Page 1 of The Lost Prophecy

Chapter One: A Most Inconvenient Scent

DARCY HAD SURVIVED three hundred and seventeen years, fourteen monarchs, two rebellions, a civil war, one regrettable decade in which gentlemen wore lace on every available surface, and an alarming number of attempts on his existence. Yet none of these trials had prepared him for the soul-crushing responsibility of taking Charles Bingley to a country assembly.

“You are behaving as though I have never entered a ballroom before.” Bingley adjusted his cuffs while their carriage rolled through Meryton, his fingers moving with frantic energy, as though he were preparing for a duel rather than a dance. “I have attended hundreds of them.”

“You have attended forty-three, and at the last one you converted a baronet.” Darcy gave the correction drily, wondering at Bingley’s grasp in arithmetic.

“The fellow petitioned me.” Bingley’s demeanour was one of pure innocence and a little bit of guilt.

“He offered you a glass of wine, Bingley.”

“He offered his wrist along with it, and in writing,” he reasoned. “Any sensible person would recognise that as explicit consent.”

Darcy rested one gloved hand on the silver head of his cane and regarded his friend across the carriage. Bingley had fed before leaving Netherfield, had recited every rule governing civilised nocturnal conduct, and had promised faithfully not to place his mouth near anybody’s neck, wrist, or other accessible artery, consent or not. His present agitation suggested that the promises had survived in principle, while practical obedience was hanging by a very thin thread.

“I shall dance, converse, and make myself agreeable.” Bingley settled against the squabs and produced a smile whose brightness revealed rather too much canine. “Nobody will be consumed, converted, or permanently altered in any fashion.”

“Your fangs are showing.”

Bingley clapped a hand over his mouth.

Miss Bingley released air through her nose, the motion resembling breathing, but not quite. She had spent the journey positioned beside Darcy in a manner that suggested the seating arrangement had already received ecclesiastical approval. “Charles, if you cannot control yourself among country people, you will confirm every fear Mr Darcy expressed when you took Netherfield.”

“I expressed no fear concerning country people,” Darcy noted.

“No, indeed.” Miss Bingley inclined her head towards him, her garnet necklace catching the passing glow from a roadside lantern. “You merely observed that Hertfordshire offered limited society for a gentleman accustomed to greater distinction.”

Darcy had observed nothing of the sort. He had remarked that Bingley ought to inspect the cellars before signing the lease, since an eastern exposure and insufficient stonework rendered them unsuitable for daytime rest. Miss Bingley had transformed this practical architectural concern into a sweeping contempt for the entire county, a process she applied to most of his conversation whenever she believed it might place their opinions in marital harmony.

Mrs Hurst occupied the opposite corner beside her husband, her fan open despite the October chill, with Bingley wedged in next to them. “I only hope the room is properly aired. Country assemblies always smell of damp wool.”

“They smell of lavender,” Hurst corrected, rousing himself from a deep contemplation of the flask concealed inside his coat. “Damp wool, lavender, and an unreasonable quantity of healthy circulation.”

Darcy directed his gaze to the older-looking vampire. “That flask will remain where it is.”

Hurst placed one hand protectively over his breast. “It is merely refreshment.”

“It belonged to a stag this morning.” Darcy did not raise his voice. Centuries of proximity had taught him that Hurst surrendered far more readily to quiet certainty than to threat.

“The beast donated willingly,” Hurst replied, deeply wounded.

Mrs Hurst turned her fan over in her lap unbothered, having spent several decades declining to hear her husband’s arrangements.

“The beast was asleep, Hurst.”

“A peaceful disposition should not invalidate generosity.” Hurst settled deeper into his corner, at peace with his own reasoning.

The carriage stopped before the assembly rooms, preventing Darcy from enquiring how often Hurst had mistaken unconsciousness for charitable intent. Voices and music spilt into the street as the door opened, accompanied by warmth, candle smoke, and the dense, rhythmic pulse of human life. Bingley descended first, his delight instantly restored, while his sisters followed at a more measured pace. Darcy stayed inside for one additional moment, allowing his discipline to settle over his senses.

Every heartbeat beyond the carriage reached him distinctly. Blood moved beneath skin. Breath warmed the night air. Dozens of fragile lives announced themselves through sound, scent, and motion, unaware that five vampires had arrived to participate in a country dance. Mortals possessed a touching, almost adorable confidence in invitations. A printed card and a few mediocre musicians convinced them that every creature entering the room intended nothing more dangerous than a cotillion.

Darcy stepped down and joined the others.

Their entrance attracted attention. Bingley received it eagerly, bowing to strangers and accepting introductions before their host had even completed the sentences. Miss Bingley surveyed the company from behind her fan, pausing her sweeps whenever she discovered a gown that offended her notions of taste. Mrs Hurst complained quietly about the tallow candles, while Hurst located the card tables before anybody had presented him to the master of ceremonies.

The local speculation reached Darcy from every corner of the room. Ten thousand a year travelled through the assembly in excited, hushed whispers, gathering additional acres and consequence each time it passed between two ambitious matrons. One gentleman promoted him to the rank of duke before being corrected by his wife, who was deeply disappointed that wealth alone could not remedy the want of a title. Darcy endured the scrutiny without a change in expression. He had been called worse things than proud, although seldom by so many people before the first dance had even concluded.

Bingley’s eyes had already found an angel.