Now Comes the Mist

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A ll my life, I have believed one truth: that I am born to marry, to give birth, and then die.

Never in the farthest reaches of my trapped and anguished soul had I ever imagined an alternative. Never in my duality—half of me resigned to the expectations of society and the other half yearning for the grave—had I considered that there might be a way out.

Now, I know that it is possible to cheat death and to live on without bending to the rules of humanity. My soul has heard the music of immortality, of boundless time to do everything I have ever dreamed of doing, and now that it has awakened, it will never sleep again.

Vampyr. Vampire. The words run through my mind like a melody.

Vlad does not summon me for a week after our duet, and outwardly, I am as obedient to Mamma and Mina as they could wish: I sleep all night without leaving my bed, pay calls whenever they ask me to, and pretend to choose flowers and linens for my wedding. But inside, I am reliving that evening over and over again and rejoicing that I will never have to leave the ones I love. Death would have freed me, but also torn me from Mamma, Mina, and Arthur. I would have inflicted upon them the same pain that has tortured me since Papa’s passing.

Now, they will have me forever and I will love them for as long as they live. I can marry Arthur and make him happy, knowing it will not be the end for me. After him, there will be infinite centuries in which I can walk the earth and savor my freedom.

Vlad had spoken carelessly of the limitations of his power, and they would mean just as little to me. I could feed on animal blood and not harm a soul. I could sleep during the day to avoid the sun. And I would never be alone. I would have Vlad to teach me, guide me, and protect me for eternity, and in return, I would be his lover and confidante and stave off his loneliness.

I am not so silly as to imagine perfection, nor would I want anything like an eternal marriage. I desire him, admire him, and yes, I care for him … but he has tendencies that disturb me, not least of all the invasion of my mind at will. If the need arose, we could occupy separate countries or even continents for as many years as we wished, and then find each other again.

I have thought it all over. And I am finally happy, so happy I could dance and sing.

That is what I tell Arthur, even if he does not believe me. He came back to Whitby from London two nights ago and keeps watching me in a thoughtful way. Not once have I made any inappropriate advances toward him, and my new reticence worries him.

“Lucy, are you angry with me?” he asks wistfully.

It is a bright, sunny morning in mid-August, so warm that Mamma proposed breakfast in the garden. And then, so smoothly that it could only have been planned, she and Mina vanished into the house with excuses, leaving me alone with Arthur. I am seated by the rosebush, watching butterflies float by as blithely as if they could never die. But they will die. Everything dies. It is only Vlad who lives on, and I wish to live on beside him.

I smile across the table at Arthur. “Why would I be angry with you after you came all this way, and I missed you so much, and you brought us such lovely gifts?” Thoughtful, generous Arthur had come bearing flowers and trinkets for everyone, even Mina, and had presented me with a sapphire necklace, another heirloom piece from his family’s vault.

“I don’t know,” he says. “You have been quieter than usual. Pensive, I think.”

I laugh. “What should I be pensive for? I am with the people I love best in all the world, it is a beautiful day, and I feel as though I could live forever and ever and ever.” I lean back in my chair and stretch my arms lazily toward the brilliant blue sky.

Arthur relaxes, hearing me laugh. “And you haven’t kissed me once yet,” he says shyly.

“How neglectful of me,” I say playfully. “Come over here and I will make amends.”

He gets up at once and moves around the table, bending down to meet my lips. I breathe in his familiar pine scent, enjoying the feel of his mouth moving gently on mine. He kisses with such consideration, never asking more of me than I give, a sharp contrast to Vlad’s possessiveness. Thinking of Vlad as I kiss Arthur is so jarring that I pull away before I mean to. The concern comes back into Arthur’s expression, and I reach up to touch his face, soothing him.

“I love you,” he says, with such artless truth in his honest hazel eyes that I impulsively wrap my arms around his neck, moved almost to tears. He kneels in the grass beside my chair and gathers me close to him, as he had done the night he had proposed.

I kiss his cheek. “And I love you. I’m sorry for worrying you. I didn’t mean to.”

“I’m sure your mind is occupied by wedding plans. Your mamma tells me you have been busy sending invitations.” Arthur pulls back to look at me fondly, and his gaze falls upon the left side of my neck. “What is this? Did you hurt yourself?”

I press a hand over the skin where Vlad’s scratches have healed but are still visible as red lines. And now I am thinking of Vlad again, damn him, while Arthur is looking at me in that innocent way. “I was petting a neighbor’s cat and it did not like my attentions,” I say, and because the lie sounds thin even to me, I add, to distract him, “Well, darling, how about a stroll into town? I would love to show you around Whitby.”

“Could we go to the cliffs?” he asks eagerly. “The breeze might be cooler there.”

I hesitate. I have not been there with anyone but Vlad all summer, and it almost feels like betraying him to bring Arthur there. But then again, I owe him nothing. And he need not know, for he would likely not be out in all this sunshine. “Let me get my hat,” I say.

Within minutes, Arthur and I are walking arm in arm toward the sea. He prattles on about everything under the sun—our acquaintances in London, his mother’s desire to go abroad again, and rearranging the gardens on his estate. I try to listen and show interest in these everyday subjects that he considers so absorbing, even as I find myself searching the faces of men passing by.

All week, I have only encountered Vlad in the conversation of others.

“The count was at Mrs. Whitaker’s card party last night! What a fine figure of a man.”

“That foreign chap, Count what’s-his-name? From Russia, or some such place. He’s really rather a decent fellow—insisted on paying far too much for my old curricle.”

“At the Parkers’ supper, I asked if he was married, and he spoke most pleasingly for half an hour and quite turned my head around. Never did answer, though.”

“The count seemed upset about poor Diana Edgerton’s disappearance and the fact that she simply up and left without telling anyone or even shutting up her house. The two of them had been friendly, you know. She was the first person in Whitby to whom he spoke.”

When Mamma’s friend had said that, I had pressed my lips tightly together. No one knows I was Vlad’s first friend, long before any other swooning girl. It has been frightfully irritating, wondering if he has not called to me this week because he is with some other woman who caught his eye, perhaps calling her his kindred soul … or considering giving her his gift.

“Lucy, did you hear what I said?” Arthur asks, a bit impatiently.

I bring myself back with a powerful effort. “No. Could you say it again, my love?”

“I only wondered if you would dance with me tonight. That’s all.”

I laugh and kiss the shoulder of his jacket as we walk. “I would dance with you anywhere and at any time you wished,” I say cheerfully. “I would dance with you right now on this path, if you asked me to. But why tonight especially?”

“You really haven’t heard a word of what I said,” he tells me, his brow furrowing. “It’s the Wilcoxes’ ball tonight, of course. I’ve been talking about it for the last five minutes.”

I had forgotten about the damn ball. “I am delighted that you’re escorting me. The Wilcoxes are quite wild to meet you after how much I’ve talked about you! I was only distracted because I was pondering which dress you would think me prettiest in.” I have been flirting for far too long not to know what men like to hear, and I feel Arthur’s unease fade at once.

He looks around to see if anyone is watching, then ducks his head under my hat to kiss me. “You look pretty in everything,” he says softly, and I feel the old quiet tug of longing for him. I hug his arm tight, wishing I could be the simple, uncomplicated girl he deserves. “And I am certain you will look like an angel at our wedding. Only one more month until you are all mine, Lucy, and I am going to make you so happy.”

“You already do,” I say, kissing his shoulder again.

We ascend a steep section of the path and Arthur holds on to my waist to steady me, unaware that I know this climb like the back of my own hand. “Speaking of the ball, I heard there might be some distinguished people attending tonight,” he says. “Did you know you have foreign nobility visiting? Someone mentioned a count from Bulgaria. Or was it Germany?”

My heart seizes. “Yes, Mina and I met him briefly in town one day,” I say offhandedly to hide my confusion. For some reason, I had never imagined Arthur and Vlad crossing paths. And why shouldn’t they? No one would blink an eye at the man I am engaged to marry making the acquaintance of the man I have recently met, and only Vlad and I would know the truth. I wonder if I will be able to hide, on my own face, the memory of his hips framing mine and his eager mouth on my neck. Mamma and Mina can never know. Arthur can never know.

“Would you like to sit down for a while?” Arthur asks.

To my horror, he is pointing directly to the stone bench where Vlad and I meet. “Let’s sit elsewhere,” I say, my cheeks hot with guilt and embarrassment at the prospect of sitting with him where I had kissed and embraced another, thinking it was only a dream. “I don’t like that one.”

“Why not?” he asks, surprised. “It has a wonderful view.”

“Many of the other benches do, too,” I point out.

“And it looks so romantic with the willow branches hanging down, doesn’t it?”

I tug at his arm, nearing desperation now. “Come, let’s go farther down the path.”

“But it looks so nice and cool in the shade of that tree—”

“Arthur, please,” I say, more sharply than I had intended. “I don’t want to sit there. I’m afraid of falling. It makes me nervous to be that close to the cliff’s edge.”

His face is a mixture of hurt and bewilderment. “Would you rather not sit at all?”

“I would prefer to show you around town. The heat is beastly up here, and I want you to see the streets of Whitby at their best.” I take his hand in both of mine and lead him away. He is silent as we walk, still looking wounded and confused, so I whisper, “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Are you?” he asks and does not speak all the way back down.

That night, Mamma, Mina, and I enter the Wilcoxes’ beautiful home, escorted by Arthur. The heat of the day has vanished, and a cool wind is blowing in off the sea, prompting us to bring wraps. We are greeted at the door by Amelia Wilcox, a cheerful, energetic girl about my age who just married this spring. Her husband, Edgar, is a loud, boisterous, and jovial man who is thirty years older than she and whose normal speech is almost always a shout.

“Glad to see you, Audrey!” he bellows at Mamma. “Don’t stand on ceremony! Give your wraps to Desmond. Desmond, don’t make these ladies carry their own things! Miss Murray, a pleasure! And little Lucy, of course! Though not so little anymore.” He scans me appreciatively in my white dress with silver embroidery, the neckline just low enough to tempt the imagination.

Meanwhile, his wife is gazing admiringly at Arthur. “You must be Mr. Holmwood. How coy Lucy is! She didn’t say you were this tall and handsome. Have you chosen a wedding day?”

“The twenty-eighth of September,” Arthur says, blushing.

The ballroom spans the width of the house and boasts ocean-blue walls and mother-of-pearl floors. The musicians play a merry waltz, though not many are dancing yet, preferring instead to mingle or partake in the refreshments. Everyone is dressed in their finest, and my vain heart—not to be quenched even in my almost-married state—rejoices to see that most women have chosen jewel-toned gowns, making my white one stand out to anyone looking for me.

My ever-popular mamma is swept away into a group of gossiping ladies, and Arthur finds chairs for Mina and me before going off in search of champagne for us.

“What a dreadful crowd,” Mina says, smoothing the skirt of her forest-green gown. “I would have much rather stayed home and waited for the mail. Sometimes letters come late.”

I have been scanning the faces without finding the one I seek, but at her words, I turn to her and take her hand. “I am certain Jonathan will write soon,” I say with a twinge of guilt for having been so absorbed in my own affairs that I had all but forgotten hers. “But I know he loves you very much and would want you to laugh and dance, not stay at home all alone.”

Mina laughs. “Who would ask me to dance?”

“I would,” says a deep voice.

Vlad is standing in front of us. All the other men are wearing black tonight, but he is dressed in crimson velvet, drawing admiring glances from everyone in the room. He gives an elegant bow and extends a hand to Mina. Even though he is ignoring me once again, I can feel how aware of me he is, especially after our evening of playing music in the dark.

“Miss Murray, may I have the honor of your first dance?” he asks.

Mina turns red. “You are very kind, Count, but—”

“Forgive me. I understand you are engaged to a fortunate man, and if he were here, I would ask his permission,” Vlad says gently. “This would be a dance between friends only.”

She smiles at his charming, old-fashioned courtesy. “You are very thoughtful, but—”

Arthur returns at that moment with champagne, and he and Vlad look at each other. I cannot help fidgeting in my chair at how amusing and embarrassing it is to see them together. They are almost of an equal height, but Arthur resembles a young and gangly calf beside a powerful bull, standing next to the imposing older man.

The men bow and introduce themselves, Vlad delivering the names and titles he had given Mina and me that day in town. “I met Miss Murray and your lovely bride-to-be the other day, and as I hope to continue the conversation, I am asking Miss Murray to dance.”

“Ah, Miss Murray! I see,” Arthur says, looking relieved.

But Mina shakes her head. “I’m very sorry, but I do not wish to dance with anyone but my fiancé. Tonight or any other night.”

“Of course. I understand completely.” Vlad looks at Arthur. “Well, here is a fiancé whose permission I may ask, though I daresay your Lucy will have the same misgivings.”

Arthur looks taken aback, and I know it is not lost on him that Mina is Miss Murray while I am Lucy . “It’s her decision to make,” he says uneasily, and they both look at me, him with apprehension and Vlad with an ironic smile. They have put me in the position of openly choosing between them and having to be disloyal either to one or the other.

But I have never liked the games men make us play.

“My first dance,” I say archly, “will be given to he who amuses me the most. So I suggest you each think of something clever to say or do. A joke, perhaps, or a little jig?”

Mina utters a shocked laugh. “Lucy, they are gentlemen. Not dancing monkeys!”

Arthur looks bewildered, but Vlad says at once, his lips twitching, “I know a secret about two people in this room. One has lived for far too long and the other has not lived nearly enough, yet they are as alike as petals on the same porcelain rose.”

“Is this a riddle, Count?” Mina asks, intrigued. “Why a porcelain rose and not fresh?”

“Because a porcelain rose lasts much, much longer,” I say, and Vlad’s eyes flash at me with humor and approval. “Arthur, my dear, the count has presented a riddle as his way of amusing me. What do you have to offer this evening?”

But Arthur is not in the mood. He looks down at his shoes, frustrated by a conversation he does not understand. “I have nothing clever enough. She is yours, Count.”

“Mine? What a generous man you are, Mr. Holmwood,” Vlad says with a wolfish smile.

I get up and take Arthur’s hand. “I will save every other dance for you, my love,” I say, and he gives a gruff nod and sits down next to Mina. And then I am free to take Vlad’s hand in front of my friend and my fiancé. “Shall we?”

Vlad leads me to the center of the ballroom, where five other couples are dancing. Even so, I know instinctively that everyone is watching the two of us, and that in Vlad’s arms, I must look as fragile and dainty as a flower plucked by his brutal hand. The silver threads in my gown catch the light as we move. He is as divine at the waltz as he is at everything else, which is unsurprising now that I know he has had multiple lifetimes to perfect every skill.

“Your fiancé is a very earnest, forthright young man,” he says. “Full of feeling and nobility and, I believe, very deep love for you.”

“Arthur is the best of men.” My tone is almost defensive, perhaps because of the dry sarcasm I hear in Vlad’s words. “He is honest and true, and I am proud to be his.”

He chuckles. “How loyal of you. Perhaps you are more like Miss Murray than I thought.”

“Even though I am only your second choice?”

Vlad looks down at me, his eyes as affectionate as they are pleased. He likes the touch of jealousy in my voice. “I asked Mina first because I knew she would refuse me. I cannot seek you out too obviously, or else I would make an enemy of your dashing Arthur.” His hand on my waist pulls me a bit closer. “But you are my first choice, Lucy. Always my first.”

“Then why have you not called me to you?” I ask, hating myself for the yearning in my question. I am not often ashamed to want to be with Vlad, but it feels different when Arthur is in the room with us. “I waited all week. I wondered if you had found another beautiful widow.”

He laughs. “I have had business to attend to. Purchasing a property in England comes with a great deal of paperwork. Believe me, I would have much rather spent my nights with you.” He strokes his thumb over my hand. “I have missed you. It surprises even me how much.”

“Then call to me tonight. I need to see you.”

“And what of your Arthur?”

I feel once more the clench of shame in my gut. “We will only talk, you and I,” I say decisively. “It is no betrayal of him to have a simple conversation with you, is it?”

“Only talk?” Vlad repeats, his smile widening. “We do talk well together, don’t we, Lucy? But we do other things well together, too.” His thumb slowly strokes my hand again, and the aching, delicious memory of it on my breast makes me swallow hard.

“You are here in the flesh now,” I say, looking straight at him. “It was different when you were on a ship far away and it felt like some sort of fever dream. But now, when I kiss you, I am kissing you … not whatever form of you I was kissing on the cliffs.”

“Oh, you were kissing me,” he says with knowing, vicious delight. “I can separate my physical self, one half in a state of rest elsewhere, one half wandering through the mist to you. I have always been with you. Every kiss, every touch has been real, and you know that deep down, no matter how you tried to tell yourself that it was just a dream. It is part of my attraction.”

It is only a dream, and no one need know what we do here.

My cheeks burn at the truth in what he says, and the memory of all the excuses I have made to be with him. “I have promised to marry Arthur, and I will be his wife no matter what.”

Vlad shrugs. “What does that matter? I care not for human vows. They hold no sanctity for me. What you want from me transcends something as ineffectual as a promise.”

“And what do you imagine I want from you?” I ask.

“The world,” he says, laughing as he twirls me in the dance.

“And you can give that to me, can you?” I meant to sound tart and flirtatious, retreating into the realm of what I know for comfort. But the question comes out with so much longing that even Vlad’s face grows serious. “I am consumed by what you told me that night. About being a vampire.” I whisper the word, but still, there is something as thrilling and dangerous about speaking it in company as publicly kissing Vlad fully on the lips would be.

“You truly aren’t afraid of me, then?” he asks, shaking his head as though marveling at my na?veté. “I am an undead being who could crack your skull between my fingers like a nut. A monster who drained every last drop of blood from a helpless woman right before your eyes.”

I look at the powerful hand cradling mine and the other curved around my waist, soft and protective. “I am afraid. But I also sense that you care for me, Vlad.”

There is something in his eyes I cannot quite read, perhaps pity or regret. “Do not make the mistake,” he says softly, “of ever thinking you are safe with me. For those who amuse and interest me the most, and those I regard most highly, are the ones in the greatest peril.”

A sharp stab of jealousy pierces me. “Like Diana Edgerton?”

“She?” He raises a thick black eyebrow. “She was food.”

I press my lips to restrain a shocked laugh as we dance past Mamma and her friends, all avidly watching us. “You told me you have created others like yourself before. How do you decide who is food and who is a companion, and how is it done?”

“Food is lonely widows and unfortunate crew members, easily gone and never missed.”

A new dance begins. Around us, the couples change partners, but Vlad and I do not let go of each other, which would have been proper. I know that Mamma and Mina will reprimand me and that Arthur will be forlorn, but at this moment I need information like I need air. I look back to where Arthur is sitting and try to tell him, with only my eyes and my smile, how much I love him, how sorry I am to break my promise to save the rest of my dances for him, and how I will make amends. He does not look like he believes me, and I cannot blame him.

“Mrs. Edgerton died,” I say, turning back to Vlad. “You drained her. But if you had wanted her to be a companion … perhaps you would have left some blood behind? Drank only a little, but not all of it? It’s as easy as that?”

Vlad’s laugh is full of shadows, though his pleasure is unmistakable. He likes me to be curious and awed by him, and he likes to shape my innocent mind. “ Easy is not the word I would use,” he says. “I bite my victim multiple times, taking care never to drain them. And when they are sufficiently infected with my venom, they must drink my blood and make their first kill before the next sunrise. That, my subversive little Lucy, is how it is done.”

I shudder, and his eyes glitter with approval, thinking I am terrified and disturbed. But if he were to probe my thoughts and inflict my mind with that sharp, tingling pain, he would know the truth—that I am imagining the multiple times in which his mouth would find my neck and kiss me, bite me, drink me. I am picturing his hands all over my body and his teeth setting me free.

Endless time in which to be with my family, who would never lose me. Endless time to savor the world’s delights, to wander, to learn, to live as I never imagined I could.

I tighten my grip on his shoulder. “Being a vampire is being more alive than ever, for you are more than a man. You have powers unchecked and you are beholden to no rules, least of all those imposed by life and death.”

He raises an eyebrow, pleased by the awe in my voice.

“Don’t you see? Vlad, it is everything, everything I want. What you have is what I desire for myself.” I see his smile vanish so suddenly that I miss a step in the dance. “What is it?”

The satisfaction and approval on his face have been replaced by an icy cold so treacherous that it reaches deep into my bones. “What did you say?” he asks, very low.

I do not understand the hatred in his gaze, not when he had looked so tender and amused a moment ago, but I cannot take my words back. So I summon every last drop of courage before his glacial, ferocious eyes and say, “Vlad, make me like you. Make me your companion.”

He drops his hands and we stand still, staring at each other, surrounded by swirling dancers. Fury radiates from him like a wildfire, but when he speaks, it is in his softest voice yet. “You dare to command me? You dare to demand this of me?”

I take a step back, frightened and confused. “Of course not. I only meant … I …”

He is looking at me the way I should have looked at him when he murdered the widow, as though nothing on earth could be more wrong or monstrous or disgusting. “I,” he says coldly, “do not take orders from you.”

“Vlad, please—”

Without another word, he walks away, leaving me alone on the ballroom floor.