“I see,” Jane said. A terrible thought was forming in her mind, one she didn’t want to entertain even for a moment.
Lucy scratched at her neck. Jane, noticing it, had to force down the panic rising in her.
“Stupid spider bites,” said Lucy. “They itch like crazy. Hey, maybe that’s what caused the dreams. Spider venom.” She laughed. “Wouldn’t that be freaky?”
Jane walked over to her, the display forgotten. “Let me see,” she said, attempting to keep her voice steady. She pulled back Lucy’s long hair and inspected her neck. As she’d feared, two tiny red marks lay a few inches below Lucy’s left ear. They had healed quickly. No wonder Lucy was dismissing them as insect bites.
“I think you’re right,” said Jane. Her hand had begun to tremble, and she pulled it away quickly. “Don’t scratch them or you’ll make them worse.”
Lucy responded with a yawn, which she covered with one hand. “I’m just so tired,” she said.
“You should probably take the afternoon off,” Jane suggested. “You might be having a little reaction to the spider bites. I have to run a couple of errands, but I should be back in an hour or so. I can handle things for the rest of the day.”
Lucy rubbed her eyes. “Maybe,” she said. “I might feel better after some more coffee.”
No, you won’t, Jane thought. The effects of a bite didn’t wear off quite so quickly. Nor would the effects of the dream Byron had apparently planted into Lucy’s thoughts. He’d done it on purpose, of course, knowing that Lucy would likely tell Jane about it. He also knew that she would do what she was about to do.
“I’ll be back soon,” she assured Lucy. “Remember—no scratching.”
Jane left the store and got into her car. As she drove to Byron’s house, she promised herself that she wouldn’t let him toy with her. “None of his nonsense,” she said.
She parked at the curb and walked to the front door of the house. Only as she knocked did it occur to her that Byron might not be there. But then she heard him call, “A moment, please.”
When he saw Jane standing on his doorstep he smiled broadly. “This is an unexpected surprise,” he said. “Come in.”
Jane entered. She started to speak, but stopped when she saw the interior of the house. It had been meticulously restored. She could hardly believe how beautiful it was. The walnut woodwork had all been stripped of years of paint and refinished, the stained-glass window at the top of the stairs had been repaired, and the lights and other fixtures had been replaced with vintage pieces. Even the wallpaper—a handsome William Morris design of pink poppies on a black background—looked as if it could be original to the house.
Walter did an amazing job, she thought. She was so dazzled by the house that she almost forgot why she was there. Then she remembered. Without waiting for Byron she went into the living room and stood behind a leather wingback chair. She wanted something between her and Byron while she confronted him. “I know what you did to Lucy,” she informed him as he walked into the room. “How dare you?”
Byron paused. “I didn’t realize she was off-limits to me,” he said innocently. “Besides, I didn’t drain her. I only took a sip or two.” He smiled wickedly.
Jane’s face flushed and her jaw trembled. “Stop these games!” she said. “Leave her be!”
Byron cocked his head. “You’re very fond of her, aren’t you?” he said. “Perhaps she’s almost like a daughter?” He paused a moment, then pointed one finger at Jane. “No,” he said. “Not a daughter. A sister.”
Jane understood his meaning perfectly. She placed her hands on the back of the chair in front of her, gripping it so tightly that her nails left scratches in the leather.
“You. Will. Not. Touch. Her.” She spat each word at Byron as if it were a weapon.
Byron frowned. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t,” he replied. “After all, she’s just a girl.”
He swept across the room, leaning so close to Jane that for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her.
“It isn’t Lucy I want,” he said. His breath was warm on her face. “It’s you. But until you give yourself to me I must make do with what I have.”
“You won’t have me,” said Jane.
Byron leaned closer still. “Then I will have Lucy,” he said. “Perhaps I will even make her immortal. Do you think she would like that?”
“No,” Jane said, barely able to get the word out of her mouth. “You can’t.”
Byron stepped away, laughing. “Of course I can,” he said. “What’s to stop me?” He snapped his fingers. “Or perhaps it isn’t female companionship I need,” he said. “Perhaps it’s time for a gentleman friend. Someone with whom I can discuss literature.”
Walter, Jane thought. He means Walter.
“Yes,” said Byron, as if reading her thoughts. “That might be nice. Then again, there’s no reason why I can’t have both.”
“Enough,” Jane said. “What do you want?”
Byron smiled at her. “You know what I want, Jane. I want you.”
“And just how would that work?” Jane asked. Her anger was returning, and it gave a mocking edge to her voice. “Would we marry and settle here? Would we become respected members of the community? Is that how you see it playing out?”
Byron’s expression was stony as he replied. “I expect you to leave with me,” he said. “Return to England, where we belong.”
“Ah,” said Jane. “Perhaps we could set up house on the shore of Lake Geneva. I believe one of the movie stars summers in your old house now. George Clooney, I think, or perhaps it’s the Jolie-Pitts. But I’m sure they would let us lease it the rest of the year.”
She stared at Byron, awaiting one of his famous bursts of temper. She had pushed him, perhaps too far, but her anger had turned into a bright fire she could no longer contain.
She was surprised when he laughed loudly. “You’ve changed some since our last meeting,” he said. “I like it.”
He became suddenly thoughtful. “You know this life of yours has to end someday,” he said. “What do you have, another five years? Perhaps ten? Then what? Are you going to tell your Walter what you are? Are you going to turn him?”
“I would never do that,” Jane snapped.
“Turn him?” asked Byron. “Or tell him?”
Jane looked away.
“I thought as much,” Byron said. “You see, you’ve already decided. Which leaves only my proposal.”
Jane was shaking her head as he spoke. Now she steeled herself and lifted her head. “I don’t love you,” she said firmly.
Once more Byron laughed at her. “Who said anything about love?” he replied. “We’re both far too old to believe in happily ever after, Jane.”
“Perhaps you don’t,” said Jane.
Byron smiled. “Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart. ‘Tis woman’s whole existence.”
“Stop quoting yourself,” Jane said. “It’s vain even for you.”
“Yet you know it to be true,” Byron said.
Jane sniffed. “I’ve yet to become so cynical.”
“Give it time,” Byron told her. “At any rate, my offer remains the same. Come with me or sacrifice Lucy and Walter. Is that a price you’re willing to pay?”
Jane fought off the urge to turn and run. That would be useless. Byron would find her. And she knew as well that if she refused him, he would do exactly what he was threatening to do.
“Walter would never understand what you are,” said Byron, interrupting her thoughts. “And you would watch him grow old and die. With me you would not suffer that.”
“Yes,” Jane agreed. “It would be easier.”
“Then you’ve decided,” said Byron. “Good.”
“I have decided,” Jane answered, her voice gaining strength as she spoke. She took a deep breath. “I’ve decided to tell them the truth.”