Now Comes the Mist

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

T his time, I feel sure I am dying.

I lie in bed for days on end, struggling to breathe as my heart flutters in my chest instead of beating. I eat nothing, for I can keep no food in my stomach. I am too weak to stay awake for long, and thoughts flit in and out of my mind like bats in the shadows. One reigns above all others: the suspicion that this bargain between Vlad and me—my virtue in return for his dark gift—was only ever a bargain in my mind, and that he has simply taken what I offered him without any intention of granting me immortality. He tricked me.

And I, in my arrogance and stupidity, have allowed him to kill me. No vampire am I, not when I have been reduced to this weak, mewling husk of my former self.

I toss and turn, feverish and raving, and in the haze of my dreams I am dancing with Vlad again. I see his slow, knowing smile and hear his words, low and dark and private. “I bite my victim multiple times,” he whispers. But what had he said afterward? I cry out in frustration as threads of memory slip through my fingers. There had been something about killing before sunrise, and another piece I have lost in the trauma of his first bite and the lust of his second …

Faces drift in and out of my consciousness. I see Mamma, her face white as she clings with trembling hands to my bedpost, and Arthur with shadows under his eyes, running from his ailing father’s side to mine. “I will fight,” I want to reassure them. “I will find Vlad and demand that he fix this. I will be with you forever.” But none of it leaves my lips.

Jack Seward hovers over me, his brow furrowed and gaze shrewd, studying me as a physician now and no longer as a lover. Dr. Van Helsing’s calm voice breaks through the gloom with quiet resolve. “She needs blood, Jack. A great deal of it.”

“But what could have taken so much from her?”

“I am not certain.” Dr. Van Helsing’s solemn face floats into view. “But this is no dog. See how it bit her in exactly the same spot? Fitting its teeth into the old wounds …”

I slip in and out of sleep, only awakening fully when I feel a pinch in the crook of my arm and a rich, silky, metallic fragrance wafts into my nostrils like the finest perfume. Even if I had never seen blood, even if I had no idea what it looked like, I would still be able to smell its color: the deepest, most vivid scarlet red, swirling with vitality.

“Hold her down!” Dr. Van Helsing sounds frantic. “Hold her down, I say!”

Rough hands on my shoulders. A restraining grip on my grasping arms. I scream and cry and hiss to no avail. I could break every one of their fingers for denying me what I crave. Something is wrong with my vision. Everything near me is blurred as though I am looking at it through foggy glass: halos of yellow lamp light; the doctors’ weary faces; and a long, swinging rubber tube stained brilliant crimson.

But when my bleary gaze finds the bedroom window, I can see a droplet of water upon a branch, a withered leaf on the ivy trellis, a beetle crawling along the trunk of a tree. I can smell rain on cobblestone, horse droppings on a passerby’s shoe, a package of rotting food, and the musky scent from between a woman’s legs on a man scurrying down the street after a tryst. It reminds me of my encounter with Vlad, of my arms and legs locked around him and the feeling of him inside me like a stake made of ice, his hands moving me on him with exquisite precision.

“Stop her, Jack,” Dr. Van Helsing says sharply.

A strong hand takes my wrist, pulling my yearning fingers away from the seam of my legs, and I shriek in frustration. This, they dare to deny me also.

The buzzing in my ears is overpowering. I can hear a dozen conversations at once.

The cook, muttering in the kitchen. “I slave over these dishes all day only to have them come back untouched. And for what?”

Mamma, in her room. “What will I do? I cannot die before Lucy wakes. I must hold on for her sake. I must be here to care for her—”

My mother’s maid. “What you must do is stop fretting, madam, for it will do you harm. Now, be a lamb and go to sleep.”

Dr. Van Helsing, down the hall with Jack. “I have read of such things, of night creatures that feed upon the blood of the living.” Jack makes a sound of disbelief, and the doctor adds, “But how? How did it know to follow her here from Whitby?”

Harriet, talking to the other servants downstairs. “The mail is to be kept here, so as not to disturb Miss Lucy. But she will be upset not to hear of Miss Murray’s marriage.”

And then, suddenly and violently, my illness grows even worse. I heave up water, though my mouth is as dry as a desert, and I am so hot that I feel as though I have somehow floated through the mist and up to the sun. I writhe in pain, chafed by every thread in my sheets and blankets. It feels that the very air is killing me and tearing through the tissues of my lungs.

“Her pulse is almost gone. What’s happening to her?” Jack asks, hoarse with fear.

“The transfusion did not work,” Dr. Van Helsing says grimly. “Something about your blood does not agree with hers, and I must give her mine. Quick, bind my arm.”

“But, sir, it will weaken you—”

“I will not let this child die!” Dr. Van Helsing roars.

Once more, the prick of a needle in my arm. Once more, the blood-stained tube swinging and beckoning to me with its red iron beauty. Once more, strong hands pinning my body to my pillows, keeping me away from the sustenance I hunger for.

“She has the blood of two men in her body,” the doctor says, his voice faint. “Two strong and healthy men. Can you comprehend how much blood the creature has robbed from this poor girl? And still she clings on, gripping the very edge of life.”

“Please rest,” Jack begs him. “You need your strength. I will sit up with her tonight.”

“Very well. But do not, under any circumstances, leave her alone or fall asleep yourself. Do you hear me, my boy? She must never, never be left on her own.”

“I swear to you, Quincey and I will watch over her all night. He is below. He wanted to see her before returning to America.”

I do not know how much time has passed, but when I open my heavy eyes, the room is dark. My movements feel dull and drugged, and I am still weak and feverish, but the sheets do not seem to hurt my skin as much anymore. “Jack?” I croak, turning my head.

Jack comes to me at once. He takes my hand, but it is not the romantic gesture it might have once been. His fingers search for the weak pulse in my wrist. “Still not as strong as I would want, but better,” he says, sighing. “Dr. Van Helsing finally went to bed, or I would call him this instant. It would set his mind at ease to see you conscious.”

“Could I have something to drink, please?” I ask, my mouth like cotton.

He gives me a glass of water, looking relieved when I drink it all. “Thank God you are thirsty for water again. I thought perhaps—” He breaks off and pours me another glass.

“What? That I wanted to drink something else?”

“Of course not,” he says, too quickly. “How do you feel? Do you have a headache?”

“No. Just sit with me a moment, please. I have something to say to you.”

He takes the chair beside my bed. His black hair, usually immaculate, hangs in untidy locks and his eyes are rimmed with red, but he looks like the Jack I have always known, the ambitious and confident young doctor who had charmed Papa so. I look at him with affection, remembering how he used to make Papa smile even on the hardest days, toward the end.

“Jack, you have been a true friend to my family, and you will make some lucky girl very happy someday. I still regret what happened between us. … No, let me speak,” I add when he opens his mouth to reply. “I am sorry for toying with your emotions when I preferred another man. Though there was a time when I truly was unsure if I preferred him.”

He smiles, looking a little embarrassed. “Water under the bridge, my dear Lucy.”

“You are wonderful,” I say, tears filling my eyes. “And I am proud to have known you, and to have had the honor of having your heart once.”

“Why are you saying this?” Jack asks, distressed. “You will be well, and in a week’s time, I am going to dance with a light heart at your wedding. Your children will call me Uncle Jack, and you will scold us for running wild through the house.”

“No. No, I can never go back to that. I can never again be the Lucy you knew.”

“What do you mean?”

I close my eyes, feeling the sting of hot tears, my throat tight with guilt. “I have done a foolish thing, Jack,” I whisper. “I have been so painfully, unbelievably stupid, and I have been tricked. All the books I have read and all the stories I have devoured, and still I did not comprehend that he who makes a deal with the devil will always lose.”

“What are you talking about?” Jack demands. “A deal with the devil? Lucy, I think you must still be delirious.” He reaches out to feel my forehead, but I push his hand away weakly.

“Listen to me, please,” I say, my voice cracking and feeble. “I have made a choice that will hurt everyone I care about, including you. But most especially Arthur.”

“You would never harm a fly,” he insists. “And no matter what you think, you were only ever sweet and charming to me. Arthur loves you—”

“I have betrayed that love, and his heart will break.” My tears flow faster at the thought of what I have done in the churchyard. What I gave up, from which there can be no coming back. “I did what I thought was right. I gave up what I had to protect him, to protect all of you, and it has only done the opposite of what I hoped. It wasn’t a bargain after all. It was a lie.”

Jack looks straight into my eyes. “Lucy, I don’t know what you are saying,” he tells me quietly. “You were viciously attacked by an animal, and you have been in bed for almost a week. You’ve done nothing bad in all that time.” He regards me thoughtfully. “Can you remember the incident? Or describe the wolf? Harriet told us her account, but I would like to hear yours.”

“What did she tell you?” I whisper.

“She woke in the night and came to your room to see if all was well. She found your door unlocked and your mother asleep in your bed, but you were gone. Sleepwalking, she supposed, so she went to the churchyard to find you.” Jack hesitates. “She told Van Helsing and me that you were on a bench, struggling with a beast. A grey wolf, she believed, though she can’t be certain. She thought it would kill her, but it only jumped over her and escaped, and she hurried over and found you … bleeding a great deal.” He avoids my eyes, and I know he saw the blood between my thighs. He and Dr. Van Helsing must have examined me thoroughly, but what they thought of their findings, it would be improper and unthinkable for me to ask.

“Yes, I remember,” I say softly. “I remember the wolf. But I was dreaming.”

He pats my hand. “You had no idea what was happening, poor girl. It wasn’t your fault.”

But it was. All of it was.

I let out a long, slow breath. “I heard you say Quincey was here. May I see him, please?”

The room seems smaller when Quincey Morris fills it with his warm, cheerful presence. He and Jack exchange a quiet word before Jack leaves us alone, and then the cowboy is sitting beside me with his bright smile and kind brown eyes shining at me.

“I reckon it was about time you called for me.” His broad, friendly accent with its long drawling vowels is soothing, and he is big and solid and sturdy. Everything about him seems reliable and poised for action, and when he bends to kiss my hand, I see the glint of his ever-present pistols at his sides. “I was ready to ride to the ends of the earth to get you whatever medicine you needed. How are you?”

“Better, now that you’re here,” I say softly.

Quincey furrows his brow as he takes me in. I must look very different from the lively, flirtatious girl he had danced with in February, but ever the gentleman, he says nothing of this. “I’ve missed your conversation and your pretty face. You left me bereft when you packed up for the seaside, you know. Though I have been keeping myself busy, staying with our friend Jack.”

“What’s this I hear about you returning to America?”

He gives a light, playful stomp of his boots. “Well, little lady, these feet of mine are getting restless,” he says. “I hunger for those open skies I was telling you about not so long ago. And there’s always work to be done on the ranch. Not to mention I’ve been in England for quite enough time, I think, imposing on good doctor Jack’s hospitality.”

“I don’t think that’s true. You imposing, that is. I think Jack would be happy to have you stay with him the whole year. Anyone would.”

His eyes crinkle at me. “Now that there’s a nice compliment.”

I hold out my hand and he wraps his warm fingers around it. “I will miss you, Quincey Morris,” I say, my heart aching. “You have been a light. You’ve cheered me and made me laugh, and I wish with all my heart that we could dance together again.”

“But don’t you remember?” he asks, puzzled. “You invited me to your wedding next week. I’m sure Mr. Holmwood wouldn’t be so stingy as to refuse me a jig with his bride.”

I swallow against the threat of tears. “I’m not sure it will happen. The wedding, I mean. I feel that it will never come to pass now.”

Quincey’s face crumples with concern. “Lucy, what are you saying? A woman like you has far too much life in her to let a little accident get the better of her. I knew it the first time I saw you. I said to myself, That girl has got some grit . You can fight anything you put your mind to, least of all this.”

I can’t help smiling. “You think I have grit? You, with your bravery and your pistols?”

“You’ve got heaps and heaps of grit,” he says seriously. “Grit isn’t just for cowboys.”

“I wish I could tell you everything. I have a feeling you wouldn’t hate me and you might understand better than anyone. Dr. Van Helsing or Mamma or Jack, or even my darling Arthur.”

“You can tell me anything you want to, and I won’t ever hate you. I promise.”

But I cannot stand the thought of seeing his open, honest face warp into disgust. I could not bear it if he turned away, revolted by the sight of me and what I have chosen. “I can’t. I’m not brave enough, and I don’t want you to remember me that way,” I say. “I want you to ride your horse on those grassy plains, in that clean open air, and think of me as a girl you once danced with who had a little grit. Perhaps I’ll be watching you from that big, blue Texas sky.”

“Lucy,” he says, understanding dawning on his face. “Are you saying goodbye?”

My heart is breaking inside of me. “I’m saying goodbye,” I agree. “Because they can fill me with as much blood as they like, and they can give me all the medicine in the world, but they cannot erase this stain from my soul. I am dying, Quincey—”

“You’re talking nonsense,” he says sternly, even as I see his eyes taking in my pallor and weakness. I must be a sight, having lain ill and exhausted and unwashed for a week. “None of what you’re saying is true. And to show you I don’t believe it, I’m entrusting something to your care that I want you to return to me when we dance at your wedding. All right?” He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out three small objects, which he places into my palm.

I blink my tear-blurred eyes, and when my vision clears, I see a round, smooth grey stone veined with red and gold; a charred lump of silvery metal; and a piece of flat dark flint carved into the shape of a triangle, a sharp point at the tip.

Quincey points at the stone. “That is a piece of my land. Land my family has settled, free and clear, years and years after our forebears were taken by force to a country that didn’t want them, only their labor. That ”—he touches the flint—“is an Indian arrowhead, given to me by a great man. And this is a bullet I dug right out of my leg after a run-in with bandits. The dangers of the American West are as great as her beauty,” he adds with a wry smile at my shock.

I run my thumb gently over the items, feeling the weight of their meaning in my palm.

“I carry many talismans of protection when I travel, but these, I keep against my heart. Right here.” He pats his expansive chest. “The stone reminds me of what home means and what it has cost my family. The arrowhead tells me to never forget that the land I stand on was stolen from someone else. And the bullet is a way to remember that life can end in the blink of an eye.” His voice is gruff with emotion. “They are objects of faith, respect, and strength. Choose one.”

“Quincey, I cannot take these from you—”

“You’re not taking them from me,” he says solemnly. “You’re just holding on to one of them for a week. I know you’re a woman of your word, so you better keep this promise, you hear me? These talismans and what they mean to me—home, family, God’s love and blessing—they’ve saved my hide many a time. Now let one of them be a talisman for you .”

My thumb finds the charred bullet again, and Quincey nods and takes back the stone and the arrowhead. Life can end in the blink of an eye.

“Lucy? Are you all right?” he asks as sobs shake my frail body at his kindness and his trust in me. I start crying brokenly as I clutch the bullet, aching for the life I never wanted and pushed away with both hands, and through my tears I see Quincey going to the door to call Jack. Right behind them is Arthur, still in his coat as though he had just arrived. He hurries over and hugs me tightly to him, ignoring Jack’s warning to be careful.

“Hush, love, don’t cry like that,” Arthur murmurs. “I’m here now. I’m here.”

“She was trying to say goodbye to me,” Quincey says in a low voice. His hands flutter helplessly at his sides. “She was talking nonsense and I got frightened.”

Jack leans over Arthur’s shoulder, lifting each of my eyelids gently and checking my pulse. “This is the longest she’s been conscious, but her heart is a little stronger than before.”

“When did she wake?” Arthur asks. “Have I missed anything?”

“Half an hour ago. She drank water but hasn’t eaten anything,” Jack says thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s the lack of food that’s gone to her head. She has been saying strange things.”

“Should I go get some broth? Do you think she’d like that?” Quincey asks.

“Why are you talking about me as though I’m not here?” I ask, looking at Arthur with pleading eyes. “Why won’t any of you believe me?”

“Hush, darling,” Arthur says gently, lowering me onto my pillows.

They all look at me. Had I not been so weak, sad, and certain I would die, I might laugh at the sight of the three men who want to marry me standing there together. Instead, I shut my eyes and think of a fourth man, one who does not want to marry me, but who dangled a great gift before me without any intention of bestowing it. And now I will do what I feared most: leave my loved ones behind in grief, mourning, and utter disgrace. Curse you, Vlad , I think. And curse the mist for bringing me to you. “I want to be alone with Arthur, please,” I whisper. My fingers are still curled around Quincey’s bullet, and I tuck it carefully into my nightgown pocket.

Jack and Quincey move to the door at once. “We’ll be just across the hall,” Jack says.

Alone with Arthur, I see how exhausted he truly is. His face is grey with weariness, and his chin is rough from lack of shaving. “Now what’s all this about saying goodbye?” Arthur asks, stroking my hair. “I know you have been very ill, my beloved, but this confounded dog hasn’t harmed you as much this time. Thank God.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, confused. “I feel immensely worse.”

“Well, the first time it attacked you, Dr. Van Helsing had to give you some of my blood. Remember? And this time, you haven’t needed any blood.”

Slowly, it dawns on me that Jack and Dr. Van Helsing have not told Arthur about the other transfusions. Perhaps they wished to spare his feelings, thinking he might not like the idea of other men’s blood flowing in his fiancée’s veins. “How is your father?” I ask.

Arthur bows his head. “He will leave us soon. Any day now, I imagine. The doctors told me very quietly that he will not live to see us marry next week.” He struggles not to cry for a moment, his face twisting, and I pull him close to me.

“Go on, Arthur. You may cry before me.”

And he does, with his wet face pressed to my neck and his shoulders heaving in that silent, gasping way in which some men grieve. I rub his back, feeling that even with all the pain already housed within me, I would gladly take his too, to spare him.

“I was half-asleep, so I can’t be sure,” I say, still hugging him close. “But I think I heard a servant say that Mina wrote to tell me of her marriage in Budapest. She and Jonathan will be home soon, man and wife. They never wanted a big society wedding like ours. It must have been a simple ceremony, with him in a hospital bed. Just a chaplain, a prayer book, and their hands joined like this.” I lace my fingers with Arthur’s. “I would marry you like that, gladly.”

He gives a soft laugh. “What about your gown and veil and flowers?”

“Mamma cares about those things, not me,” I say, stroking his hair. The thought of further hurting him with my own death makes it difficult to breathe. Curse you, Vlad. But if I am to die, perhaps marrying Arthur on my deathbed would ease the pain. I would leave him a widower, unblemished by me. “You will be Lord Godalming and take over the estate. You must be strong.”

“For you, I will try.”

I put my hands on either side of his face and lift it to mine. “My heart is yours,” I tell him. “And I will love you until the end of time. It will not fade even in death.”

“I can’t bear it, Lucy,” he says, anguished. “Don’t say goodbye to me, too.”

He is waiting for a reassurance I can no longer give. What can I say to him? How can I explain what I have done? He would not understand. He has never been able to see into my dark and tortured soul, and he did not witness what I gave Vlad—and what I asked of Vlad in return—in the shadows of that churchyard, with my family’s mausoleum hovering above us in the mist.

And so all I do is bring Arthur’s face to mine and kiss him, hoping that my lips will tell him everything I cannot say. He kisses me back, hard, pressing my head into the pillow.

“Stop!” Dr. Van Helsing shouts. He grabs Arthur’s shoulders and pulls him away from me. Behind him, in the doorway, I see Jack staring at the opposite side of the room. His eyes, so red-rimmed and tired before, are wide awake now. His face is white as a sheet.

Arthur twists furiously out of the older man’s grip. “What are you doing?”

“You must stay apart,” Dr. Van Helsing says sternly. “You must not kiss. Come over here and I will show you why. You see it, too, Jack?”

“See what?” I ask, frightened.

Dr. Van Helsing drags Arthur over to where Jack is standing, and Arthur goes quiet and still at once. They are all looking in the direction of my dressing table. “Forgive me,” Dr. Van Helsing says. “I wished to give you and Lucy privacy, but I also had to keep myself nearby. This proves that I was right to worry.” He sighs and runs a trembling hand over his tired face. It is the first time I have ever seen him afraid. “I stood in the hall outside, and when I saw that, I knew.”

My weak heart picks up as I begin to wonder … I wonder … I struggle to sit up against my pillows, pleading, “Saw what? What is it? Tell me.”

None of them seem to hear me.

“But … but how ? This is not scientifically possible. A trick of the light?” Jack strides across the room, not to my dressing table, but to the full-length mirror I have looked into before every ball and every party for the past several years of my life. One of the last times had been with Mina as we prepared to celebrate her engagement, surrounded by flowers from the men who love us. It was not that long ago, but it feels as though a lifetime has passed.

“I will explain more later,” Dr. Van Helsing says. “God help me, I will have to.”

“But how can a mirror do that?” Arthur asks, his voice thinner and more ragged than I have ever heard it. “I am not as educated a man as either of you, but I know that a mirror cannot—”

“It is not the mirror’s fault,” Jack says slowly, exchanging glances with Dr. Van Helsing.

Arthur’s already pale face goes even whiter. “What do you mean? You blame Lucy?”

“No one blames Lucy for anything,” Dr. Van Helsing says evenly.

I cry out in frustration as I try and fail to sit up in bed. My limbs are shaking too hard, but not just from illness. I am also trembling because I think I know what they have seen in the mirror—or rather, what they have not seen. And if I am correct, then perhaps there is a sliver of hope that I have not given up everything in exchange for nothing. Perhaps there is still time, still a chance for me to find Vlad, to fix all of this. “Please,” I call. “Dr. Van Helsing, show me!”

“Don’t, Van Helsing,” Jack says urgently, glancing at me. “It will weaken her heart—”

“It is too distressing,” Arthur whispers as though to himself.

But Dr. Van Helsing studies my weak, tortured face, and then turns to look in the doorway. Quincey and two maids are standing there, grouped together like startled birds. In Quincey’s hand is a large silver cross, attached to a chain around his neck. He is whispering a prayer, and I see Dr. Van Helsing look thoughtfully from me to the cross and back. I stare back at him in confusion, and something must pass through his mind, some assurance, for he nods.

“One of you,” he says to the maids. “Please bring Miss Lucy’s hand mirror to her.”

“Van Helsing, no ,” Jack says. “How will this help her? It will only frighten her.”

“This is not a good idea,” Quincey agrees.

But Dr. Van Helsing ignores them and nods again at the maids. Harriet collects my little silver hand mirror from the dressing table and brings it to the bedside. For the first time in the many years in which she has served as my lady’s maid, she looks as though she is afraid of me. “Miss Lucy,” she says hesitantly, clutching the mirror to her chest. “I don’t want to do this.”

“It’s all right. Show me, Harriet,” I say, my breath coming in short, ragged bursts.

A tear slips down her cheek as she holds the glass out, her hands shaking badly. I take it, half-hopeful, half-terrified that I will see nothing at all where my reflection should be, the way I had seen nothing when Vlad had stood before a mirror.

But what I see is infinitely worse than nothing.

My reflection is ghastly, a nightmare captured by light and silver and glass, and at first I cannot believe I am looking at myself. My eyes, dark and tilting at the corners, have whites that are dotted with blood. Those are my nose and my cheekbones and my clear pale skin tinted with gold, but they are all speckled with blood. That is my neck, long and smooth but for the wounds Vlad’s fangs left behind—bright white weals with wet red centers, purple bruises surrounding them like halos—splattered in blood.

Blood, blood, blood. Every inch of me is covered in blood, droplets big and small, as though someone has opened a vein in front of me and covered me in the violent spray. All the drops are moving slowly, creeping over my body like living organisms, suspended in the unholy canvas of my skin. I scream and almost drop the mirror in my haste to run my hand over my face and my neck. But when I look down at my palm, it is clean.

There is no real blood splashed all over my skin. No evidence of what I have done or what I have asked for … except in my reflection in the mirror.

I stare into my own eyes, horrible flecks of scarlet dancing through the whites like gore on clean linen. I am breathing much too fast, and my weak heart is pumping at a rate it cannot sustain. I feel as though my head has been detached from my body and is hovering and spinning over the bed and the distraught girl gazing at the reflection not of her face, but of her soul.

Out, out, damned spot , I think. I feel the sudden urge to laugh as I had done that night in the churchyard when Harriet had found me, drained of blood and virtue. Hell is murky.

Vaguely, in my swoon, I register Jack pushing my maid aside. He seizes the mirror from my loosening grip. Van Helsing is there, calling out orders, and Arthur takes hold of one of my hands despite the doctor’s warnings. “Lucy, Lucy,” he weeps over and over again.

His voice is the last thing I hear before I give myself to the darkness.