Corsets and Crossbows: A Drake Chronicles Novella in Letters Read online

  Evie, my father accused me of embarrassing him and making a mockery of the Wild name and the League itself. I think that most unfair. I have only ever tried to be an asset to the League, to be a good hunter. But they want none of it. They want us to curtsy and waltz and marry well and trot us out on special occasions as curiosities. They don’t actually want us to be valuable to the war effort. Not when it makes them look less useful, less omnipotent.

  I know not what to do. It can’t go on like this. I won’t have our gifts wasted, Evie. It would be a benefit to have female hunters. Think of the places we may go that men may not!! Think of the gossip we hear, the late-night whispers, the eagle eye of certain matrons with young daughters of marriageable ages.

  All of that could be a weapon. Will be a weapon. I will see to it.

  Beatrix told me stories while we waited of secret ladies’ societies. She is convinced that certain Parisian literary salons were really societies of women affecting political change behind the scenes. She told me about certain tribes in Africa where women gather for secret ceremonies and the priestesses of Bona Dea in ancient Rome who gathered for rituals forbidden to men! And the Amazons, of course, who fought with swords against warriors like Hercules.

  Think of the possibilities! Does it not send a delicious shiver of potential down your spine? I wonder how we might do something similar. Surely there is enough talent and cleverness between you and Beatrix and me to truly make a difference. There are other daughters of the League; perhaps they might like a chance to trot out their latent gifts, if it were offered? I admit I cannot stop thinking about it.

  It was a long time before the Wintersons returned home and the butler opened the door and the driver took the horses and carriage down the lane to the mews. The candlelight traveled upstairs and was snuffed out, and finally the house sat in the gray misty shadows of a London summer night. Our own carriage driver was quite silent, no doubt asleep on his perch, which suited us fine. We had no wish for awkward questions. I only wanted to be sure Lord Winterson was safe, to acquaint myself with his house at night, and to see where danger might lurk. Already I was quite suspicious of the yew hedge by the servant entrance. A family of four could have hidden comfortably in there with none the wiser. Surely, an assassin might use it for cover?

  Beatrix eventually fell asleep. We’d shared most of a flask of sherry between us to keep warm and you know how quickly she is foxed. Her head was tilted at a most alarming angle so I flagged the next passing carriage and woke her up to send her home. She would have protested, I’m sure, but she was too groggy and bewildered, and by the time she’d regained her usual faculties, the hired hack was already pulling away toward her home. There was no sense in both of us being uncomfortable and awake, not so near the dawn when the streets would teem with servants and gentry. Surely one of them might be trusted to come to Lord Winterson’s aid. I can’t be expected to do everything myself. And certainly not under these deplorable conditions. My own father is now reduced to gnashing his teeth whenever he sees me. Never say I have not sacrificed for the good of the League.

  I admit I was feeling both proud and a little sorry for myself when a shadow disengaged itself from that yew hedge of which I was originally suspicious. I wouldn’t have seen it at all if I hadn’t been glowering in that particular direction. It was so dark and the mists were starting to curl in the laneways. But the hedges rustled and there was no wind.

  And then the servants’ door opened, even though there was no one there. No one discernible, at any rate.

  Vampire.

  Nothing else can move that fast, as if they aren’t there at all.

  The only light left burning in the hall upstairs snuffed out. He was very near the Winterson’s bedchamber. I didn’t have time to run in and stop him. I didn’t even really have time to call for help. So I did the only thing I could think of, under the circumstances. I slipped out of the carriage and plucked up a large stone the size of my palm from where it was anchoring a large fern in some obliging neighbor’s bronze urn.

  I threw it as hard as I could. There was a very satisfying smash from a lower window and glass glittering on the sill and over the rosebushes. The coachman woke suddenly with an “Oi!” but I was already back inside on the worn seat. Candles were lit in the house and the house next door as well. There was a pale face at a window, eyes burning. I am not exaggerating. I could see it clearly, Evie. The way he looked down and peered right at me, as if he could see me at the window of the carriage.

  And I could see him. He slipped out of the window and swung himself up to the roof like an acrobat.

  “Drive!” I shouted up to the coachman, who obliged me most willingly, not wanting to be a witness when the disgruntled peerage began to pour out of their rooms in their nightclothes.

  Because I knew that face, Evie; even running along the rooftops beside the carriage.

  I was right. Vampire.

  Also?

  Dante Cowan.

  June 22, 1815

  Dear Evangeline,

  I am sorry I ended that last letter so abruptly. I know it vexed you but I couldn’t properly order my thoughts. I still can’t, truth be told. It seems so unbelievable that Dante Cowan is a vampire. He is an earl’s son, for Heaven’s sake! And no one mentioned he died. Indeed, he waltzed most adroitly for one of the legions of bloodsucking undead. I wonder now what happened to him on his Grand Tour. They say travel changes a man but I hardly think they mean this kind of transformation.

  Oh, Evie, I liked him. I rather thought we might make a match of it. It seemed to me that he might make an offer and I would have accepted. We could have ridden on Rotten Row in Hyde Park, watched the horse acrobats at Astley’s Amphitheatre, kissed under the moon, held hands secretly under the dinner table. Now none of that shall be possible. No. I cannot give into maudlin thinking and sulking. It is what it is.

  Oh, but he is charming and handsome and has a wicked smile that makes my toes curl. Made my toes curl, I should say.

  Vampires can only make my stomach curl, after all.

  Right?

  Hell and damnation. When did everything get so blasted complicated? I cannot even feel vindicated that I halted an attack on the head of the Helios-Ra. I cannot go to Father with this proof that Lord Winterson is in danger. I’d only have to tell him about Dante Cowan for Father to lock me in my room for the rest of the Season. He would think me utterly mad, even more than he already does.

  I hardly know what to think. I wish you were here. But perhaps it’s best that you aren’t tainted with this lunacy. You needn’t scold me for that, I’m perfectly justified. You and I both know if I go any further with this I shall be ruined.

  I did swear my oath to the League, to defend humankind against vampires, after all. And Dante is a vampire.

  I know my duty.

  Rosalind

  June 24, 1815

  Dear Evangeline,

  I must be losing my mind.

  I know you’ll agree. I left the house just before sundown, claiming another outing with Beatrix. If our mothers ever discussed anything but silk dresses and eligible bachelors, their daughters were in serious trouble. As it is, they were both too distracted. Ironically, Mother has noticed my tête-à-têtes with Dante. Perhaps she knows I am out and about but prefers to turn a blind eye. He is an earl’s son, after all, and would make a credible son-in-law in her eyes, as good as Percy. If only she knew the truth.

  I borrowed money from Justin without telling him why and then I hired a hack again, not wanting our family carriage to be recognized on the street outside a bachelor’s lodgings. A hunter without a reputation is no hunter at all. How else will I gain admittance to the drawing rooms and ballrooms that swell with gossip nightly? I must think ahead. I must plan and prepare and do my duty. This is the litany that ran through my head as we rumbled down the roads, coachmen shouting at a muffin girl who stepped off the curb without looking, dogs barking, gentlemen laughing and lifting their hats to fine ladies
.

  It all seemed so ordinary. Just another summer afternoon in London. Behind the windows of Grosvenor Square and the attached neighborhoods, women were bathing with rose petal soap, maids were applying hot irons to ringlets or scrubbing stains out of petticoats. Valets were preparing silk waistcoats and inspecting cravats. Hostesses were scolding French chefs, housekeepers were running off their feet, girls were dreaming of waltzing.

  Except behind one window, the window above my carriage door, a vampire slept.

  I admit I sat in the carriage for an inordinately long time. The coachman tapped the roof impatiently. “Miss, are you well?”

  “Quite well, thank you.” I slid out because there was nothing else to be done. “Please wait around the corner.”

  He leered at me, thinking he knew exactly what I was doing. I knew perfectly well it was unacceptable for a lady to visit a man, never mind at his bachelor lodging. But desperate measures were called for, Evangeline. And I had a veil pulled down from my little riding hat to obscure my features. I wore a day dress of sprigged muslin, my favorite velvet reticule held three slender stakes, and I had a crossbow strapped to my back under my cloak. It was most uncomfortable. It wouldn’t do to call even more attention to myself in trousers. I did not know my way around the house and I was certain the proprietor would recognize me as an intruder. It was nearly supper time after all, with no shadows in which to hide.

  I went down the lane and around the back. The stable hands were busy with the horses, the maids were in the kitchen or delivering tea and biscuits throughout the house. I slipped into a side entrance and hurried up the back stairs, careful to keep my face hidden. My heart was pounding like cannon fire against the barricade of my ribs. I felt sick.

  But I was quite determined to put an end to Dante Cowan. Then perhaps my father might be proud of me and I might claim my rightful place within the League. What did it matter if Dante invaded my every thought, if he made me warm all over and short of breath. Sensibilities have no place in a hunter’s life.

  I paced the hall, wondering which door would lead me to him. The wall sconces were well polished, the floors swept clean. I could smell lemon oil, could hear someone’s footsteps clattering up the stairs. All the doors looked the same.

  I turned on my heel, frowning. This was a most pathetic and easily thwarted attempt to rid the world of evil. One of the doors opened and I whirled to face it.

  “Hey, love, who are you looking for?”

  I recognized Jared Peabody, even with his hair rumpled and his cravat askew. There was stubble on his jaw and a glass of red wine dangling negligently from his fingers.

  I cleared my throat and tried to disguise my voice by making it husky. I probably sounded like I was coming down with a case of putrid throat. “Lord Cowan.”

  His eyebrows rose with his surprise. “Doesn’t usually call for a lightskirt, that one.” I could hardly take umbrage at being thought a woman of easy virtue. Anyway, what did it matter now? “Lucky bastard has a way with the ladies, even the fancy ones.” He drained his glass with a exaggerated mournful sigh. “Ah, well, what’s a baronet to an earl’s son, eh? He’s down that way, next to the green parlor.”

  He watched me walk away. I went slowly, pretending to fidget with the lace on my boot. I waited until I heard his door close before stopping in front of Dante’s chambers. I tried the handle but it was locked, as expected. He was a vampire, not an idiot.

  I hurried into the parlor and stepped out onto the narrow balcony. Providence was finally smiling on me, for the rooms overlooked the back of the house and Dante had his own balcony, not three feet away. I had to discard my cloak and tie my skirts into knots on either side to free my legs. I slung my reticule securely against one shoulder and my crossbow over the other. It took some maneuvering but finally I was able to stand on the parlor’s iron railing and swing my other leg over onto the other balcony, until I was straddling them both. My dress was bunched at my hips, my face red with effort and I was grunting like a pig at her dinner. I am profoundly glad no one looked up to see me there. I must train harder for just such a circumstance in the future!

  I was finally safely over onto the other balcony, my arm muscles straining. I have discovered I am not fond of heights at all. I was faintly dizzy for a moment and my knees felt odd, like jelly.

  Dante’s balcony doors had been decorated with panes of glass at one time, but now they were covered with dark wood. I broke the lock though it took several attempts. The doors creaked slightly when they parted and I was wrapped in thick, dark velvet curtains. I peeked inside most carefully, saw the usual furniture clustered around the hearth, the clock on the mantle, the washstand made of mahogany and hung with clean linen towels. There was the front door and then another door, shut and locked, leading to the bedroom.

  Everything was quiet. It wasn’t the usual quiet, when you know someone is in the house even if they are not being rambunctious in any way. This was different. You’ll think me dramatic but the quality of the silence was different when there is a human within without a beating heart, without breath of any kind. Shivers chased along my spine, like mice caught in the pantry.

  I picked the bedroom lock with a hairpin and it was more obliging than the balcony lock had been. Inside, all was dark shadows. The curtains were even thicker and pinned close to the wall and another set of heavy, plum-colored brocade hung from the four-poster bed. He had created a cave of sorts, secure and private. It wasn’t enough to keep out a seasoned hunter but then, no one had a glimmer of suspicion that he was anything but a spoiled gentleman home from his travels abroad. He stayed out all night and slept the day away, for certain, but so did most of the others. It was easy enough not to be noticed, as long as one was seen at the right balls and soirees. I crept closer still and parted the curtains, loosening the silver pins.

  Dante lay beyond, sprawled on his back, shirtless. His chest was pale as starlight. One arm was flung over his forehead, as if he feared the sunlight even in his dead sleep. His hair fell in soft curls over the white pillow and there was a faint scar on his throat, usually hidden by his starched collar points and cravat. They were puncture points, already shiny, as if they’d healed years ago. I knew them to be more recent than that.

  It wasn’t his fault, you know. He is a victim, as surely as he is a monster.

  The stake was heavy in my hand.

  It might have helped if he were ugly in some way, if his mouth was cruel or he smelled like boiled cabbage. His mouth was wicked, sensual. And he smelled of sandalwood soap.

  Most unfair.

  You’ll think me dishonorable but I didn’t want to kill him, Evangeline. I am weak.

  He lied to me. He prowls the night and drinks maidens dry and still I … love him. There is one way to cure such an affliction, such an illness. You must cut the disease from your body, like a parasite. It must not be allowed to sink into your flesh and your bones and alter your very self.

  It must not.

  I spent so long dithering and entranced by his dark beauty like a pea brain that I never noticed the setting of the sun. There was no change in the light, no lengthening of shadows to warn me. The room was too well secured for that.

  There was only a sleeping vampire waking suddenly, near mad with hunger.

  That is not an exaggeration, Evangeline. For a long moment I did not recognize him. His eyes went silver, his fangs sharpened and gleamed. He was famished and I was there in my pretty dress like a pastry on a dessert tray. He reared up off the bed and I stumbled back, finger on the crossbow trigger. There was the rattle of metal and the creak of the bed frame as it protested his weight. He flung himself at me, snarling.

  But he never touched me.

  The chains on his one wrist, hidden under the pillow’s edge so I hadn’t noticed, pinned him down like a moth to a board. And I was the flame.

  He nearly whimpered with thirst. Tears burned my eyes. He was suffering, Evie, and suffering keenly. No one ever mentions that part. But
I will not forget it. Could not, even if I tried. Some inner strength had him going still, as suddenly as he had exploded into motion. The change was dizzying. So was the hoarse, almost tender, tone of his voice. “Rosalind?”

  I nodded jerkily.

  “Rosalind, you fool, go home!”

  I lifted my chin. “Certainly not.”

  He snarled again and lunged for the side table, iron chains rattling. He lifted a jug with both hands and drank greedily. As you must know, it was not wine. The smell of blood was coppery, disturbing. He drank it like it was the finest brandy, the warmest mulled cider on the coldest day. Despite myself, I was intrigued and lit one of the candles. The hiss of the wick catching and the burst of light had him hunching his shoulders, like an animal protecting his kill. When he’d drunk his fill, the jug was empty and sticky. He tossed it aside, wiping his mouth. When he turned back to look at me standing in the pool of candlelight, there was self-hatred in his eyes, now merely gray and not silver.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

  “I know,” I agreed.

  “You’ve come to kill me?” He spread his arms wide, exposing his bare chest. I could see the line of his ribs, the muscles moving under his skin. “Go on then.”

  He was mocking me. Or himself. I wasn’t exactly sure which.

  “What makes you think I won’t kill you where you stand?” I demanded softly.