Page 68 of The Lost Prophecy

Miss Bingley indicated the sofa Elizabeth had abandoned. “Please sit down, Miss Elizabeth. There is no use hovering over our heads while accusing us of unnatural conduct. It gives you an unfair advantage.”

Elizabeth resumed her seat, though every muscle urged her to remain ready for flight. Charlotte sat, calm enough to suggest that they had called to settle the number of musicians rather than determine whether their hosts were alive.

Mr Darcy drew a chair closer but did not sit. Mr Bingley occupied another near the end of the sofa, while Mr Hurst stayed with his wife. Miss Bingley reached for the bell, dismissed the footman who entered, and ordered that the household not disturb them. When the door closed again, Mr Darcy faced Elizabeth.

“What are your questions?”

Charlotte folded her hands on her lap. “It would be fairer if you told us everything first. We cannot frame useful questions when we do not know which impossibilities require explanation.”

Mr Hurst inclined his head to her. “Miss Lucas continues to justify her invitation.”

Mr Darcy rested one hand on the empty chair. “Before I tell you anything, you must believe that you are safe in this house. No one in this room intends to harm either of you.”

“That is an alarming beginning.” Elizabeth watched his fingers against the carved wood. “People rarely announce that a drawing room is safe unless it has recently become doubtful.”

“Nevertheless, it is true.”

“Then tell us why it required stating.”

Mr Darcy’s eyes held hers. “My family is ancient, although not in the ordinary sense. The condition which has passed through it for centuries is not an illness, nor is it death as your books describe it.”

Elizabeth’s skin tightened. “How do you know what my books described?”

“You smell of dust, old leather, and Calmet.”

Mr Hurst lowered his face to conceal a smile, while Miss Bingley appeared offended that any woman would arrive carrying evidence of a study.

Mr Darcy continued before Elizabeth could decide which part of the remark deserved objection. “The name used in those books is vampire. I am one. Bingley, his sisters, and Hurst are the same.”

The word landed without thunder, darkness, or any assistance from the weather. The fire burned steadily, the curtains did not move, and Mr Bingley remained so amiable that Elizabeth briefly resented him for failing to become horrifying at the proper moment.

“Are you dead?” She leaned forward, abandoning the orderly interrogation she had planned during the drive. “Do you kill people? Is that why your skin is cold? Do your hearts beat? Why does your breath not mist in the air? Why do none of you eat? Why do you avoid sunlight, and why are there no mirrors?”

Mr Darcy lifted one hand. “If you permit me to respond before advancing to the next superstition, I shall attempt each question in order.”

“I have not yet reached the punch bowl.”

“The bowl will require its own category.”

Elizabeth sat back. “Begin.”

“We are not dead.” Mr Darcy finally took the chair, placing himself opposite her. “Our bodies were changed. Our hearts beat so slowly that a human hand will rarely detect the pulse, and our blood does not maintain human warmth. We can breathe, but we do not require air except for speech and scent.”

Charlotte’s gaze moved to Mr Bingley. “You have been breathing since you entered.”

Mr Bingley appeared embarrassed. “It is polite.”

Mr Hurst folded his arms. “He also forgets and begins again whenever Miss Bennet enters a room.”

“I do not forget,” Mr Bingley protested.

“You once inhaled for twenty minutes.”

“She was speaking to me!”

Elizabeth pressed her fingertips to her temple. “And food?”

“We cannot digest it.” Mrs Hurst lifted one hand from the sofa. “The taste is unpleasant, and swallowing it causes considerable pain.”