Steve Hockensmith - Pride and Prejudice and Zombies - Dawn of the Dreadfuls

“She’s what ?” Lydia blurted out. She looked keenly disappointed that her sister wouldn’t be joining her on the floor for a round of dand-baithaks .

Master Hawksworth strode over to his sheathed katana, took it down from the peg from which it hung, and began strapping it on. “Prepare yourselves. We go on patrol.”

“On patrol?” Kitty said. “You mean as in . . . looking for zombies?”

The Master closed his eyes tightly for a second. It wasn’t quite a flinch, but it was more than a blink.

Ahhh , Mary thought, a warrior and a gentleman .

“‘Unmentionables,’ Kitty,” she chided. “Don’t forget: A young lady doesn’t use the Zed Word.”

“Yes, well . . . should we get our swords so we can lop off more unmentionables’ heads?” Lydia asked.

Master Hawksworth blink-flinched again. “Your swords, your maces, your throwing stars, your pikes. Whatever you prefer.” He turned to Mary. “Your father tells me you’ve taken an interest in his flintlocks of late.”

“Yes, Master! It’s true, Master! I have, Master!”

“Bring one.”

“Thank you, Master! I will, Master! The finest we have is a French dueling pistol. It’s in the house, in my room. I’ve been sleeping with it, as you instructed we should with our favorites. I always start out with it under my pillow, yet many’s the time I’ve awakened to find myself stroking it in my—”

“Yes, yes, fine,” Master Hawksworth said. “Collect it and let us depart.”

“Right away, Master!”

Mary was already flying out of the dojo when she realized Master Hawksworth had contradicted himself again: He usually had little use for firearms, and more than once he’d grumbled about the “contemptible weakness” of the young doctor who could rescue Elizabeth only with the aid of a flintlock pistol.

Normally, she would have filed this away to be brought to the Master’s attention later. (Again, she wouldn’t be questioning him but merely pointing out where his teachings might be made more uniform.) Outside, however, she found awaiting her such a surprise, even her well-honed ability to retain a failing for future comment was, for once, overthrown.

A dozen soldiers were loitering under an alder on the lawn, some sitting, some laughing, some smoking pipes. When they caught sight of Mary heading for the house, they fell silent, watching her with expressions that seemed either slyly insinuating or strangely pitying.

Mary was tempted to shoo them off the property as one might chase away a stray cat trying to make rude use of one’s flower beds. It was hard to imagine how she might do this while maintaining her own ladylike grace, however, and she instead resolved to tell Capt. Cannon of the incident the next time she saw him. He seemed like such a dignified man, despite his less-than-dignified means of locomotion, and she couldn’t imagine he’d approve of his troops loafing on decent citizens’ lawns when they should be out hunting dreadfuls.

When Mary stepped inside the house, she found another surprise awaiting her: The usually industrious Mrs. Hill was sulking in a chair in the foyer.

“Tell me, Hill,” Mary said, “were you aware that a group of soldiers was—”

“I don’t know anything about anything!” the housekeeper cried, and she hopped to her feet and trundled off down the hall. “Or anyone! Not anymore!”

As Mary watched her disappear into the kitchen, too stunned to do more than gawp, she became aware of a voice droning away in the drawing room—a low, gravelly, indisputably male voice that was most certainly not her father’s.

“Oh! Mark you yon pair, in the sunshine of youth,” she heard it say as she moved closer, gliding silently ninja-style without even realizing she was doing so. “Love twin’d round their childhood his flow’rs as they grew. They flourish awhile, in the season of truth, till chill’d by the winter of Love’s last adieu!”

It made no sense whatsoever to Mary, and she could but conclude it was the ravings of a madman.

“Sweet lady!” the voice went on. “Why thus doth a tear steal its way down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue?”

Mary shrieked out her battle cry and burst through the door, certain that her mother was being menaced by a slavering reprobate.

And Mrs. Bennet was indeed in the drawing room—though it was Mary who shocked and unnerved her, not the three men huddled around her chaise longue: Cuthbert Cannon in his wheelbarrow, Left Limb on bended knee with a single rose in his hands, and Right Limb holding up a copy of something called Hours of Idleness so the captain could orate from its pages.

“Mary! My heavens, you give me palpitations!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, fluttering her hands over her chest. “Why must you come stomping in here like an Indian elephant?”

“I . . . I . . . I thought something was amiss.”

“Amiss? Whatever could be amiss, child? Our friend Captain Cannon was simply paying a perfectly respectable afternoon call on your father and, since Mr. Bennet is elsewhere, paid his compliments to me instead and, as sometimes will happen when two people engage in harmless conversation long enough, the talk turned to literary matters, the captain being an enthusiast, it turns out, of fine English verse, and, having as he did a particularly superior volume upon his person, it was proposed that he favor me with a reading from it, which he was doing, quite innocently, when you came barging in to startle your poor, long-suffering mother into convulsions.”

“I’m sorry, Mamma. And I apologize to you for my most uncouth intrusion, Captain. If I’d but known—”

“Well, now you know, so why don’t you run along and leave us genteel people in peace?” Mrs. Bennet said. “I’m sure your master must have some new bit of savagery to teach you out in his hojo.”

“Dojo, Mother. I apologize again, Captain. Good day.”

Mary backed out of the room and closed the door. It didn’t occur to her to wonder why one of the captain’s Limbs should be holding a rose until she was halfway up the stairs, and by then her thoughts were already racing on to something infinitely more important: the need to get outside with her flintlock before Master Hawksworth grew displeased by her delay.

She found the Master and her sisters waiting out by the road. Kitty had her sword at her side and nunchucks strapped to her back; Lydia carried a staff, and throwing stars hung from bandoliers criss-crossing her chest. Master Hawksworth, to Mary’s surprise, was holding one of her father’s old crossbows, bolt loaded and bow string pulled back.

“I’m ready, Master,” Mary said. “Where shall we begin our patrol?”

Master Hawksworth turned to the west. “That way.”

Kitty and Lydia leered at each other.

He was taking them toward Netherfield Park.

The Master had the girls fan out and move ahead of him. “So that I might observe how you observe,” he said. Accordingly, Mary did her utmost to radiate alertness, keeping her back straight and her head moving from side to side as she scanned the shaded bramble on each side of the road. Kitty did the same, matching Mary’s slow, steady pace.

Lydia, on the other hand, kept pushing out ahead of the others with a step so lively she was practically skipping.

“May I ask something, Master?” she said.

Mary heard Master Hawksworth blow out a long breath. She would’ve thought it a sigh from anyone else, but from the Master such a show of weariness and human weakness was out of the question. So he was just . . . exhaling. Heavily.

“If your question is about the deadly arts ,” he grated out, “you may ask it.”

“Oh, it is.” Lydia spun around and began walking backward, facing the Master. “Why have you brought us out on patrol today?”