Page 89 of The Lost Prophecy

“I was instructed to remain near Miss Elizabeth.”

“And now you will leave.”

The command entered Mr Wickham’s voice again, darker and more forceful than before. Mr Collins stopped. His arms trembled, the sharpened stick wavering in front of him, but his feet remained planted.

“You will leave this room,” Mr Wickham repeated. “You will forget what you have seen, return to your sermons, and continue being useless.”

Mr Collins’s shoulders bent beneath the pressure. His eyes closed, and for one terrible instant Elizabeth believed he would obey.

The punch bowl rolled behind Mr Wickham and struck the backs of his legs.

He staggered, falling on his knees.

Mr Collins opened his eyes and drove the stick forward.

The sharpened ash entered just left of Mr Wickham’s breastbone. Mr Collins threw his whole weight behind it, forcing the point between the ribs and into the heart. Mr Wickham’s body stopped so suddenly that even his coat ceased moving. His black eyes widened, his mouth open around his fangs, and one hand closed around the shaft protruding from his chest.

Mr Collins held it there.

Mr Wickham’s fingers tightened. “You fool.”

“I have been called worse by better men, sir.”

Thick dark blood spread through the scarlet uniform, blackening the cloth as it travelled. Mr Wickham attempted to pull the stake free, but Mr Collins pressed harder, his boots sliding against the carpet while the stick sank deeper.

Mr Darcy entered with Mr Hurst close behind him. Mr Darcy’s face contorted for an instant, and one hand seized the doorframe as though a force inside his body had been torn loose. Fletcher appeared at the service door near the shelves, carrying keys and several folded lengths of linen.

Mr Darcy did not approach Mr Wickham. His eyes found Elizabeth’s face, throat, and hands, then fixed on the space separating her from the dying vampire.

“Did he touch you?”

“No.”

“Did he compel you?”

“He attempted it. It did not work.”

Mr Darcy released the doorframe. Relief did not soften him; it passed through his body and left fury behind.

Mr Wickham turned his failing gaze towards his creator. “Darcy.”

Mr Darcy did not move closer. “You chose this.”

“I chose nothing.”

“You attempted to take the True Blood without consent. The sentence was yours before Collins entered the room.”

Mr Wickham’s lips drew back from his teeth, but whatever response he intended never emerged. The skin around his mouth contracted. His cheeks hollowed, his hair lost its lustre, and the hand gripping the stake shrank inside its glove.

The change spread through him rapidly. Fifty-one years denied by vampirism returned without mercy, carrying decay rather than age. His face collapsed around the bones, his eyes receded into blackened sockets, and his uniform sagged over a body which had become too narrow to support it. The fresh blood on his coat dried into a grey crust. A final tremor moved through his fingers, then nothing was left of George Wickham’s charm, youth, or carefully practised injuries.

Mr Collins released the stick.

Mr Wickham fell backwards, the stick still buried in his heart. His body struck the carpet and released a cloud of grey residue from the scarlet coat.

The punch bowl rolled to Elizabeth and stationed itself between her slippers and the corpse.

No one spoke for several seconds. Music continued beyond the walls, the country dance brisk and cheerful while death settled over Mr Bingley’s study. Elizabeth lowered one hand to the rim of the bowl. It pressed against her fingers, its cold silver offering comfort to her.