Now Comes the Mist

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

F or days, I am sicker than I have ever been in my life. I slip in and out of consciousness, raving, feverish, and weak as a newborn. An impossible thirst takes hold of my being, but no matter how much water I drink, it cannot be satisfied. The wounds on my throat throb with constant pain, and colorful lights dance in my vision whenever I open my eyes to see another face hovering over me. I recognize the elderly town doctor, looking utterly clueless; Mina with dark shadows under her eyes; and Mamma, weeping inconsolably over my frail body. But most of the time, it is Arthur who is there, kneeling beside my bed with his weary head against me.

“Lucy, don’t leave me,” he says brokenly. “Don’t go away when I love you so.”

Their grief is unbearable to me, worse than the pain of Vlad’s bite, and in my moments of clarity, I curse his name with everything I have left. It is all his fault. I asked for kindness, for friendship, for a taste of immortality, and instead he gave me what I fear more than death itself: the devastation of having to watch my loved ones mourn me. I cannot, will not forgive him.

But then, one morning, I wake to find my head is a bit clearer, though light from lack of food and fresh air. My thirst has abated, and my stomach is loudly proclaiming its hunger.

Mina, who has been sitting on a chair nearby, hurries over to feel my forehead. Her face is drawn, exhausted, and white as paper. “Thank God! Your fever has broken. We thought you were going to … The doctor warned that you might …” She collapses into sobs that shake her body, and I wrap my arms around her, holding on as tightly as if she were a buoy in the sea. We stay that way for a long time before she pulls away to look at me. “How do you feel?”

“Never better,” I say feebly.

She laughs and kisses my cheek. “I would run and call Arthur and your mamma this minute, but I hate to disturb their rest, especially Arthur’s. How that man does love you. I thought he and I would come to blows when I insisted that he go get some sleep.”

I smile at the thought of demure Mina and mild Arthur coming to blows. “I am glad to have you to myself for a little while. How long have I been ill?”

“Three days and nights. It was terrifying to see you so pale and still when we got home from the party. But the count graciously explained everything—”

“He was here? You invited him in?” I try to sit up in my alarm, but it brings on a wave of dizziness so nauseating that I am forced to lie back down at once.

“No, he spoke to us at the party.” She smooths her cool hand over my brow. “Do you remember going out to the terrace with him? After some time, we went to look for you, but you were both gone. We were frantic until he returned and told us an animal attacked you.” She looks thoughtful. “I may have been wrong about him. There was always something in his eyes and manner of speaking that seemed mocking … but that night, he was so gentlemanly.”

I struggle to keep my face neutral. “Yes, I’m sure he was.”

“He made a lovely apology to Arthur for keeping you for two dances,” Mina says. “He said he was enjoying your conversation so much, and you only stayed with him to be polite, and it served him right that the second dance was interrupted when he saw a large dog outside.”

“A dog?”

Mina nods. “Do you recall that unfortunate ship? The Demeter ? People saw a black dog jump off, so the count assumed it was the same one and went out to investigate, as he has a way with animals. You bravely followed to see if you could help despite his protests. We were relieved to hear this, Arthur most of all. Forgive me, Lucy, but it did rather look as though you and the count had had a lovers’ quarrel. However, I knew that could not be.”

I offer a weak smile at Vlad’s deft spinning of the truth. “What happened then?”

“On the terrace, the dog attacked you. It bit you just there.” Mina indicates the left side of my throat. “Your gown was so bloody that the count did not want to call for help and terrify everyone, so he took you straight home in his carriage. He knocked and left at once, to protect you from gossip, and then came back to assure us that you were safe.”

“How noble of him.”

“It was noble,” she says uncertainly, hearing my sarcasm. “He seemed very upset indeed that you had been hurt. I think you may have caught his fancy, darling, so I felt the need to remind him that you were engaged. He seemed amused, but grateful.”

Yes, I can believe that. How his eyes must have shone as my righteous friend protected my honor. The perfect woman of the age. My hunger fades into exhaustion as emotions overtake me. I have lied to my loved ones, begged Vlad to bite me, and lain so close to death that I can still feel the grip of its fingers. In my fervent hope to save my family pain, I only ended up inflicting it. “I am tired, Mina,” I whisper, closing my eyes. “I would like to sleep again.”

Later that night, I am roused from my troubled slumber by a noise. Harriet dozes in the chair nearby with her mending in her lap, but she is not snoring or making a sound. My room is dark and peaceful, and the door is securely locked, as I had requested. I close my eyes, ready to drift off again, when I hear a tapping at the window. I turn my head, feeling light and buoyant and dizzy, and see shadows moving against the night sky. Are they birds or branches shifting in the wind? Or are they the wings of a great black bat, cutting through the heavy mist?

My mind feels unmoored, unsteady. I am caught between waking and the land of dreams as the shadow lingers a moment, then flits away. I fall back into a sleep full of disturbing visions: of bleeding profusely on a dark terrace, of running through the mist, of searching for Vlad and feeling his presence like trailing notes of dark perfume. When I am awake, I may hate him and curse him and think of him chaining Jonathan up in a castle far away—but in my dreams, I long ceaselessly for him. I miss the kind and gentle Vlad who listened to my troubles, who held me and understood me and seemed to be the very last person on earth who would ever hurt me.

But he did hurt me. And I told him I never wanted to see him again.

When I wake in the morning, dazed and delirious, I am sobbing as though my heart will break. Arthur hurries over and gathers me close as I babble over and over, “I am soiled. I am dirty. I do not deserve you.” I cling to him, shaking with sobs as he comforts me, his face almost grey with worry and distress. I feel Mina’s cool hand on my forehead and hear her say, “I don’t understand it. She was better yesterday,” before I sink back into oblivion.

On the fourth evening of my illness, I open my eyes to see a familiar man talking to Arthur as he slips out of a traveling coat. His smooth, unlined face crinkles in a smile when he sees that I am awake and there is something so like dear Papa in his handsome, olive-skinned countenance that I smile back and weakly reach my hand out to him.

He takes it and gives it a kind squeeze. “You remember me, then, Miss Westenra?”

“Dr. Van Helsing,” I whisper. “And it’s Lucy, please.”

“It has been some time since that dinner with our friend Jack Seward, hasn’t it? Where you and I spoke, most cheerfully, of death. But death is not welcome here,” he adds hastily, seeing Arthur’s alarm. “Not with me ready to fight it off with everything in my power. I came as soon as Jack told me of Mr. Holmwood’s telegram for help. He could not be spared from the asylum at present, so here I am.” His calm, fatherly manner puts me at ease, and even the pain in my throat subsides as he takes the chair beside my bed.

I hold on tight to his hand. “You traveled all the way from Amsterdam just for me?”

“Thank you, sir,” Arthur says fervently. “We know it was a long journey.”

“Pah! Thirteen hours on a train and a boat is nothing. I would have come a much greater distance, after the kindness Miss Lucy and her mamma showed me.” Dr. Van Helsing speaks in a light, comfortable tone, but I can see his physician’s sensibilities turning on. His keen eyes look between each of mine as his hands feel my forehead and jaw, pressing here and there. He leans in to examine the left side of my throat. “I hear you were attacked by a dog. Mr. Holmwood tells me it has been terrorizing people in town. It killed another dog this week, and also some cattle. Ripped them open from throat to belly, drained them of blood, and left them where they lay.”

“Truly? They were drained?” I ask, surprised by the revelation that Vlad is feeding on animals. Perhaps he only wishes to lie low and evade suspicion after my attack. I do not believe him to be penitent for what he has done to me … but I cannot be certain.

Arthur throws the doctor a disapproving glance. “Sir, she has been in and out of consciousness for days. Perhaps we ought not to upset her with these violent details.”

Dr. Van Helsing hums a noncommittal response. His fingers apply light, steady pressure around my wounds. “Does this hurt at all, Lucy? When I press … so?”

“A little,” I say, wincing.

“Two large, long, and very sharp fangs,” he says in a low voice, as though to himself. “The skin is warm around the injury and quite red. I see stark-white circles around these deep holes of red. I’m afraid you may have an infection, my poor young friend.”

I almost laugh at his use of the word. If only he knew. But I can only draw in a few shallow, ragged breaths, which attracts his attention at once.

“Do you have trouble breathing?”

“My lungs feel like …” Unable to find the words, I place a hand over my chest and press down to mimic a heavy weight. “I feel it most when I am awake.”

Dr. Van Helsing sits back, his face thoughtful. “Your mamma tells me you have eaten nothing for days. And I learned from Miss Murray that you were extremely thirsty until your fever broke. Your body is not overly warm, aside from the area of injury. Can you sit up?”

“Every time I try, I feel so faint.” I look at Arthur standing beside him, his face drawn and sorrowful, and feel a pang of fear. “Do you think I am dying, Doctor?”

“You? A young lady of nineteen in the peak of health?” Dr. Van Helsing waves away my question, but I see in his eyes that there is a great deal of thought happening. “Your heart is strong. I felt that at once in your pulse. The dizziness, the light-headedness, the pallor … these are signs of significant blood loss. But you are staying awake longer, which I find encouraging. Your appetite will return soon, but until then, eat something even if you are not hungry. Your body needs fuel. A small bowl of broth, perhaps, which Mr. Holmwood can fetch for you?”

“Right away.” Arthur leaves immediately, glad for something to do.

The doctor’s eyes find mine, grave and focused. “Now that we are alone, Miss Lucy, allow me to be frank. I have treated many ailments in my career and have seen patients with animal bites before. But this, I’m afraid, is no animal bite. At least, not that of a dog. I don’t wish to distress you with too much information, but—”

“Please, Doctor, you may speak plainly,” I say, my curiosity rising at what he might guess.

Dr. Van Helsing nods. “Very well. An agitated dog will bite with both jaws. But let us play … what is the English phrase? Devil’s advocate. Even if the dog bit with only the top jaw, there would be punctures from the other teeth due to the shape of the mouth. And here I see the marks of two teeth. Two teeth only.” He cocks his head. “What did the dog look like? Can you describe it for me?”

I think again of that evening. As the servants brought me inside, I had glanced at the dark street outside the window to find Vlad gone and a dog in his place, huge and hulking, watching me from the mist. Both Vlad and the dog had been on the Demeter , yet I had not remembered to ask him about it. Was it a denizen of his, perhaps? A scrap of his soul torn from his body?

“It was like a wolf in shape and size,” I say, and Dr. Van Helsing leans forward and closes his eyes to listen more carefully. “I do not remember the color. It was too dark to see, perhaps. The dog had pointed ears, I think. It was large and shaggy, and … and very thin.”

I have stopped speaking, but the doctor remains in the same position, eyes shut and brow furrowed with thought. The existence of vampires would strain any physician’s credulity, and yet I wonder what would happen if he discovered the truth—if he found Vlad. How could this slender, soft-spoken man hope to stop an all-powerful being untouched by death, with eyes like voids ringed with blood? I shudder at the memory of Vlad tearing into my flesh, a creature of wrath and vengeance, and Dr. Van Helsing opens his eyes in time to see it.

“I’m tiring you with so much talk,” he says apologetically. “I beg pardon. But I hear Mr. Holmwood’s foot on the stair, and before he returns, I wish to say one more thing. Know that you can tell me anything, Lucy, and I will treat it with the utmost discretion. I will not share a word of it with anyone, not even your mamma, if you charge me with secrecy.”

“Why do you think I need secrecy?” I ask, touched by his consideration.

“I don’t know,” he says slowly. “But I have a hunch that there is more you could tell me. And if you’ll forgive my arrogance, my hunches are always correct. Then there is the fact that I have no daughters and little experience with young ladies like yourself, but I believe secret-keeping is a common characteristic, no?” He pulls a funny face.

I smile. “You speak as though young ladies are creatures to be studied.”

“Perhaps you are.” He grows serious again when his eyes find the wounds on my throat.

The door opens and Arthur enters bearing a tray with a steaming bowl, an empty glass, and a pitcher of cold water. Dr. Van Helsing gets up and begins riffling through his medical bag, and Arthur takes his vacated chair to feed me hot, salty broth.

“Now, Lucy, I ask you to please finish that entire bowl,” the doctor says as he scatters tubes, vials, and bandages on my dressing table. “You will need strength for this operation.”

Arthur and I exchange looks of alarm. “Operation?” we repeat.

“Not to fear. I will not be chopping anyone up today,” Dr. Van Helsing says cheerfully, and Arthur gives a good-natured groan at the man’s levity. “But the truth of the matter is that Lucy has lost a great deal of blood to whatever bit her.”

“You mean the dog,” Arthur says, feeding me. “It was a dog.”

“The symptoms I mentioned of faintness, dizziness, and so on,” the doctor continues as though Arthur has not spoken, “are characteristic of anemia, but they can also occur when someone loses a significant amount of blood volume. Thus, that blood will need to be replaced. I specialize in a technique called transfusion, which I have done with great success.”

“Replace the blood with what?” I ask, confused.

“With the blood from another person,” Dr. Van Helsing explains. “As I said, you are young and healthy, and your body will make more of its own blood. But in the meantime, you need help, so I will give you some of mine. The transfusion involves a very small needle in your arm—you will feel only a pinch—connected to a tube, connected to a needle in my arm.”

Arthur looks horrified. “Is this necessary, sir? With Lucy already so weak?”

“This will strengthen and revitalize her,” the older man reassures him. “It is I who will be weak afterward, but none the worse for wear after food and rest myself, which the excellent Mrs. Westenra has already promised me.” His manner is charming and jovial, and I feel a little more at ease, despite the disturbing mention of tubes and needles.

“But why does it need to be you?” Arthur persists. “I will gladly give Lucy my blood. Forgive me, but I am younger and stronger than you, and you are also fatigued from travel.”

The doctor’s dark brown eyes are twinkling. “There is no forgiveness necessary when what you say is true. Very well, Mr. Holmwood, we will do what you propose. Lucy, as brave as you are, I will give you something to sleep so that the operation does not distress you.”

I lift my head from the pillow, ignoring the dizziness and frantic with sudden worry. “But, Doctor, won’t this infection pass from me to him?” I ask, clutching Arthur’s hand. “I have been stained by it. I have been dirtied. It is in my very blood, and I could not imagine—”

“There is no danger of that,” the doctor says, so confidently that I nod my consent to be put to sleep. As Arthur feeds me the last spoonful of soup, Dr. Van Helsing pours me a glass of water and stirs a powder into it. I drink ravenously, but the water only seems to increase my thirst. “Do not worry. When you awaken, I promise you will feel well.”

I smile up at the doctor, grateful for his genuine kindness and no-nonsense manner. My fear of death has all but disappeared after a short time in his company. “Thank you, sir.”

Arthur and Dr. Van Helsing sit and chat about lighter topics, and I listen until I feel my consciousness slipping. But some powerful tug of resistance prevents me from fully giving way, despite my need to rest. Vaguely, I register a sharp pain in the crook of my arm, and my eyes fly open to see Dr. Van Helsing gazing at me in surprise. Arthur is on the chair with his sleeve rolled up and a cloth bound tightly about his upper arm. A long rubber tube swings between us, stained deep dark red. It is on this tube that I fixate in my dreamy, semiconscious state, for at the sight of it, my already unbearable thirst increases tenfold. The smell, oh, the smell! I am overwhelmed by the richness, the texture, and the exquisite shades of red in the blood flowing from Arthur to me.

In my daze, I feel as though I have left my body to float above. I see myself lying prone in bed with Dr. Van Helsing’s hand on my shoulder, pressing me down hard into my pillow. He is much stronger than he looks, and I watch with detached astonishment as I try to fight him in my frail state, struggling to reach for the beautiful, fragrant scarlet tube. The second I pause for breath, he holds another glass to my lips. I drink and drink, my gaze never leaving the tube.

“You’re giving her another dose?” I hear Arthur ask.

“She needs more than I thought. This is very interesting,” I hear Dr. Van Helsing reply before I float back into my body and sink at last into a deep and dreamless slumber.