Page 28 of Bitten By Mr. Darcy
She had said it rather loudly, she supposed, and she bowed her head, embarrassed.
“He deserves it,” said Mr. Wickham. “If you knew the sorts of suffering he has heaped upon my head, you would agree.”
“Well, what sort of suffering has he heaped on your head?”
“He has stymied me in all manner of ways,” said Mr. Wickham. “Money was left by the late Mr. Darcy—the elder Mr. Darcy—for my education.”
“He didn’t allow you to be educated?”
“No, he did,” said Mr. Wickham, “but then when I wished to use that education to make myself a living, he blocked me from getting the position.”
“But why would he do that?” said Elizabeth.
“Who knows? He’s a monster.”
Elizabeth thought that sounded very strange. “It doesn’t seem like something he’d do,” she said quietly.
“Well, it hardly matters, I suppose,” said Mr. Wickham. “If you don’t fancy becoming a blood-drinking monster, you must kill him.”
“Yes, but I couldn’t!” said Elizabeth.
“So you say,” said Mr. Wickham.
Elizabeth twisted her fingers together. “If I changed my mind, would you… help me?”
Mr. Wickham looked her over. “I don’t know about that, Miss Bennet. They are very difficult to kill.”
“W-well, how does one do it?”
“Fire,” he said. “Sun.”
Her eyes widened.
“Cutting off their heads doesn’t even work,” said Mr. Wickham.
“But how could that not…”
“They regenerate,” he said. “Like lizards.”
Elizabeth had not known that lizards did that. She blinked rapidly, thinking this over.
“They are frightfully strong and not easily subdued,” said Wickham.
She bit down on her bottom lip. “But it all sounds hopeless, then.”
Wickham looked her over, pity in his expression. “I am ever so sorry this happened to you, Miss Bennet. I should stay clear of him if I were you. And do not believe what tales he tells you. He is not to be trusted, you see. He is a monster.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
THAT VERY NIGHT, Elizabeth awoke to the sound of something hitting her window.
She got up from her bed and looked outside to see Mr. Darcy standing there. She thought of what Mr. Wickham had said, but she could sense Mr. Darcy and she did not sense any malice or deception in him. Perhaps that was not as easily sensed as anger, though, she could not say.
She would not go so far as to say that she trusted Mr. Darcy, she supposed.
No, it was madness to go out there to him, sheer madness.
It was only that when it came to Mr. Darcy, she could not help herself. And also, somehow, she sensed that he was unlikely to harm her.
