Page 92 of John Eyre

“I assure you, there was nothing cold in the way I disposed of your maid. She felt the full warmth of my embrace before she exited this life. And quite happy she was to experience it.”

My jaw went slack. Such shock I felt. Such disgust. And with it, an incandescent rage that he should do such a thing—that he should get away with it. When next I spoke, my voice no longer shook with fear. It trembled with fury. “You contemptible beast. What sort of man are you?”

He paid no heed to my words, only stalked toward me with a single-minded intent. “Enough of these games. Where is my key?”

Something in his face told me that he was no longer capable of distraction. In a moment, he would make a physical search of my person, finding both the key and my pistol. That, I couldn’t abide. Clutching my skirts, I feinted toward my bed, only to dart around him and out the door of my room.

He reached for my throat as I ran past, and he might have subdued me if not for the presence of my silver timepiece locket. After touching the chain with his palm, he drew back with a muffled oath, allowing me vital seconds to get away.

I plunged down the stairs with my heart in my throat. His heavy footfalls sounded behind me. This, I knew, was the end of the road. I couldn’t outrun him. He would soon eat up the seconds I had gained. And then he would take the key. He would disarm me, and he would kill me.

There seemed only one way to ensure my survival. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out my pistol at the same instant I reached the landing. I spun around, my back against the wall. He was there on the stairs, midway down and still in motion. Raising the pistol in my hand, I aimed for his heart and pulled the trigger.

The bullet fired straight and true. Edward’s face contorted—more with surprise, I think, than with pain. And then, he crumpled and fell down the stairs. He landed beside me, his neck bent at an odd angle. He didn’t move again, nor did he appear to draw breath.

A surge of unimaginable relief tore through me. All those years of target practice at Thornfield. Those many seasons hunting with Papa, learning to wield my rifle. If only I’d known I was preparing for such a day! And now, here I was. And here Edward was—in a heap at my feet. He was dead. I had killed him.

One hand at my midriff, I descended the rest of the way to the hall, trying to catch my breath. I was standing there—slowly going into shock, I expect—when my attention was arrested by a bone-chilling sound.

It was him. My husband. He rose to his feet before my eyes. Unharmed. Undead.

“You,” he said. His gaze fixed on me with murderous intent.

And I ran for my life. There was no time to reason any of it out. Like any hunted animal, I could focus only on escape.

In a fortress filled with locked doors, there was but one place that offered a chance of safety. My husband’s vault was nearby. I fumbled for the key as I approached it at a dead run, my palm so damp with perspiration I feared I would drop it. Somehow, I managed to insert it in the lock. Opening the vault, I slipped inside and slammed the door behind me. I was just sliding the interior bolt when my husband’s fists connected with the door.

He hit it so hard that it rattled in its frame. “Bertha!” he roared. “You can’t hide!”

I cowered in the darkness at the opposite end of the vault. For a man who had just taken a bullet, Edward seemed to have enormous strength. He’d break down the door, I knew it.

Trying desperately to calm my racing pulse, I inhaled great gulps of air. My knees were weak. I leaned on the wall for support, very much in danger of collapsing.

But it wouldn’t do. There was no time for cowering weakness. As my husband shouted my name and pounded on the door, I rallied my wits and what was left of my courage.

The tinderbox and two oil lamps were easy enough to locate by feel in the darkness. I lit them both. The light immediately helped to dispel some of my panic. When next my husband shook the door, I called out, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Open it, Bertha,” he said. “Or I’ll tear it from the hinges.”

Indeed, I believed he could. It was beginning to sink in that my husband was an unnatural thing. Worse than a fortune-hunting parasite. Worse, even, than a wife-murdering Bluebeard. He was truly some variety of monster. “I wouldn’t do that,” I said again. “Not if you value your collection.”

That was enough to give him pause. “By all that’s sacred, if you touch a single artifact—”

At that, I hoisted a small statue of Osiris from one of the shelves and pitched it against the wall. It shattered with a sound loud enough to make me flinch. I can only imagine how it must have sounded to him.

“Damn you!” he cried in something very like anguish. This was followed by a stream of invective—oaths and slurs against women that I’m loath to put to paper. Suffice to say, he was in a towering rage. He gripped the door and pulled it so hard the hinges creaked in protest.

In response, I gave an old Etruscan urn the same treatment as the statue of Osiris. At the sound of its demise, Edward ceased his attack.

“Can you hear me?” I asked. “Every time you attempt to break down that door, I’m going to smash another and another.”

“I’ll tear you to pieces,” he said. This was followed by more harsh words in a language I couldn’t understand, and then: “You’ll scream to your god for mercy.”

“Perhaps. But can you do it before I set the entire room ablaze? I have two oil lamps in here, and these scrolls will make marvelous kindling.”

That quieted him for another long moment. “Think of your family,” he said at last.

“I have no family. Isn’t that why you chose me? Because I had no one to protect me? No one to care if I died in mysterious circumstances?”