Jane Bites Back (12 page)

“Damn you,” she said to the door.

She turned the lights off and went upstairs. In her bedroom Tom was curled up on her pillow. He opened one eye and gave her a brief look before returning to sleep. Jane sat on the bed and began to pet him, and he purred softly.

She still felt the effects of Byron’s kiss. She knew it would last for some time, probably until she fed again. She resented the fact that she would have to feed earlier than usual. But she could go another day or so before the need became too great. Had she remained in his arms much longer the need would have been nearly impossible to resist.

As it was, her thoughts were all jumbled together. And some were Byron’s. She saw faces she’d never seen, smelled scents foreign to her, felt longing and fear and lust that were not her own. It was as if she’d been drugged.

She undressed and lay down, slipping beneath the sheets and trying to sleep. But her body burned. She was unbearably hot. Kicking the quilt and sheets away, she tried to cool her overheated skin. Sweat beaded her forehead and dampened her nightgown. Tearing at the garment with trembling fingers, she drew it over her head and dropped it to the floor. The air around her was thick, and her breathing became labored.

Invisible hands caressed her, running over her arms and down her sides, cupping her exposed breasts. Lips teased at her neck, her fingertips, her nipples. To whom did they belong? There were
two mouths, three, a dozen. She searched the darkness for faces but saw nothing.

These are his memories
, Jane thought. She tried to banish them, to regain control over her mind, but it was like fighting off the effects of too much wine. Instead she became more confused. The bed seemed filled with bodies, with arms and legs intertwining. Hot breath licked at her while she tried to turn her head away.

“No!” she cried.

Cold descended. She was alone, standing on the shore of a wide, dark lake. Above her the sky was filled with glittering diamonds and the moon, impossibly full, was reflected in the water at her feet. She was naked. Then arms were around her and she felt the slow beat of another’s heart against her back.

“It’s time for your rebirth,” Byron’s voice said in her ear. “Come with me.”

He took her hand and stepped into the water. His body, white in the moonlight, was like marble. His eyes burned like the stars. Jane looked into them as she allowed him to lead her into the lake. The water rose around her. Then Byron was lifting her, and she floated on the water, looking up into the eyes of the heavens.

Byron too was floating, his body beneath Jane’s and her head resting on his chest. He held her in his arms like a child as he kicked his legs, pushing them into deeper water. As he swam he hummed a lullaby, the words of which Jane heard in her mind but which flitted away as soon as she tried to capture them.

They seemed to swim for hours, or maybe days. Then they came to a stop and floated on the still surface of the lake. Byron took Jane’s wrists in his hands and crossed them over her chest, laying his arms atop hers.

“I feel as if I’m dreaming,” Jane murmured.

Byron released her, his arms moving to her shoulders. He caressed her gently. “The great art of life is sensation,” he said. “To feel that we exist, even in pain.” His hands gripped her more tightly. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and Jane was pushed beneath the water.

She struggled for breath. Through the water she could see the stars. They broke apart, swarming like bees, as she thrashed around. Her ears rang with the sounds of her muffled screams. But Byron’s hands, like iron weights, held her down.

Water poured into her mouth, filling her throat. She gasped and found no air. Her eyes grew cloudy, and overhead the stars winked out one by one, until all was black.

She woke up choking. She was in Byron’s bedroom, cradled in his arms. He was stroking her hair and once again humming the tuneless lullaby. Jane turned and spat onto the floor, clearing her mouth.

“It’s all right,” Byron said. “It’s all right now.”

Outside, the storm was still raging. The stars were gone, and the moon was black. Although still naked, Jane was dry, as if she’d never been in the lake, never floated beneath the sky, never been pushed beneath the water.

“What did you do?” Jane asked. She felt her heart beating, but something was different. She was changed somehow.

“You’ve been reborn,” said Byron. “I took your life, then gave it back to you.” He showed her his wrist. Blood flowed from a fresh wound. Jane realized with horror that the liquid in her mouth was not water. She ran her tongue over her teeth and found them thick with the taste of meat and iron.

“No,” she said, trying to push herself away from Byron. “Let me go!”

Byron pulled her back, holding her tightly against his chest. “It’s too late,” he said. “It’s done.”

“You drowned me!” Jane cried, beating at him with her fists.

“A dream,” said Byron. “Of your rebirth. We all experience it differently. But you have never left this bed.”

“What have you done?” Jane sobbed. “What have you done to me?”

The alarm woke her up. Tom was sitting beside her, staring down at her expectantly. He meowed once.

Jane sat up. Already the nightmare was fading. But she remembered enough of it. It hadn’t come to her in a very long time. Now, she feared, it would return again and again. Byron’s kiss had given new life to it.

“Damn him,” she said to Tom. “Damn him for coming back.”

Chapter 13

“I’
VE GOT GOOD NEWS
.”

It took a moment for Jane to recognize Kelly’s voice. “Should I sit down?” she asked.

“You’ll just jump back up again. We got a blurb from Margot Aldridge.”

Jane couldn’t suppress a squeal of joy.
“The Beauty of Lies
Margot Aldridge?” she said.

“Is there another one?” asked Kelly.

Jane laughed. “I certainly hope not,” she said.

“She doesn’t blurb
anything,”
Kelly said. “But I know her editor,
and I took a chance. Jennifer passed the manuscript on to Margot and she absolutely loved it. Do you want to hear it?”

“I don’t know,” said Jane. “Do I?”

Kelly ignored her remark and began to read. “
‘Constance
is the rare novel that so deftly explores the lives of its characters that we forget they exist only on the page. Jane Fairfax’s debut is absolutely magical.’”

Jane couldn’t speak. “Are you there?” Kelly asked after twenty seconds of silence.

“Read it again,” Jane said finally.

Kelly did. “And that’s not all,” he told Jane. “I think we’ll be getting quotes from Fisher McTavish and Anne Gardot.”

Jane gripped the phone tightly. “Keep naming my favorite authors and I’m going to have a heart attack,” she said. “I can’t believe it.”

“I told you it was a great book,” said Kelly. “Everyone here is excited about it. I haven’t seen them push a book through so quickly since we did the tell-all by that woman who had the affair with the president. Bound galleys are already going out to reviewers, and sales is making a big push to the chains and Amazon to make sure they promote the hell out of this as soon as possible.”

“Now I am sitting down,” Jane said. “I can’t believe this. It’s only been two weeks since I was there.”

“And it’s just beginning,” Kelly said. “You should be hearing from Nick Trilling later today. He’s your publicity guy. We need to put together an author bio to send to the press.”

Suddenly Jane’s excitement waned. She hadn’t even thought about a bio. Getting the book published at all was the only thing that had concerned her. Having to promote herself was the furthest thing from her mind.

“I suppose I can come up with something,” she said. “But I’m not terribly interesting, you know.”

“Are you kidding?” said Kelly. “A bookstore owner who writes her first novel when she’s fortysomething? You’re a publicist’s dream. Every woman in America will be able to relate to you, Jane.”

I doubt that
, Jane thought. “Perhaps,” she replied to Kelly. “Anyway, I’m happy to speak with—what did you say his name is, Nick?”

“Nick Trilling,” Kelly repeated. “I’ve got a meeting to get to, but I wanted to tell you what’s happening.”

“Thank you,” said Jane. “I must say it’s all a bit surreal.”

“Think of it as a dream come true,” Kelly said. “I’ll talk to you soon, Jane.”

Jane hung up.
A dream come true
, she thought.
That’s not always a good thing
.

She thought back to her dinner with Walter and Byron and to what had happened afterward. That night she’d remembered everything vividly. The secret visit to his house on the shore of Lake Geneva. The loss of her innocence. The pain that followed. It had all come back to her. Her death and resurrection. Her declaration of love for Byron once he’d explained what she now was. His callous dismissal of her affections, and her shameful return to England.

The worst of the memories was of having to leave Cassie. Staging her own illness and subsequent death over the course of a year was difficult, but she had managed it with the help of a sympathetic physician recommended to her by another of her kind, several of whom she had met seemingly by accident, though she now suspected that Byron had told them about her. Leaving
Cassie had been almost unbearable. For months she had done nothing but weep and wish herself truly dead.

It was this loss for which she couldn’t forgive Byron. For now all she wanted was to tell Cassie about her book. Her earlier work had all been published anonymously, her identity known only to a small circle of friends. Fame had come after her death. She knew Cassie would be thrilled for her and would be more excited even than Jane was that she would finally get to hold a book with her name on it in her hands.

She had managed to avoid Byron for several days, and he had not called upon her. She assumed he was busy with his work, and was relieved to be free of him, if only temporarily. She had forced herself to feed so that she could be rid of the residual fogginess caused by their encounter, driving to a town an hour away and, assuming the identity of a weary housewife, asking a pimple-faced bag boy at the Price Chopper to help her to the car with her bags filled with corn chips, salsa, and lite beer. She had eaten quickly and left him to sleep it off beside a Dumpster in the parking lot, his head resting on a box of day-old donuts. Now she felt more or less herself.

“Hey. Whatchya doing?”

Lucy’s voice startled Jane, who spun around in her chair.

“Sorry,” Lucy said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to let you know that we’re officially out of Mark Twain finger puppets. Should I order some more?”

Jane rolled her eyes. “I think not,” she said. “Don’t we still have half a dozen Tennysons to get rid of?”

Lucy leaned against the desk. “Yeah,” she answered. “But the Austens are almost gone. Mr. Hunky bought one yesterday.”

“Who?” Jane asked.

“The new guy,” said Lucy. “Brian George.”

“He was in yesterday?” Jane inquired.

Lucy nodded. “When you went to the bank. I think he has a crush on you,” she added.

“What?” Jane said, a little too loudly. Had Lucy really noticed something between the two of them? The thought horrified her.

“He said the puppet looked just like you,” Lucy explained. She squinted at Jane. “Now that you mention it, you do kind of look like her,” she said.

“Rubbish,” said Jane. “All middle-aged Englishwomen look alike. Anyway, no more puppets. It was a fun idea, but I think we should stick to books.”

“I guess that puts the kibosh on the
Little Women
action figures,” Lucy joked. “Pity. I was looking forward to the Beth doll with real scarlet fever action.”

“Out,” Jane said, pointing to the door.

Lucy cackled evilly and scurried out, leaving a laughing Jane behind. Lucy reminded her a bit of Cassandra, always looking for the fun in things. It was no surprise that Jane was so fond of the young woman.

She was about to get up when the phone rang. Thinking it might be Nick Trilling, she picked it up.

“Good morning,” Walter said.

Jane felt a twinge of guilt as she said, “Good morning yourself.” Although technically nothing had happened between her and Byron, she still felt as if she were doing Walter a disservice.

“I was wondering if you might be free for lunch,” said Walter. “I haven’t seen you in a few days.”

Jane hesitated. She really didn’t want to see either Walter or
Byron at the moment. But she knew she couldn’t put it off much longer. “I’d like that,” she said. “Why don’t you come by around one? We can get something at the Soup Kitchen.”

“Wonderful,” Walter said. “It’s a date.”

No sooner had she hung up than the phone rang again. “One o’clock,” she said, assuming it was Walter, who almost always had to call back because he couldn’t remember what they’d decided. “The Soup Kitchen.”