The Taker

cannot say I was happy or proud.

But I understood. I loved the town, in my way, and had no desire to see it falter. Even if my own family was already in difficulty, even if the townspeople had treated me shabbily and gossiped behind my back, I couldn’t take away the linchpin holding the town together. I sat opposite Jonathan, grim and sympathetic to the plight he’d just shared with me, yet inside, panic bloomed from my feet to my head. I was going to fail Adair. What in the world would I do?

We drank our brew in dismay. It seemed clear enough that I’d have to give up on Jonathan and needed to concentrate on my own plight: what to do next? Where could I go that Adair wouldn’t be able to track me down? I had no desire to reenact the excruciating torture I’d already been subjected to.

We paid for our drink and went out to the path, each of us silent with our own thoughts. The night was again cold, the sky clear and bright from the moon and stars, thin clouds slicing through the silver light.

Jonathan put a hand on my arm. “Forgive my outburst and forget my troubles. You have every right to despise me for what I just said. The last thing I want is for you to take on my burdens. My horse is in Daughtery’s barn. Let me give you a ride home.” But before I could tell him it was unnecessary and that I preferred to be left with my thoughts, we were interrupted by the crunch of snow at the top of the path.

It was late and near freezing, unlikely for anyone to be about. “Who’s there?” I called to a figure in the shadows. Edward Kolsted stepped into a sliver of moonlight, a flintlock in his hands.

“Be on your way, Miss McIlvrae. I’ve no quarrel with you.” Kolsted was a rough young man from one of the poorer families in town and posed no competition to Jonathan for anyone’s affections. His long face had been disfigured by smallpox, as many had been in youth, and for a young man, his brown hair was already thinning, his teeth falling out. He leveled the rifle at Jonathan’s chest.

“Don’t be stupid, Edward. There are witnesses: Lanny and the men inside Daughtery’s… unless you plan to kill them, too,” Jonathan said to his would-be murderer.

“I don’t care. You’ve ruined my Anna and made a laughingstock of me. I will be proud to be known as having avenged myself against you.” He lifted the rifle higher. A complete dread chill seized me. “Look at you, you fancy peacock,” Edward sneered down his rifle at Jonathan, who, to his credit, stood his ground. “Do you think the town will mourn when you’re dead? We’ll not, sir. We despise you, the men of this town. Do you think we don’t know what you’ve been up to, bewitching our wives, putting them under your spell? You took up with Anna for a bit of fun, and in the bargain stole the most precious thing I had. You’re the very devil, you are, and this town would be better rid of you.” Edward’s voice climbed, high and defensive, but regardless of his words, I felt sure that Kolsted would not go through with his threat. He meant to frighten Jonathan, to humiliate him and make him beg for forgiveness, and that would give the cuckold a measure of dignity. But he didn’t have the resolve to kill his rival.

“Is that what you want of me, to be a devil? That would suit your purpose, exonerate you of blame.” Jonathan lowered his arms. “But the truth is, your wife is an unhappy woman, and this has little to do with me and much to do with you.”

“Liar!” Kolsted shouted.

Jonathan took a step toward his assailant and my gut twisted, unsure if he had a death wish or if he couldn’t let Kolsted hide from the truth. Perhaps he felt he owed it to his lover. Perhaps our argument in Daughtery’s had brought about some resolution. But his angry countenance was misleading and Kolsted might be convinced that Jonathan was enraged because he loved Anna. “If your wife were happy, she wouldn’t seek my company. She-”

Kolsted’s old rifle fired, a blue-white burst of flame at the muzzle, which I caught from the corner of my eye. It went too fast: a crack like thunder, a flash like lightning, and Jonathan staggered backward, then dropped to the ground. Kolsted’s face contorted, captured in the moonlight for an instant. “I’ve shot him,” he muttered, as though reassuring himself. “I’ve shot Jonathan St. Andrew.”

I dropped to my knees in the half-frozen mud, pulling Jonathan onto my lap. His clothing was already soaked through with blood, all the way to his greatcoat. It was a deep wound and serious. I wrapped my arms around Jonathan and looked balefully at Kolsted. “If I had a rifle, I would shoot you where you stand. Get out of my sight.”

“Is he dead?” Kolsted craned his neck but wasn’t brave enough to walk up to the man he had shot.

“They’ll be out in a second, and if they find you here they’ll lock you up forthwith,” I warned, hissing through my teeth. I wanted him to flee: stirring could be heard within Daughtery’s and someone would be out shortly to see who had fired the shot. I had to conceal Jonathan before we were discovered.

I didn’t have to prompt Kolsted twice; whether it was from fright or sudden remorse, or because he wasn’t ready to be taken into custody, Jonathan’s assailant drew back like a spooked horse and ran. Locking my arms around Jonathan’s chest, I pulled him into Daughtery’s barn. I peeled back his greatcoat, then his frock coat, until I found the wound in his chest, blood spilling out from a hole near where his heart should be.

“Lanny,” he wheezed, searching for my hand.

“Right here, Jonathan. Be still.”

He wheezed again and coughed. There was no help to be had, judging from the distance of the shot and the location of the wound. I recognized the expression on his face: it was the strained look of the dying. He fell into unconsciousness, sinking in my arms.

Voices floated in from the other side of the worm-eaten boards, men from Daughtery’s out on the path. Finding no one, they drifted away.

I looked down on Jonathan’s beautiful face. His body, still warm, weighed heavily in my lap. My heart clamored in panic. Keep him alive. Keep him with me at all costs. I hugged him tighter. I couldn’t let him die. And there was only one way to save him.

I eased his body to the ground, spread open his coat and waistcoat. Thank God he was unconscious; frightened as I was, I’d never have been able to do the cursed deed otherwise. Would it even work? Perhaps I remembered it wrong or there were special words I needed to recite to make such potent magic work. I had no time for second guessing, however.

I fumbled at the hem of my bodice, searching for the vial. Once I’d located the tiny silver vial by feel, I ripped out the stitches and pulled it from its hiding place. My hands shook as I pulled the stopper from the vial and separated Jonathan’s lips. There was only a drop in there, less than a bead of sweat. I prayed it was enough.

“Don’t leave me, Jonathan. I cannot live without you,” I whispered in his ear, the only thing I could think to say. But then Alejandro’s words came to me, the thing he’d told me that day I’d been transformed-I prayed it would not be too late. “By my hand and intent,” I said, feeling foolish even as I spoke, knowing I had no power over anything, not heaven, hell, or earth.

I knelt in the straw, Jonathan propped in my lap, and brushed his hair off his forehead, waiting for a sign. All I remembered from the ordeal was the sensation of falling and a fever sweeping through my body like a fire, then waking much later in the dark.

I hugged Jonathan to me again. He’d stopped breathing and was growing colder. I pulled his coat around him, wondering if I could get him all the way to my family’s farm without being noticed. It seemed unlikely, but there was nowhere else to take him, and someone would search Daughtery’s barn sooner or later.

I saddled Jonathan’s horse, amazed to find I was afraid of the devil stallion no more. With strength I didn’t know I had, born of necessity, I threw Jonathan over the horse’s withers, swung into the saddle, and sprang out of the open barn doors, streaking through the village. More than one villager would later claim to have seen Jonathan St. Andrew ride out of town that night, throwing theories about his disappearance into disarray, no doubt.

When we reached my family’s farm, Jonathan’s body cradled in my lap, I went straight to the barn and woke the hired driver. We had to leave St. Andrew that night; I couldn’t risk waiting until morning, when Jonathan’s family would come looking for him. I told the driver to hitch the horses quickly; we were heading out immediately. When he protested that it was too dark to travel, I told him the moonlight was strong enough to light his way, then added, “I’m paying your wages, so you listen to me. You’ve fifteen minutes to harness those horses.” As for my trunk of clothing and other things, they’d all be left behind. I couldn’t risk waking my family by returning to the cabin. My only thoughts at that moment were of spiriting Jonathan out of town.

As the coach rattled down the snow-crusted road, I peeked out the curtained window to see if anyone in the house had heard us, but no one stirred. I imagined them waking to find me gone, wondering-heartbroken-why I would choose to leave this way, my departure as mysterious as my years of silence. I was doing a great injustice