Page 112 of The Lost Prophecy

“Do you understand that one drop of your blood will restore this man to mortality and bind you to him as his wife before the laws of his world?”

“I understand.”

“Do you offer that blood by your own choice?”

Elizabeth met Mr Darcy’s gaze. His control was perfect to anyone who did not know him, but she knew him. She saw the plea he would not voice, not for humanity but for one final assurance that she wished to stand there.

“I do.”

Fletcher offered the ceremonial knife to Mr Collins, who carried it to Elizabeth with both hands. Its silver handle bore the same marks as the bowl, and the narrow blade caught every candle flame.

Mr Collins stopped before her. “Until the blood enters the vessel, you may withdraw.”

Elizabeth took the knife.

Mr Darcy released her hand and placed both of his behind his back. The movement was neither elegant nor casual. He restrained himself because the scent of her blood would reach him first, and his final act as a vampire must not be to frighten the woman giving him life.

Elizabeth held her right hand over the bowl and placed the blade against the heel of her palm. The metal felt colder than Mr Darcy’s fingers had done.

Jane drew a sharp breath. Mr Bennet rose but did not interfere. Around them, five vampires stood utterly motionless, bound only by promises which mattered because each had chosen to keep them.

Elizabeth drew the blade across her skin.

Pain flashed through her hand. A thin red line opened, and the scent of blood entered the chapel.

Mr Bingley turned away at once. Mr Hurst stepped in front of Mrs Hurst, though whether he intended to protect her from the blood or the blood from her was less certain. Miss Bingley gripped the pew until the wood protested. Mr Darcy did not move, but his pupils widened until his eyes appeared almost black.

Elizabeth held her palm over the bowl.

One drop gathered against her skin, trembled, and fell.

The moment it touched the silver, the bowl rolled away from her hand of its own accord. Mr Collins caught the knife before she dropped it, and Jane pressed folded linen against the cut.

The light began inside the bowl.

It rose in a narrow white column, struck the chapel roof, and curved towards Mr Darcy. Elizabeth reached for him, but the radiance closed around his body before her fingers found his sleeve. Wind moved through the chapel although every door and window was shut. Candle flames bent, the paper flew from Mr Collins’s hand, and evergreen branches shivered along the pews.

Mr Darcy vanished inside the light.

“Fitzwilliam!” Elizabeth shouted, moving forwards.

Mr Bennet caught her arm. “Wait.”

“I cannot see him, Papa! What has happened?”

“We cannot know if you interrupt it.”

The white radiance circled faster. Elizabeth counted the seconds because counting was the only act available to her. At five, the chapel floor trembled. At seven, the light contracted around his chest. At nine, a sound emerged from within it, harsh, broken, and unmistakably human.

A breath.

At ten, the light disappeared.

He stood where she had last seen him. His head was bowed, one hand pressed against his chest, and the other extended as though balance had become an unfamiliar discipline. He dragged in another breath, deeper than the first. Colour rose slowly from his collar to his face.

Elizabeth tore free of her father and reached him before his knees failed. She caught his arm, while Mr Bingley moved to the other side and steadied him.

“Fitzwilliam, can you hear me?”