Page 88 of The Lost Prophecy

The pressure vanished. He withdrew his hand and began to close the distance.

“You believe immunity makes you safe.”

“I believe the house contains five vampires who have sworn that you will not touch me.”

“They cannot prevent what they cannot reach in time.”

Elizabeth moved in the opposite direction, commanding her heart to remain calm. “They are expecting you to try.”

He stopped moving.

The admission had been a risk, but his hesitation rewarded it. He glanced at the door, the curtained windows, and the shelves, searching for evidence of the trap he had believed himself clever enough to evade.

“You came willingly.”

“I came with Mr Collins.”

“Whom I removed.”

“You may have underestimated him.”

“I have met furniture with greater force of will,” he said with a laugh.

A faint metallic scrape sounded near the side table.

Mr Wickham turned his head, but the sound ceased before he identified it. Elizabeth could see nothing under the table beyond shadow and the lower edge of its embroidered covering.

He returned his attention to her. “Darcy cannot use you if you cease to be the True Blood.”

Understanding entered with a coldness deeper than fear. “You cannot become human without my consent, Mr Wickham.”

“No, but I can ensure that he never does.” Mr Wickham’s upper lip drew back, revealing the sudden length of his teeth. “Once you carry my blood, you will become an ordinary vampire bound to the master who created you. Darcy will lose his precious salvation, and you will belong to me.”

“You would have to reach me first.”

Mr Wickham moved.

Elizabeth retreated to the far end of the room, seized the back of a chair, and dragged it between them. He struck it aside without slowing. The chair overturned, its legs cracking against the floor, while his eyes fixed on the pulse in her throat.

Music continued beyond the walls, bright and distant, and Elizabeth understood that the room had been chosen to conceal exactly this sound.

Mr Wickham lunged.

Her heart broke free of her at last, loud enough to carry through every wall in the house.

The silver punch bowl shot from under the side table.

It struck his leading ankle, rolled between his feet, and tipped hard against his shin. Mr Wickham lost his balance, one hand catching the chair while the other swept through the empty space where Elizabeth had stood.

Suddenly, the door struck the wall and Mr Collins filled the doorway. His face was bloodless, his breathing ragged, and his hands unsteady, but nothing in his posture resembled the man who had fled under Mr Wickham’s command. He was still carrying his walking stick. The brass ferrule had been removed. In its place, a sharpened length of ash pointed directly at Mr Wickham’s heart.

He saw the overturned chair, the exposed fangs, whatever now stared out of Mr Wickham’s face and Elizabeth trapped by the wall.

“Stand away from my cousin, Devil!”

Mr Wickham recovered his balance and turned. The punch bowl rolled behind him, its rim dented from striking his leg, while Mr Collins advanced one step into the room.

“You came back.” Mr Wickham laughed, the darkness still in his eyes. “Your mind is even less obedient than the rest of you.”