pride and prejudice and zombies:: dreadfull ever after

Part 4

CHAPTER 4

For days, Darcy dreamed of sausages. Blood sausages packed with pig meat straight from the grinder. Uncooked. In his mouth.

He dreamed, too, of liver pâté. And haggis, of all things. And oysters he slurped from the shell, one after another. And sashimi from his beloved Japan served so fresh it was spongy with blood.

He dreamed he was a wolf eating a man alive.

He dreamed he was a man eating a wolf alive.

He dreamed he was a man eating ... oh, now his skin really crawled! His dream had shifted in that sudden, lurching way of the worst nightmares, and everything had changed.

He found himself in his bed, his neck and left shoulder burning as his fearsome old aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, sprinkled crimson liquid on him from a small glass vial. Then she was bringing the little bottle to his lips, pouring an acidic trickle down his throat, saying as he coughed, "Not so bitter as what I've had to swallow from you."

Then it was back to the haggis, only the stomach it was being served in wasn't a sheep's. It belonged to his wife ... and it was still attached to her by slimy ropelike cords of flesh. "Eat up, my dear," Elizabeth said as he chomped in, and she reached into her abdomen and pulled out a glazed ham. "There's plenty more where that came from."

Darcy felt as if he would throw up. Yet, in his dreams, he kept eating and eating and never was full.

Eventually, the queasiness subsided and he stopped dreaming about food; his eyes fluttered open. He was in his bed, as in his nightmare, and his neck and shoulder hurt in just the same way, too. He reached up and touched the side of his neck and found what felt like bandages there.

Then he remembered.

"Oh, thank God," someone said.

He turned—how difficult it was just to swivel his head a few inches to the left—and saw Elizabeth kneeling next to him.

"I was afraid I wouldn't even get a chance to—" She stopped herself and smiled. "But here you are. How do you feel, my love?"

"Why am I still alive?" Darcy croaked.

His wife's smile faded.

"We have hopes the infection can be stopped."

"How?"

"I have sent for your aunt. You remember what she did for Charlotte Collins."

"I do. I remember what became of Charlotte Collins as well. I remember her—"

He coughed, unable to go on. But in Elizabeth's eyes, he could see her remembering, too.

Her old friend eating leaves; picking and licking at her own open sores; losing the ability to speak or think coherently; in short, deteriorating into a grotesque mockery of humanity.

Elizabeth brought a goblet of water to his lips, and as he took a soothing sip another memory returned: Lady Catherine forcing him to drink something that made his tongue tingle and his throat constrict. It had been no dream, he now knew.

"There have been improvements in the serum in recent years," Elizabeth said. "Your aunt believes it might cure you entirely if we act quickly enough."

"And I have already received my first dose?"

"Yes. The first of many—more than Lady Catherine was able to carry with her. She has asked that you be taken to Rosings to continue your convalescence there."

"I see. When do we leave?"

"Immediately. In fact, her ladyship's ninjas will be up shortly to collect you." Elizabeth paused, and when she forged on her words sounded strained, forced. "Georgiana will be going with you."

"Just Georgiana?"

"Yes. Jane has taken a turn for the worse, I'm afraid, and I must return to Fernworthy to look after her and the baby. It pains me no end that I cannot accompany you to Kent, but it is a comfort to know that your sister will be by your side and that your aunt has high hopes for your recuperation."

Again Elizabeth's voice struck Darcy as tight, her manner stiff and unnatural.

"Is it because of my aunt that you are not coming to Rosings?" he asked. "A renewal of the hostilities between you?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "No. If anything, she and I are more in accord than ever. Neither of us wishes for anything so fervently as your full recovery."

There was something about his wife's reassurances that Darcy found extremely unreassuring. It was a new sensation, not believing her, and he didn't care for it one bit.

He reached out and took her by the hand. "My dearest ... please ... is there something you're not telling me?"

"Has there ever been any deceit between us?" Elizabeth said. "A time when either of us was anything but entirely forthright?"

Well, technically, yes, Darcy could have answered. Years ago, when your sister was in London looking for Bingley, for instance. The way I held back my true feelings for you for so long as well. And if we had both been more forthcoming about George Wickham all those years ago, we might have spared your family and others much unpleasantness.

Darcy lacked the strength to say as much, however. Besides, Elizabeth was already leaning in to kiss him right between the eyes.

"I love you," she said, and this Darcy did not doubt—even as she shocked him by whirling and hurrying away. She kept her face turned to the side, as if there were something there she didn't wish him to see.

"Elizabeth—?"

"I will tell her ladyship that you are ready."

And she rushed from the room, leaving the door ajar behind her.

Darcy started to rise to follow her, but his head swam and his vision blurred and he ended up flat on his back, panting and nauseous. As he lay there, waiting for his strength to return so that he might try again, he heard the telltale shush-shush of tabi boots in the hall, so soft that no one untrained in the deadly arts would ever hear the sound. At least his ears remained as sharp as ever.

He managed to push himself up onto one elbow just as his aunt swept in with six ninjas at her heels.

"Fitzwilliam," the old woman said.

"Lady Catherine. It is good to see you, though there is nothing good, I'm afraid, about what you find here to see."

"No matter. What did the warrior monk Benkei say about failure?"

"It is but the longer road to triumph."

"Precisely. Wise words." The lady leaned in over her nephew's bed. "I find more truth in them all the time."

She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it over Darcy's nose and mouth. It felt moist and reeked of acrid fumes, and with his first startled intake of breath Darcy sucked in a biting flavor not unlike exceptionally strong coffee. Bitter though it was, it didn't taste like the serum she had administered earlier. It was something different—something Darcy would have recognized as undiluted laudanum, had he ever sampled any.

He reflexively pawed at his aunt's hand, but he was too weak to pull the handkerchief away. He grew weaker every second it stayed in place.

"This will help you travel," Lady Catherine said. "We have a long way to go together, you and I."

Soon after, Darcy was asleep.

This time, for a while at least, he didn't dream.