Hey, guys. This chapter gave me a lot of trouble. It's a rough time of year for me, and that makes writing in general pretty hard. But I'd also waxed and waned about some pretty important decisions with the plot for a while. My outline deviated from my original idea for the story at this point, and I'd considered making some last-minute deviations. There were so many possibilities! Wouldn't it be neat if some day I revisited this story as a choose-your-own adventure, and got to explore all those other options? In the end I went with my initial idea. We'll hopefully get more insight next time as to the motivation and consequences behind the decision made in this chapter. Anyway, Merry Xmas to those who celebrate. -NH

Hideous fangs erupted suddenly, from where only moments before comparatively dull canines were in place. Elizabeth retreated immediately across the room, stopping only when she stumbled against the farthest wall. She pressed her hands over her mouth to suppress a scream. She could not risk waking the household like this.

The pounding of her heart hammered in her ears as she waited, but nothing happened. Mr. Darcy continued to lay motionless, as he had been doing since she had entered the room. Comforted slightly by his lack of movement, her thoughts began to race as she contemplated what to do next.

She ought to wake her father and show him this discovery. She could prove to him that everything she had said was true. He might even apologize for treating her so harshly before. What would he do, though, after that? Send for the magistrate? The militia? Who handles such things? And what, then, would become of Mr. Darcy?

She held no particular fondness for the man, but he had done nothing to warrant such a fate as would surely befall him then. He had been attacked. He was a victim. He had harmed no one—not yet. But would he, when he awoke? If he awoke?

Why, if his injuries were now healed, had he not recovered yet? Mr. Darcy was now a vampire, he ought to be nocturnal. He should have become active by now. She wondered how much energy had been required to heal his wounds. Was he weakened? Her stomach turned as she thought that he might be in need of a meal. Mr. Darcy, a vampire. A guest in her home, under her father's roof. He might prove to be more of a threat than the one that had attacked him outdoors! He could kill everyone she loved as they slept in their beds.

She thought, perhaps, that the kindest, wisest course of action would be to kill him as he slept, before he or anyone else became aware of his tragic curse. But she had no convenient wooden stake with which to impale him. The sun had long since set, and would not return to aid her for many hours yet. She had neither the stomach nor the strength required to decapitate a grown man. How long would it take for him to starve to death?

Elizabeth slumped forward, burying her face in her hands. Why should she be the only one to have seen what she did, to know what she does? Why should she feel so responsible for Mr. Darcy's fate? She had not been the one to put him into this situation. Why should she not just walk away and leave him now? He did not seem to be a threat, being unable to move in his bed. He might waste away and die without anyone knowing the truth.

Elizabeth mustered her courage and stepped forward to the bed once more. She gazed down at Mr. Darcy, attempting to summon every unkind feeling she had ever felt towards the gentleman. Her lip quivered as she, rather frustratingly, discovered that she could find nothing but compassion.

Her determination further wavered when she considered how his young sister would feel when she heard the news. How terrible it would be, to read word that your only brother was grievously injured or dead. How much worse it would be for her to discover that he was now a monster!

Elizabeth's attention was instantly arrested by the rattling of a nearby window. The curtains were drawn to keep out the chill.

"It is just the wind," she quietly attempted to convince herself.

She moved towards the window, reaching nervously. What if it was not just the wind? What if it was something more sinister? What would she do if she pulled that curtain back, and something was there? What if it was the vampire from this morning? What if it was a whole coven of the creatures? She was defenseless. Her family was defenseless. All of Hertfordshire, defenseless!

Her stomach turned as she snatched away the heavy fabric, half-convinced she would be faced with a predator's glowing red eyes. There was nothing but blackness on the other side of the glass, yet she was not relieved. She considered her situation once more. She turned back to the bed.

"Mr. Darcy," she stated, "I am considering something very foolish."

He, of course, did not respond.

She slipped out of the room for a moment, and returned wearing her favorite silver cross and a fresh look of resolve. In her hand she carried a sharp knife. With great trepidation, she approached. She winced as she used the knife to slice one of the fingers on her left hand. Blood was drawn instantly.

She spoke to herself, "I do not see why I should be tasked with deciding what should become of you, sir. You may yet be perfectly capable of making the decision."

She tilted her hand, and blood pooled to her fingertip. Gravity sent one dark drop downwards, followed by another, and another.

Six or seven drops fell into Mr. Darcy's mouth before she was satisfied and snatched her injured hand away. She stepped back once more to the far wall, where she brandished her small knife defensively as she waited.