Page 45 of The Lost Prophecy

Darcy caught it under one boot, but the bowl pushed against him.

“You are not coming.”

It reversed, altered direction, and attempted to pass Bingley.

Fletcher seized it with both hands. “Go, sir. I shall secure the prisoner.”

Darcy followed the others. They descended the stairs while Fletcher’s voice followed from Darcy’s chamber.

“The sky threatens rain. If the salve washes away, take shelter. Do not wait to discover whether the clouds intend to move.”

Hurst glanced back. “He becomes more cheerful every year.”

Outside, three grooms waited with their horses. Behemoth stood apart from the others, black, enormous, and displeased by the existence of company. He flattened his ears when Hurst approached, then lunged towards the neck of Hurst’s gelding.

The groom dragged the unfortunate animal aside.

Hurst stared at Behemoth. “Your horse attempted to eat mine.”

“He dislikes weakness.”

“He should admire Bingley’s mount from a distance, then.”

Bingley swung into his saddle. “My horse has never bitten a living creature.”

“Neither had mine until he met yours,” Hurst replied.

Darcy mounted Behemoth, gathered the reins, and turned him to the drive. Their intended route led north through open country. He directed the stallion south instead.

Bingley brought his horse alongside. “Meryton?”

“I wish to observe Wickham’s movements.”

“You intend to confront him.”

Darcy urged Behemoth into a trot. “Those intentions are not incompatible.”

Bingley exchanged a glance with Hurst but offered no objection.

They rode beyond Netherfield’s gates under a pale, unobstructed sun. Its warmth pressed faintly against the salve on Darcy’s face, a persistent reminder that Fletcher’s protection had limits.

Meryton appeared ahead of them, its roofs and chimneys rising beyond the November fields.

Somewhere within the town, Wickham would be indoors or standing in shade.

Darcy intended to discover which, and he found the answer shortly after they entered Meryton.

They left their horses outside the principal inn, where the ostler approached Behemoth, clearly reconsidering every decision that had brought him into contact with animals. The stallion flattened his ears and moved one hind leg into a position that promised an abbreviated career.

“He dislikes strangers,” Darcy explained, passing the reins into the man’s reluctant hand. “Do not touch his head, his tail, or any part of him he can reach with his teeth.”

The ostler’s gaze travelled over the enormous animal. “Which part would that leave, sir?”

“Very little,” Hurst answered as he handed his own reins to a stable boy. “You may find prayer more useful than technique.”

Darcy left the man to negotiate his survival and walked with Bingley and Hurst to the High Street. Meryton had filled with ladies completing morning errands, tradesmen observing prospective customers and militia officers, ensuring that no woman under the age of seventy passed without noticing a red coat. Shopkeepers stood in their doorways discussing the weather while gathering information on subjects entirely unrelated to it. Two matrons emerged from the haberdasher’s and stopped Bingley long enough to enquire after Miss Bennet’s welfare, forcing him to deliver a report on her health detailed enough to satisfy a physician.

Darcy waited, nodding when courtesy required it, until something foul reached his senses beneath the ordinary smells of horses, bread, and damp wool. The trace contained recently consumed blood, human compulsion, and the familiar scent of a corrupted vampire.