Page 151 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
“I can find Lydia,” I said. “She will be with Wickham. But you must take me with you.”
“Impossible,” Lord Wellington said.
“My sister can kill you with a thought from a hundred yards away. Only I can counter her.”
I remembered Denny, killed by a massive foul crawler. There had been some break between him and Wickham, and he had argued with Lydia as well. Had he been targeted for death? His clothing had been smeared with foul crawler venom. Did that attract the monster, or had Lydia commanded it to murder her friend?
“It is too dangerous for you to accompany us,” Lord Wellington was saying. “We have two saddled horses and no lady’s tack. I cannot lose a man to—”
I was becoming impatient. “I am not one of your soldiers, Lord Wellington. You do not command me. If you wish my direction, you have no choice in this matter.” He did not answer, so I continued, “Are the horses saddled? We must hurry.”
His lips compressed, but he nodded.
Mr. Darcy, of course, had taken his own horse. Fortunately, one of the remaining horses was a modestly sized mare. She was saddled for a man, but that was almost a relief. I had not ridden much since I was a girl, still young enough to ride astride.
Lord Wellington gave me a leg up, his face averted. I hauled up my skirts and threw my leg over the saddle, then plucked at my bunched petticoats in a futile attempt at modesty. I managed to hide my knees.
“Where?” Lord Wellington asked after he mounted.
I closed my eyes. That core of fury refused to fade—it blazed like a red-hot coal in my chest—but this time, emotion did not block me. Instead, the world snapped crystal-clear in my mind. The void surrounding the lake. Sparks of awareness elsewhere.
And there, on a hill beyond the lake, was a seething, churning spot of black filth.
I opened my eyes, comparing the hills ahead with my mental impression. “This way.” I tapped my heels and led off at a trot. For once, I regretted not being a better horsewoman—if I tried to gallop through these rough woods, I would be unseated in moments.
Mr. Darcy would have galloped. He handled his powerful stallion with perfect ease. He must be far ahead of us.
I tightened my legs, and my mare quickened her trot.
A mile was eaten up, then three. Twenty minutes. The astringent scent of horse sweat grew, my mount’s chest heaving as we climbed another peak. The valley with Pemberley lake came into view.
“Wait,” called Lord Wellington. I reined in, and he pulled up beside me. “Gunpowder. There has been a battle.”
A hint of sulfurous smoke caught my nostrils.
Distantly, I made out scattered bodies on the lakeshore. Dozens. All still.
“Has the army come?” I asked.
Lord Wellington shaded his eyes to study the lake. “Not our army. Where do we go?”
I closed my eyes to check, then pointed. “Around the lake, and over that hill.”
“Let us proceed cautiously.”
We headed down, abreast at a slow trot. The carnage resolved into human detail—limbs trapped at angles disturbingly unlike the calm of sleep, and dirt-smeared faces with gaping mouths. Lord Wellington counted under his breath. “Five… Ten… Fifteen…” He reached thirty-five and fell silent.
Ten yards short of the nearest body, he said, “Stop. Wait here.” He dismounted and walked between sprawled shapes until he reached a man I recognized as the French commander.
The smell of gunpowder was strong. And something beneath it. Sour orange and bitter almond.
I dismounted and walked to the nearest body, a man of twenty in nondescript worker’s clothes. A pistol had fallen on the stony ground. The man lay on his side, arched backward as if bent on an invisible rack. An agonizing pose, even in death.
His face was swollen and discolored. His eyes bulged. A pair of savage punctures, one on his cheek, the other on his neck, had risen in hideous purple blisters. They were six inches apart. This was not the sting of a palm-sized crawler.
“All dead,” Lord Wellington said beside me. I had not heard him approach. “All French. None are shot. They were killed by some foul method. Their weapons are discharged, but they did not reload. Their powder is hardly touched. A short and brutal battle.”
“Lydia killed them. She summoned foul crawlers.” The words left my mouth even as I wondered if I believed them. “She threatened this if a Frenchwoman bound.” I looked over the strewn bodies, then began walking toward a different shape on the rocky shore. A woman.
