite funny.”

“Funny,” Miranda repeated. “I suspect Austen wouldn’t agree with that assessment.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Jane told her. “Austen was a great fan of the novels of Ann Radcliffe. She had a real fondness for the gothic.”

“I would hardly call zombies gothic,” Miranda argued. “Vampires, perhaps, but not zombies.”

Jane, with great relief, saw Sherman approaching with a drink in each hand. When he noticed Miranda, his face visibly stiffened. Then, just as quickly, a smile returned.

“Ladies,” he said, “I have arrived with refreshments.”

He handed a glass of wine to each of them. Miranda, as if she’d assumed all along that Sherman had gone to get her a drink, accepted her glass without comment. Sherman, now without his own glass, sat beside her. Jane almost offered him her wine, but she knew he wouldn’t accept it. He’s too much of a gentleman, she thought. And Miranda is too much of a boor.

“Jane and I were just discussing whether or not Austen would appreciate her landscape being overrun by the undead,” Miranda told Sherman.

“Ah, the zombie book,” Sherman said. “A rollicking good read.”

Jane stifled a laugh. Miranda frowned.

“Mind you, I prefer the original,” Sherman continued. “But there’s nothing at all wrong with giving the classics a bit of a tweaking. I gave that book to my nephew’s youngest. What would that make her, my great-niece? No, grandniece. At any rate, she’s twelve. She loved it. Now she’s reading all of Austen. So there you are.” He looked at Miranda as if this were the last word on the subject.

“Miranda fears that vampires will be next,” Jane said, unable to resist. “Sense and Sensibility and Dracula, perhaps.”

“I’m partial to werewolves, myself,” Sherman said. “I think Emma would make a fine lycanthrope.”

Miranda sipped her wine. “Well, if they’re going to bastardize anyone, I’m not surprised that it’s Austen,” she said icily.

Jane bristled. Miranda was a Brontëite, and like most of them, she not-so-secretly resented the fact that Jane’s books regularly outsold those of the beloved sisters.

“Austen is our most popular author,” Jane parried.

Miranda reacted to Jane’s maneuver without flinching. “I suppose keeping your doors open requires appealing to the public’s tastes,” she remarked.

She’d do very well in a drawing-room battle, Jane thought, admiring Miranda despite her personal distaste for the woman. One would never quite know what she was saying, or on which side of her opinion one fell.

All of a sudden a sharp twinge stabbed through her side. She almost cried out. She placed her hand on the site of the pain. Again the feeling came, this time more intensely. It was followed by a flash of cold fire behind her eyes.

No, no, no, she thought. Not now. Not here.

She needed to feed.

“Everybody having a good time?”

Jane looked up to see a smiling Walter standing before her. “Wonderful,” she said as the cramps hit her again.

“That’s what I like to hear,” said Walter. “So, what were you all talking about?”

Jane winced as the pain returned and made it impossible to speak. She needed to get out of here before it got any worse. But how could she excuse herself without seeming rude or, worse, letting Miranda think she was giving up the battle?

Thinking quickly, she jostled Miranda’s arm, causing Miranda’s glass to tip precipitously. Wine poured onto her lap, staining her dress. Miranda let out a little shriek.

“I’m so sorry!” Jane exclaimed.

“It’s going to stain,” said Miranda angrily.

“Not if we blot it with seltzer,” Jane said. “Come with me.”

She stood and, gripping Miranda’s wrist, pulled the woman to her feet. Miranda let out another surprised squeal, no doubt shocked by Jane’s strength.

“You’ll excuse us, gentlemen,” Jane said to Walter and Sherman.

“Of course,” Walter said. “But make sure you’re back in time for the countdown.”

“I’ll do my best,” Jane assured him.

She hurried through the crowd, pulling Miranda behind her. Seeing that the door to the hallway bathroom was closed, she detoured into Walter’s bedroom. She bypassed the bed, covered in coats, and dragged Miranda into the en suite bathroom. Closing the door behind them, she turned to Miranda.

“Now then,” she said. “Let’s take care of you.”

“But we didn’t get any seltzer,” Miranda objected. She turned the water on in the sink and started wetting a hand towel. “It’s going to set.”

“First things first,” said Jane. She spoke in a low voice, concentrating on clouding Miranda’s mind. Glamoring was one of the few vampiric tricks Jane had at her disposal. She very rarely used it, saving it for times such as this. Now she concentrated on manipulating Miranda’s thoughts.

Miranda hesitated, the towel in the stream of water. Slowly she let it fall into the sink, then turned and looked at Jane. “First things first,” she said softly.

Keeping her eyes on Miranda’s, Jane put her hand on the back of the woman’s neck. “Relax,” she said. “This will take just a minute.”

She bit into the soft skin beneath Miranda’s left ear, where her long hair would cover the bite marks until they could heal. Miranda slumped against Jane as she lost consciousness. Blood slipped into Jane’s mouth.

As she drank, the cramps subsided. Miranda’s blood was bitter, which surprised Jane not at all given the woman’s literary preferences. But it did the trick and, more important perhaps, prevented Jane from drinking more than she needed. When the pain in her had abated, she released Miranda, who slumped to the floor. Wiping her hand across her mouth, Jane giddily murmured, “Austen one, Brontë zero.”

Opening the door a crack, Jane peered into the bedroom. It was empty. Lifting Miranda in her arms, she carried her to the bed and placed her on it. Then she arranged the coats around her, not covering her but obscuring her enough that anyone taking a casual glance into the room would not immediately notice her. And if they do, she thought, they’ll just assume she’s sleeping off her wine.

When she returned to the living room, she found Sherman on the sofa exactly where she had left him. Smiling broadly, she sat beside him. “Here I am,” she said. “As promised.”