The Reluctant Miss Van Helsing (6 page)

Astonished, Asher stared down at his ruined coat. Renfield, his valet, would be quite up in arms. His mysterious Queen of the Nile was potty in the head. Just his luck. Dryly, he remarked, “By deuce, if you didn’t like my costume, you could have just told me!”

Taking one long look at her brandy-drenched earl, Jane shook her fist in the air, tears in her eyes. “Curses! Foiled again! I’ll never live down the embarrassment.”

Not if any of her kin heard of the night’s fiasco, not to mention that the handsome earl was now thinking her the Queen of Fools. Some vampire slayer she was.

And yet, she could not but be a bit relieved he was alive. He and his beautiful blue eyes. Without further ado or fanfare, Jane turned, her dignity in tatters, and teetered off into the dark, cold night.

Lord Asher cocked his head, raised an aristocratic brow and studied the small figure hurrying unsteadily away. His mind sought out the lone stranger. “Bloody hell! Who was that masked woman, anyway?”

Morning
came, a gray, rainy, dismal day as Jane walked into her father’s study. She found the major standing by the ornately crafted fireplace, on the moss green Persian carpet that once again she was being called onto.

“Not the old failure-is-not-an-option speech again,” she mumbled under breath, praying to escape it.

Major Van Helsing was dressed with his usual military precision in a green hunting jacket, forest green waistcoat and doeskin breeches. Jane wanted to cringe at his foreboding expression as she stood and faced his steely-eyed glare.

The major made Jane feel ten again, back when she had traded her silver cross for a beautiful blue hair ribbon. The major had lectured her quite severely, throwing the brightly colored ribbon into the fireplace. Jane’s other punishment had been to have her hair shorn just below the ears. It had taken years to grow out, and the incident had been traumatic for her, who at ten had only just started noticing her looks. Even then, she had known that her freckles weren’t very attractive and her lips were a bit too full. So her straight hair, which hung to her knees, was her crowning glory. The shade a dark blond, her locks were her mother’s pride and joy as well as her own. Her mother hadn’t spoken to her father for four months after the incident, and neither had Jane.

“Your conduct is unbecoming, Jane! You are a disgrace to the Van Helsing name. This is a grave new disappointment in a long line of disappointments, I might add,” the major pronounced harshly, his round face rigid with disdain.

“Chin up,” Jane whispered. Dejectedly she stared at her overweight, overwrought father, wondering if he cared that his grave disappointment could have resulted in his daughter being gravely disposed—in a real grave, that was, if Dracul had retaliated.

“Jane, what am I to do with you?” he asked. “Don’t you know that you don’t make holy water out of wine? And whiskey? You could have been badly bitten. You must take more care. Our work is the work of angels. Last night you came home reeking of brandy, your dress a mess, babbling about ruined jackets and handsome devils. And to make matters worse, the Earl of Wolverton is alive and well.” The major shook his head and grumbled, “Well, as alive as the undead can be. He wasn’t a spot. I was to see the spot, Jane. To see the spot. Don’t you see, Jane?”

Jane remained stoic as her father berated her. Once again, she had besmirched the Van Helsing name. She was a twenty-three-year-old family member who had never executed a bloodsucker. She was a complete washout. And there was nothing to be done about it.

As usual whenever Jane got rattled, her mind began operating on two or three different levels, leading her to blurt out comments that were unrelated. “Where’s Spot?” Was her faithful dog around? “Are there any chocolate bonbons in the study?” Chocolate was her comfort food.

“Bonbons, at a time like this? Get hold of yourself soldier!” the major demanded, giving her a withering glance. “Failure is not an option when we are the last thing between the world and the dastardly undead.”

Yes, here it came: the old failure-is-not-an-option speech. Jane silently groaned and rubbed her forehead, massaging the ache there. Never again would she consume so much brandy. Courage was one thing, a headache the size of the Tower of London was quite another. How her brother and cousins could literally and physically stand the mornings after their many indulgences, she couldn’t conceive.

“I’m sorry, Papa. But I am no longer a girl in the nursery.” She thought she might defend herself a tad.

“I didn’t raise you to get bosky! And your mother raised you to be a lady!” he ranted.

“You only remember me being a lady when it’s convenient. I am sorry that I failed you. That is all.”

All in all, last night had been a disastrous farce, with her in the lead role. The earl was a worthy foe, and she had made a complete ninny of herself. Never had she been so gauche. Never had she sucked down so much courage-replenishing brandy. But, then, never had she tried to melt the face off of the most breathtaking man—make that vampire—she had ever seen. As she recalled the features of the tall, elegant earl, it was hard to believe he was undead. He looked very human, even in his demon mask.

“Are you absolutely sure the Earl of Wolverton is what you think he is? Who you think he is? I have never seen a vampire look so human,” she said nervously, wondering if vampire bats were cute. She had never seen one. What would a vampire do for clothing when he changed from a bat into human form again? Would he run around in the altogether, exposing himself to whomever happened to be unfortunate enough to be passing by? Or perhaps, in the earl’s case, fortunate enough to be passing by.

The thought made Jane blush, and she tried to discover where the odd feeling had come from. Was there some corner deep within her heart that hid such naughty, carnal thoughts? Feeling wanton, she quickly glanced up at her father, suddenly glad that Van Helsings didn’t have mind reading abilities along with their innate stalking ability.

The major glowered at her in disgruntled silence. His look boded ill. Jane wondered what complaints and tirades she had missed while dreaming of the earl’s post-bat physique.

Her father’s stiff disapproval made Jane wonder if he was going to order her to polish all the silver crosses and chains used to bind vampires in their dungeons? It was an all day affair and one of her least favorite punishments, what with all the slimy silver polish getting on her clothes and hands.

“The earl just looks so… human,” Jane explained, feeling meek and stifled and oppressed.

Her father gestured wildly, knocking a small porcelain figurine onto the floor. It was of a slayer raising a coffin lid. “Sometimes, Jane, you are as dim-witted as those birds you watch! Sometimes I fear that in spite of your remarkable breeding, you wouldn’t know a vampire when he bit you on the neck. You don’t think the Prince of Darkness, the Count of Contempt and Corruption, could fool you with illusions? Of course he looks human! Have you lost your senses? Have you forgotten your lessons? The more powerful the vampire, the more human he looks.”

Jane shook her head wearily, walking over to pick the broken porcelain up off the floor, noting that the figure’s stake had been broken along with his neck. She shivered, wondering if it was a prophetic sign. Putting the pieces on the fireplace mantel, she arranged them as the raised coffin lid, the mallet, the man and the stake. The major was a stickler for order. A place for everything and everything in its place. All was in alphabetical order here, from the books in the library to the food in the pantry.

“Then let Uncle Jakob hunt him,” she said. “I haven’t the experience or courage for such a task.”

“Tut, tut. Any Van Helsing alive is superior to the undead, just by degree of breathing. You simply need to try harder. Put your heart into it, Jane!”

Just once, Jane wished her father would look upon her and see a lady of gentle breeding who loved music, dancing and bird-watching, a daughter who wished to make her father proud, to do her family duty, yet who desperately longed to be free to be who she truly was, not a reflection of what someone else saw or wanted.

“Sir, you thrill at the hunt of the undead. I merely love to hunt rare species of birds—and just to observe them. You enjoy hanging about in mausoleums, while I prefer museums of natural history and art. You love the blood sport of staking vampires. I love walking the hills and eating blood pudding,” Jane said patiently. “Although, I must say that I despise the name.” Cook had been tricky when she was little and called it fairy pudding.

The major shook his head. “I never should have married into your mother’s side of the family. The Paines haven’t the backbone of the Van Helsings. And your mother, God rest her soul, had her head in the clouds or the trees—wherever those bloody damn birds were nesting! Of course, it was such a pretty head and such a sweet smile she had.”

Yes, Jane’s mother’s smile had been sweet, and in spite of the major’s gruffness and harsh ways, he had loved her deeply. Jane knew she had inherited her mother’s love of bird-watching. She had spent many happy years trailing beside the woman, drawing and discussing the species in the trees. “Mother was always proud of me, despite my lack of slayer talents,” she replied stiffly. Her mother had never made her feel ashamed to be herself. Rather, she had made Jane feel special, like a princess in an old story.

Tears welled in her eyes. She missed the gentle influence of her mother, who had been dead these past twelve years. Though Jane had been made to study the vampire-slaying way before her mother’s death, the road had been greatly eased by the woman’s unflinching love—and there had been many fewer hours of Van Helsing lessons. After she passed away, Jane’s life had become more rigid and structured, her days filled with training and more training.

For many years, her mornings had begun with instructions on vampire etiquette. For example, they never belched in public after draining someone dry. She also learned that a seven-course meal to the Nosferatu meant seven different victims, all of various ages. That way, the vampires got a smorgasbord of flavor.

The major ignored his daughter’s furrowed brow and wounded dignity. “Do you remember any of what you were taught?” he asked.

Jane nodded dutifully, although she could only come up with two things on such short notice. “Don’t charge until you see the red in their eyes, and a rolling Van Helsing gathers no bites.”

“Quite. Rules two and five. Never forget that vampires are vile, vicious and vulgar, each dying to drain you dry. They all suck. No, never forget your lessons, Jane, for they will save your life.”

“Yes, sir.” Her training was flooding back. Jane had learned how to walk among the living dead quietly and keep living. She could shoot an arrow over eighty yards and hit a target, but only if the bull’s-eye was inanimate and painted yellow. If the target was alive, such as a deer, Jane always missed. Perhaps, she thought dryly, she could ask the earl to wear a yellow waistcoat and stand very still. After all, he was an inanimate object, was true dead weight.

“Bloody gout! If only I could have gone last night, I would have struck, splashed and succeeded. I can’t have my brother Jakob driving the first stake! Not this time. I would never live down the ignominy. Ever since he gave Vlad the Impaler a taste of his own medicine, he has crowed like a cock. This time, I will be the cock. Dracul, grandson to Vlad, is mine.” The major stared at her, his fists striking the chair. “The earl won’t escape my clutches!”

Jane pursed her lips, her eyebrows beetling. A pox on her father and his imbecilic competition with his brother. Their sibling rivalry was a competition that had begun in their childhood. First the Van Helsing brothers had struggled against each other to see who could carry the most coffins. Next had come seeing who could lob garlic cloves the farthest. Later it had been a fierce race to see which brother could invent the newest stake technology. As they’d reached adulthood, Jakob had married Edward’s childhood sweetheart. And to put the icing on the cake, he had snuffed Vlad the Impaler when only in his twenties. The heroic feat had made him the more renowned Van Helsing in supernatural circles, forever garnering Jane’s father’s dislike and envy.

“It’s not your clutches that hold the stake,” Jane retorted incautiously. Her father’s contemptuous glare caused her to wince.

“I am ashamed of you, Jane. Deeply ashamed. You know I would proudly lead the charge if it weren’t for this damn gout! As my daughter, it is your duty to do what I cannot. You have Van Helsing blood flowing through your veins. Get hold of yourself, girl!”

Jane sniffed once and looked away. To the major, all other forms of human endeavor shrank in significance compared to war with the undead.

“We must develop a new strategy,” the major went on. “I won’t let that degenerate Dracul get away. My daughter will be the one that does the demented monster in. Jane, you will just have to keep a stiff upper lip and all that. Go once more into the breach. Once more. Imitate the action of the tiger and summon up the blood.”

“Great, just great,” Jane mumbled. Her father was misquoting Shakespeare again, not to mention speaking of blood. A subject that had pretty much been drained dry.

She listened listlessly as her father formed a new plan which she would be expected to execute. In her head she objected quite loudly, but on the outside she remained the perfect picture of the well-bred lady, listening politely.

Her dog, Spot—a cross between a mongrel and a mutt, with one black circle around his right eye— wandered into the room, sniffing at Jane’s skirts. Jane tenderly patted his head. Spot loved her unconditionally, as her mother had done. There was no feeling quite like being loved like that, she realized.

Her father went on, “This new strategy is brilliant, and you will execute it brilliantly. You will sneak up on the earl, and he will never know what struck him.”

Jane doubted that. She couldn’t resist pointing out, “I imagine having a four-foot stake in the heart would be pretty obvious, most especially to the devious undead.”