Page 101 of Midnight at Pemberley

“We finish it, Darcy.”

The words reverberated in the room as Wickham threw himself at Darcy, clawing like a wild animal. His nails shredded the sleeve of Darcy’s coat and ripped the skin along his forearm. Wickham’s jaw snapped viciously, attempting to reach Darcy’s face and neck.

Overpowered by the sudden attack, Darcy braced his arms, holding back the sheer monstrous force of the beast. All of Darcy’s previous dealings with Wickham had been with a mildly taunting gentleman-like vampire, who used his powers to strike quickly and then escape. This Wickham meant to tear Darcy apart. This animal felt only the compulsion to kill its prey. Able to wedge his knee between them, Darcy used his legs to hurl Wickham across the room, where he landed on all fours.

Wolf-like, his enemy rebounded, crouching in preparation for his next attack. Like him, Darcy rolled from his back to a closed position, grabbing the sword as he did so. Straightening, he shifted the sword to his opposing hand to make a come-hither motion, a silent challenge. Wickham circled in the manner of a beast needing to hunt. His eyes, now coal black, flashed with a fiery glow, as if coal burned within them. “You cannot win, Darcy.”

Warily, Darcy kept Wickham always where he could see him. Like the dance he arranged each night, Wickham turned in a definite pattern, and Darcy adjusted accordingly. He searched the room behind Wickham for weapons he could utilize. Surprisingly, just as in the great hall, Wickham’s earlier windstorm had left much of the periphery untouched. The candles still burned and the golden torque still rested on the altar. The three metallic plates, which once hung above the coffin, now rested on the floor. The cauldron, turned on its side, spilled out its contents: a layer of grey ashes, just like those Darcy discovered in London. And then there was Wickham’s coffin. Wickham hides something in that house. You must find his grave and destroy it … Without his grave—his coffin—Wickham cannot survive. Elizabeth’s instructions rang clear in Darcy’s mind.

Watching.Waiting.Wary.They circled each other.

At length, Wickham sprang again. Darcy spun away just as the creature leapt, leaving his opponent lying face down among the ashes. Using the sword, he hacked twice at his adversary’s left side, hoping to open it further. Before Wickham could recover, Darcy darted to the coffin to tip it over. The dirt splattered across the floor in dark streaks of decaying matter, and Wickham crawled to it, scooping it up with his arm. “No … o … o!” he screamed as he dumped handfuls back into the open box.

Hoping to end the curse, Darcy poured one of the vials of holy water on the satin as Wickham used his body to protect his grave. Darcy waited, but nothing occurred. His enemy, covered in earth and ashes, looked up with amusement. He rubbed the dampened dirt between his fingers. “It is oil, Darcy. You fool,” Wickham charged. “You poured oil into the dirt.” Triumphantly, Wickham stood, brushing his hand against his side. “You will pay for this degradation.” The ominous words became Wickham’s challenge.

Realizing a retreat to recover would be best, Darcy edged along the wall, backing away from the advancing Wickham.

“I plan for you to suffer long and hard.” Wickham hissed the words. “You will pray for hell’s relief.”

“What makes you think, Wickham, I am not already in hell?” As he spoke, Darcy stole closer to the burning rows of candles. He said a silent prayer that the second vial he had carried from the church contained anointing oil, as well. “In fact, purgatory fills this room.” With that, he threw the second vial against the wall. The glass broke and oil spattered across the fire. Flames leapt and fizzled before creeping up the dried ivy left strung across what remained of the antlers. The bones of the stag ignited and crumbled. Now, fed by the kindling, the flames moved faster.

Not fearing death, Wickham dove for Darcy’s legs, knocking him to the floor, where they rolled in the dirt again. The beast of a few minutes prior returned, and Wickham bit down on Darcy’s leg, only to find part of his boot. Darcy used his other leg repeatedly to kick relentlessly at Wickham’s face, tearing chunks of skin away from his enemy’s eyelid and cheekbone. Fists landed. Cries of pain split the heated air.

Darcy’s assault forced Wickham to release his hold. Uttering a curse, the demon clambered to his feet. Catching the sword Darcy had dropped, he irrationally swung the blade in arcing figure eights. Darcy scooted backwards in a crablike manner, attempting to evade Wickham’s demonic fury. “Hell! Darcy, we are in hell!”Wickham howled.

Reaching the wall closest to the door, Darcy shoved to his feet, sliding his back up the smooth surface. Half the room was engulfed in flames, but Wickham still railed, screaming of damnation. The fool caught the tip of the blade on the satin lining of the coffin, pulling part of it free and dragging it through the fire. The material caught the flames, and in his choler, Wickham flung it from him, sending it through the open door to land on the carpet.

Irate, Wickham stalked Darcy, herding him, blocking his every move to flee. Darcy slid sideways along the wall. He shifted his weight several times, but each time Wickham countered. Then it happened: The flames reached the coffin. As the fire spread to the lining, the wood popped and cracked from the heat. Wickham spun to view the damage, and Darcy claimed the opportunity to dive through the open door, barely missing the flames now crawling along the carpet runner and up the wallpaper and tapestries.

Clumsily, Darcy struggled to his feet and broke into a run.

“Darcy!” Wickham boomed as he menacingly stepped into the hallway.

Without thinking, Darcy knelt to jerk hard on the runner, pulling it from under Wickham’s feet and sending his opponent tumbling backwards. Throwing the flaming runner over the banister, Darcy shot a quick glance in Wickham’s direction before bounding over the landing. Hitting the main hallway at a run, he searched frantically for a weapon. Wickham loudly stalked after him. The great hall loomed to the right, and Darcy, madly seeking safety, ducked within, but Wickham followed only a few heartbeats later. “Darcy!” he bellowed.

Finding no immediate escape, Darcy nonchalantly stepped from behind the pile of broken furniture. “I am here, Wickham.”

“So you are.” His enemy’s eyes glowed red in the darkness as he slowly brought the sword to Darcy’s chest. “I expected more from you.” He moved the blade in a gesture towards the debris. “Have a seat.”

Darcy warily moved to the ornate offering, the only piece of furniture still intact.

“It seems I no longer possess my followers.” Wickham looked about the room, feeling anger well up again. “I suppose you had something to do with that.”

“You suppose correctly.” Darcy watched the flames behind Wickham scatter about the entranceway, jumping from item to item.

“Then I will start over.” Wickham pressed the tip of the sword to Darcy’s chest. “In fact, I will depart this evening.Your wife has three more sisters, if I recall, and there is always sweet Georgiana.” Although the words incensed him, Darcy realized it was a typical Wickham taunt, one meant to throw his opponent off kilter. Darcy squeezed the chair arm in response.

He expected Wickham to run him through, but his rival did not. Instead, a strong right hand caught Darcy’s jaw, shoving it upward and driving Darcy’s head into the chair. A momentary blurriness became complete blackness. The last thing Darcy observed was Wickham closing the door behind him.

How long he was out, he did not know, but long enough for the fire to spread, because when he touched the door, the heat told him not to open it. For the second time, Wickham had left Darcy in a burning house. Grabbing the back of a broken chair, Darcy struck a window. It shattered into silvery slivers in the moonlight. Using the chair’s leg, he battered away at the shards. Climbing through the opening, his eyes fell on a shadowy figure, silhouetted in the moonlight, mounting the hill to the cemetery. “Dearest God, not Elizabeth,” he murmured and took off at a run.

“My God, Edward, look!” Elizabeth stood transfixed by the fiery glow in the sky. “It is the house!”

Instinctively, she took off at a run in the direction of the hill—towards Wickham’s house-towards her husband. With each step, her eyes filled with tears. She could not lose Darcy now.

Edward caught her around the waist just as Elizabeth reached the back of the graveyard. She fought him, kicking and screaming for him to permit her to go to her husband. “Release me!” she pleaded, but the colonel pulled her away from a house now fully consumed in flames. Pungent smoke filled the air, and burning embers showered down on them as they clung to each other and stared at the inferno.

“He escaped.” The colonel declared, although she heard doubt in his tone.