Influence & Grace | Mr. Darcy [PPZ]

IV

four | 04.

FEAST OF FLESH.

    Mary fled to the courtyard, her breaths coming in sharp, ragged bursts as she pushed through the doors and into the cool night air.

    The courtyard was scattered with the remnants of the evening's revelers — small clusters of people chatting quietly, their laughter drifting like smoke through the crisp air.

    She made her way to a fire pit at the center of the garden, the warmth of the flames licking at her skin as she stopped abruptly, her hand pressing against her forehead as though she could physically will away the whirlwind of emotions churning inside her.

    She muttered a string of curses under her breath, words she had scarcely imagined herself capable of uttering, her voice trembling with the force of her anger and humiliation.

    "Mr. Darcy." She spat, the name bitter on her tongue. She exhaled sharply, her breath visible in the cold air. "You insufferable, arrogant prick."

"Fitzwilliam Darcy? I quite detest the man myself." A feminine voice cut through her tirade, and Mary's heart lurched.

    She spun around, hastily swiping at the tears that had begun to spill down her cheeks, desperate to erase any evidence of her distress.

    It would be intolerably humiliating to be caught crying over the callous words of a man she barely knew.

    The speaker was shrouded in shadow, but her tone was laced with disdain. "So high and so conceited that I can't endure him for a moment."

    Mary nodded reflexively. "Indeed, I almost—" She turned fully, her voice faltering as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. She froze, the words dying on her lips.

The woman standing before her was not the confidante she had imagined, not some sympathetic soul venting her shared loathing of Mr. Darcy.

No, the figure in front of her was grotesque, a chilling parody of humanity.

    Her face was a horrific mask of decay, patches of skin hanging loosely from her skull, her eyes sunken and lifeless.

    She looked to be about her mother's age, but her visage was that of death itself-twisted, ravaged, and undeniably undead.

Mary's blood ran cold, her heart pounding so violently she thought it might burst from her chest. She took a stumbling step backward, her legs trembling as if they might give way beneath her.

"You're... you're undead." She breathed, the words barely more than a whisper, terror constricting her throat. The creature—once a woman— lifted a skeletal hand to her lips, the gesture eerily delicate for something so monstrous.