Jane and the Damned by Janet Mullany

hid the knife in the folds of her gown and waited. She could smell his blood now that he was closer, hear the excited thrum of his heart. As though afraid she backed against the railings that led down to the front area of her aunt and uncle‧s house.
    He laughed and lunged toward her. He was against her now, almost overwhelming her with his stink and lust and the heatof his blood, grabbing at her skirts. She raised one hand and ripped at his stock and jacket, tearing the fabric—how strong she was, how powerful—and lunged for his neck beneath the greasy pomade-scented black hair.
    Now she was the one who attacked. He yelled in fear and the musket clattered to the ground.
    “Silence, s‧il vous plait!”
she hissed at him, looking into his eyes as blood pulsed from his neck—what a waste!—and to her relief his expression became dreamy and distant. He slackened in her grip as she drank, blood spilling over them both, darkening her gown and apron, his boots scrabbling on the flagstones for purchase until he collapsed beneath her.
    Astride him, she raised her head to gasp for breath and he came to life beneath her, his eyes wide with fear and rage, while he cursed and heaved. She remembered the knife as he gripped her throat—he was strong, but not as strong as she—and jabbed it into him. The blade struck something hard and jarred her arm. His terror became overwhelming, and she saw a farm and apple trees blooming in the spring and …
    “Maman. Maman.”
His eyes glazed over, he shuddered and the last of his blood pumped out.
    “Forgive me,” she said, too late. She rose and stepped away. The knife was buried in his side and after a moment‧s hesitation she bent and removed it. She swiped her hand over her mouth and straightened her skirts and the apron, heavy and sodden with blood. As ravenous as she had been she seemed to have wasted as much blood as she had drunk, and the taste of it was strong with garlic—well, what else would she expect from a Frenchman? But weren‧t they—her kind—afraid of garlic? She stared down at the dead soldier, the man who had called for his mother as he died—and hardly a man; the monstrous, threatening Frenchman had been little more than a boy.
    She should close his eyes at least—but no, to do so might arouse suspicion if anyone should care about one dead soldier who was not an officer.
    “Did he hurt you, miss?” She whirled to see a group of men approaching. Some of them were armed; all of them looked fierce and disheveled. If she had not drunk she would have been frightened by their appearance, but she was full of courage and strength. They stared at her with horror and curiosity.
    “No, I—I‧m well. I stabbed him.”
    “Go home, miss. This is no place for you,” one of the men said. “The French are coming in on the London Road.”
    She opened her fist and showed them her knife. “I killed this one. I‧ll kill another.”
    The men exchanged glances and a muttered conversation arose. “We‧ve women on the barricade now. Let her come … But she‧s a lady, you can tell by her speech … She‧s
something
… We can‧t leave her here … For sure, she‧s deranged … No, I tell you, she‧s one of
them
…”
    The man who‧d spoken first to Jane held up a hand to quiet his companions and Jane recognized him now—he was the apothecary who‧d sold her father a vial of what she suspected was a panacea that very morning. “Come if you wish, ma‧am, so long as I have your word you‧ll not turn on us. You remember me, I trust? William Thomas, apothecary.”
    “What the devil could she do? She‧s only a girl,” another of the men said.
    To her relief Mr. Thomas did not attempt an explanation, but pushed his spectacles more firmly onto his nose. Jane saw he had a musket in one hand and a large pestle, a formidable club of marble, tucked beneath his arm. “Come along with us, ma‧am. Time is wasting. They‧ve held the Frenchies off so far, but we‧ve