Page 60 of Midnight at Pemberley

Darcy glanced at Elizabeth. “We will. Most definitely, we will.”

She opened the door to a seedy-looking house on a nearly deserted street. Darcy circled towards the back of the building as she pushed the door wide. The sound of the frame banging against the wall reverberated through the empty entrance hall. They had come to find Wickham. Clutching the iron crucifix in her fist, Elizabeth moved cautiously.

She peered into each room, surprised by the tasteful décor. The dining room held fine china on a table set for twelve. Elizabeth wondered how anyone who might stay in this neighborhood would react to such elegance. Such a disparity in economic situations must make for fine supper conversation. If Mrs. Younge could afford such furnishings, why would she take up residence in the recesses of filth? Wickham. When Elizabeth considered what Wickham’s deviance had done to the woman, the situation made more sense.

Finding no one on the lower level, she made her way slowly up the staircase. Odd that no one, not even a servant, has appeared. Her eyes searched the shadows for any movement. Where is Darcy? she thought. They had agreed he would enter through the servants’ door.

Elizabeth paused on a landing, debating whether to proceed without him. She looked anxiously to the way she had come, expecting him to turn the corner at any second, and then an odd shiver of dread shot up her spine. She turned to see Wickham at the top of the stairs. His steel grey eyes looked straight to her soul.

“Mrs. Darcy.” His voice slithered over her skin, and Elizabeth instinctively reversed her climb.

“Mr. Wickham,” she answered, taking note how he kept pace with her retreat. It was obviously one of his favorite cat-and-mouse games. For each of her steps, he took a matching one, keeping the distance between them constant.

Satisfaction crossed his features. His smile increased, and for the first time, Elizabeth noticed his protruding, fanglike teeth. How is it I never took note of them before? They were exactly like those in the drawings she had observed. All her senses on alert, she studied him, anticipating a cobra-like assault. He teased her by lowering his foot ever so slowly.

“Do not tell me you plan to run away?” he asked smoothly. He narrowed his gaze and edged forward. “You should know by now I prefer my conquests with more spirit. I prefer when they fight for their lives.”

“I will fight you,” Elizabeth declared, “but you will find no satisfaction in the results.”

With Elizabeth’s threat, Wickham took two steps to each of hers, quickly closing the gap as they neared the bottom of the staircase. “Now, that is the Elizabeth Bennet Darcy I have grown to admire!” he declared. “Taking you from Darcy will increase my pleasure immensely.”

At last, she felt her foot touch the floor of the hall. She turned to the still-open front door. She heard Wickham’s footsteps quicken behind her, first on the last of the stairs and then in the hallway. For her, everything moved in slow motion except Wickham’s advance. She was confident it was his breath she felt on her neck. Then, to her horror, a gust of wind slammed the door closed just as she reached it. Frantically calling Darcy’s name, she pounded on the frame, pulling and twisting the knob, but it did not give.

She turned to face the demon at her back. Her right hand continued to turn the knob, but the rest of her prepared for Wickham’s assault.

“Departing so soon, my dear?” he hissed. “And I thought we had an understanding.” He braced his hands against the door, penning her in.

Resigned to what she must face, her body stiffened. From the corner of her eye, she sought a weapon—one that might penetrate Wickham’s heart, for nothing else long affected him. But nothing would serve her purpose. As if he anticipated her thoughts he waited for her survey of the room, permitting time for panic to claim her. She knew he relished the moment, for he licked his lips in preparation to taste her, but a flicker of movement announced her husband’s arrival.

“You will deal with me first, Wickham.” Darcy’s voice echoed through the empty house.

Elizabeth gasped.

“Killing both of you on the same day will be a memorable occasion.” Wickham turned slowly to face Darcy’s ready stance. Before she could blink, he lunged, a maelstrom of power hitting Darcy full force and sending them both flying through the air, landing with a crash on the lower stairs.

As she watched in horror, Darcy’s powers propelled Wickham across the room, slamming the devil against the far wall. She would swear later that the air filled with the smell of death. Their enemy purposefully righted himself and then dusted off his sleeves before making his next move. Meanwhile, Darcy staggered to his feet, preparing for a new offensive.

Elizabeth thought to intervene, but a raised hand from both stayed her movement. With a debonair snap of Wickham’s fingers, three pale figures appeared in the long hallway. One of them looked vaguely like the woman from the alley. Elizabeth felt her body contract in response. How does one kill something already dead?

Before she could claim reason, everyone moved at once. Elizabeth saw Darcy knocked to the floor as the three ghostly figures swarmed over him. Like wounded animals mad with rage, she heard his cries and the sound of tearing flesh, yet she had her own problems. As Wickham advanced, she grabbed the only thing available: the broken umbrella stand. Flipping it over, she heaved it at him, hoping to retard his progress. She had no time to assess the appalling futility of the act, for a cry frightened her, and Elizabeth looked to see a blood-covered Darcy beset upon by ghoulish figures. “No!” she screamed, and charged forward to save the man she loved. “Enough!” Time stopped as she bent down to wipe the blood from his face. Moments they had spent together flashed through her memory— waltzing in an empty ballroom, holding each other during the night at Longbourn, and kissing for the first time. “Oh, William,” she moaned. “Do not die. Do not leave me.”

“Elizabeth!” Darcy shook her shoulder lightly. “I am here. All is well.” He moved the hair draped across her face. “It was only a dream, Sweetheart.”

Elizabeth’s heart raced as if still in the middle of a life-or-death fight, and her breath came in short, ragged bursts, but the reality of what he said was clear, and she clung to him for reassurance. “I thought you were dying,” she whispered.

Darcy caressed her cheek and clutched Elizabeth to his chest. “I will not die soon. We will spend many years together.” He kissed the top of her head. “You dreamed of Wickham, did you not?”

“We went to Mrs. Younge’s house, and Wickham was there.” She still whispered, the fear, obviously, still strong. “Mrs. Younge and two of Wickham’s followers attacked you. I saw it all.” Again, Elizabeth shivered with the image of Darcy’s bloody countenance. A light tap at the door interrupted her words. Elizabeth sank deeper into the pillows in fear.

“I will see who it is,” Darcy assured her. She clung to him as he rose.

Cracking the door only a little, Darcy peered out into the candlelight. Georgiana and Mrs. Annesley stood dressed in night robes. “Yes, what is it, Georgiana?”

“We heard a scream.” Mrs. Annesley pressed. “Is Mrs. Darcy well?”

“It was a nightmare,” he said, attempting to assuage their concerns. “It makes sense after what happened today.”

“Naturally,” Georgiana said and turned to go. “Tell Elizabeth I will see her in the morning.”