Now Comes the Mist

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I have no time to grieve for Mamma or reflect on what has passed between Vlad and myself. I do not even have time to get dressed. As the household awakens from its unnatural slumber and my room becomes a maelstrom of panic, with Jack Seward barking orders, Quincey Morris carrying my mother’s lifeless body from the room, and the servants crying and scurrying about in the mess, Dr. Van Helsing strides over to my bed and picks me up, blankets and all, with more strength than I would have expected from his slender form. Without speaking or looking at me, he carries me into the next room, where maids scramble to fill a tub with steaming water.

“More water! The hotter, the better!” Dr. Van Helsing shouts, depositing me into the bath. “Harriet, ensure that Miss Lucy stays in the tub. It is imperative that she get warm.”

Jack appears, looking pale and harried, and he and Dr. Van Helsing turn their backs to preserve my modesty. Even in my cold and pain and terror, I cannot help laughing, knowing that the doctor must have seen or at least guessed what had happened between Vlad and me. But my mirth dissolves into violent shivers. The hot water is doing nothing to warm me, even though Harriet and Agatha are frantically pouring bowls of it over my shoulders.

“What’s wrong with her?” Jack asks. “I could kick myself for being dead asleep.”

“Then you must kick me as well,” Dr. Van Helsing says grimly, “though I think it was not our fault that we fell into such a heavy slumber. Did you see that strange mist?”

An infernal buzzing begins in my ears, growing into a steady roar like the rushing of the ocean. It is so distracting that I barely notice when Harriet pours another bucket of steaming hot water into the tub. Through the din, I hear an odd cacophony of noise: a water glass clinking on a nightstand three houses away, the flapping of an owl’s wings in the park, carriage wheels rattling in the next neighborhood, a man coughing and guzzling liquor at a streetlamp two miles away. I can smell the liquor, too, and the fetid sourness of his breath. My nose is assaulted by a thousand different scents, rank and heady and intoxicating, but always there is the underlying iron velvet fragrance of blood, thick and rich and pure. I hear it pulsing through Harriet’s veins as she leans over me, worried, saying, “Do not fear, Miss Lucy. We will get you warm.”

“Harriet, be careful,” Dr. Van Helsing says sharply, striding over. “Do not get too close.”

“Is it infectious, Doctor? Whatever poor Miss Lucy has?” she asks. The beating of her heart is like the fluttering of butterfly wings, frail and hypnotic, beneath her sensible apron.

“It may be.” The doctor looks at me, ever honorable and dignified, his eyes fixed only on my face though the whole of my naked body is visible in the water.

I can hear his heart, too, and smell the contents of his veins. His blood is like himself: swift, determined, and clever, and I can guess at the surprising sweetness of its taste. Something in my face must alarm him, for he takes a full two steps away from the tub and pulls out a large bulb of garlic from his pocket. Watching my eyes, he holds it up in the air.

The scent of it fills my nostrils, cloying and powerful. It gently tickles the passages of my nose and throat. I close my eyes, and I can see the soil from which the bulb had sprung. I can smell rain running into the earth, tenderly encouraging the plant to grow. I think of Papa and the meals he had loved that his grandmother had made for him, dishes that he had asked our cook to practice, filling our house with the savory aroma of fried garlic. I think of his big, warm laugh as Mamma hurried about, opening windows and shaking her head at him even as she hid a smile.

They had loved each other so very much. And they had loved me, but will love me no more.

“Stop it, Van Helsing,” Jack pleads. “Whatever you are doing to her, stop it!”

I realize that I am sobbing as though my heart will break. As Harriet and Agatha pour hot water over my thin shoulders, I bury my face in my hands and I weep and weep and weep.

“I do nothing, my friend, but what I have done before,” Dr. Van Helsing says, watching me with calm despair. “Remember how I placed these bulbs all around her room for protection earlier. I gave her the flowers to hold and none of it hurt her. Notice how she reacts now.”

Yes, the garlic has hurt me. But not in the way he imagines.

The doctor sighs. “The creature has done his work. He has done it well.”

“He?” Jack repeats.

“He was with her on the bed. He flew out of the window when he saw me. His eyes …” The doctor does not finish his sentence. He puts the garlic back into his pocket and turns away, but not before I can see that he, too, has tears in his eyes.

“Lucy, are you all right?” Jack asks. His eyes find my breasts, pale and buoyant in the water, and he looks away hastily. “Get her out of the bath and dry her well. Take her to bed.”

The maids obey, wrapping me in thick towels, but I am so cold that it does not make a difference. Something about the garlic has sedated me. I feel numb, drained.

“I am so sorry, Doctor,” I say weakly as the maids help me stumble past him.

“All is well, my child,” Dr. Van Helsing says with forced heartiness. “Do not fear. Go and get comfortable under your blankets, and Jack and I will come and stay with you.”

The buzzing in my ears has subsided, and as the maids put my nightgown back on me and tuck me into bed, I can easily hear the doctors talking in the hall.

“To fail here is not merely life or death,” Dr. Van Helsing is saying.

“Sir, I mean no disrespect,” Jack says. “But are you certain your mind hasn’t been addled by lack of sleep? You say he flew from the window as a bat ?”

“I have no energy to persuade you, my boy,” Dr. Van Helsing says tiredly. “I have told you the absolute truth, and you must use your knowledge and your trust in me to help you judge. Lucy Westenra has been thoroughly seduced and infected by that beast who can transform into man, wolf, or bat. And it was not the first time. I saw how they were together.”

“He … he took her?” Jack whispers.

“I saw it, and so did her poor mother.”

Sobs rack my body anew at his words. Grief has become a wall, and I run headlong into it. My mind is a reeling, dizzying carousel of shame at having been witnessed in the most vulnerable surrender of my soul; rage at Vlad’s blame and rejection; and fear at the reality of what I have chosen. Na?ve, Vlad had called me, and stupid, too. He was not wrong. I have been a fool to trust him. I have put my hope into an ocean, turbulent and cruel and fathomless, and now I will drown in its unplumbed depths. He tricked me with his warmth and friendship, his tender promises and lingering kisses. He swept me up in the romance of his existence when he needed to frighten and impress me, but all the time, he was holding back so many truths.

What else do I not know about this curse? How on earth will I ever be able to take a life? And what does any of it matter when I will die, regardless of what I choose?

Grief twists in my gut, knife-sharp. Grief for who I was and can never be again, and grief for my mother, who had loved me more than life itself and who had left this world watching me make my most terrible choice. And what of Arthur and Mina? How did I ever think I could live on beside them and hide the truth of what I have become?

Dr. Van Helsing and Jack hurry in at the sound of my sobs. I am so empty—of blood, of water, of virtue—that I am astonished I can still cry, but I do. I want my mother so badly that I cannot help screaming out at the agony of it. I will never see her eyes shining with pride or feel her arms around me ever again. She died without the comfort of knowing that she would never lose me to death, never have to face the pain of my loss.

Jack takes my hand, his face twisted with sympathy, as Dr. Van Helsing watches us, tense and alert. Even in his pity, he is ready to fight me if I attack them. But I am growing too weak to even contemplate it. My lungs gasp for air as I fall back, limp against my pillows. What little blood left in me is sluggish, dragging itself through my veins with the last vestiges of life.

“Send for Arthur at once,” Dr. Van Helsing says quietly.

Jack nods, his face white. He squeezes my hand before hurrying away.

“Doctor, I’m dying,” I say, my voice faint.

Dr. Van Helsing places a gentle hand on my forehead. “Yes, my child, I’m afraid you are,” he says, a tear slipping down his face. “I am so sorry I could not protect you.”

“It isn’t your fault. Only mine,” I say, my eyelids growing heavy.

“You must never blame yourself,” he says severely. “This was done to you. You could not have asked for it.” Even here, even now, he wants to think that I am perfectly innocent.

I fall into a light, dreamless sleep, and I awaken to everyone gathering in my room. Dr. Van Helsing and Jack stand by the door, their heads bowed. Quincey is at the foot of my bed, his face full of emotion as Arthur cradles me in his arms, weeping disconsolately.

“Arthur,” I whisper, burying my face in his chest. I smell the night air on his coat, damp earth on his shoes, and brandy, which in my careful Arthur is proof indeed of his unbearable sadness. It is the week before his wedding, and he thinks he will lose both his father and his fiancée. “Wait for me. I will return. This is not goodbye.”

“Arthur, that’s enough,” Dr. Van Helsing says, his voice tight. “Come away.”

“Just hold on a minute, will you? Give them some time,” Quincey says sharply.

I move my face to Arthur’s neck, where an artery pulses against my lips with a hypnotic rhythm. The scent of brandy in his blood is stronger here, rich and dark and bitter. It blends with the familiar smell of him, pine and cigars, making me think of our first kiss, and to my horror, I feel a tingling in my gums above my front teeth followed by two sharp pinches as my long, new, lethal fangs sprout from behind my upper lip. No , I tell myself. Not Arthur!

I clamp my lips together, my face contorting with the effort of resisting my hunger. I cannot hurt this gentle man I love. I will not poison him! But a teasing, tantalizing thought persists: that if I bit Arthur, I could make him truly and irrevocably mine, more than any ceremony or prayer book or exchange of rings. No! I will not give in!

With all of the strength left in my failing body, I put my hands against Arthur’s chest and push him away from me, hard. He stumbles against a chair, one of its legs catching on my mirror.

“Lucy?” he sputters. “What are you—”

“Arthur, move away!” Dr. Van Helsing’s voice rises with panic. He and Jack dart forward and drag Arthur backward, away from me. They have seen, and so has Quincey. In summoning my strength to push Arthur away, I had gritted and bared my teeth— all of them.

The men recoil.

Dr. Van Helsing, who had tried so hard to keep me safe.

Quincey Morris, who had asked me to sail to the New World with him.

Jack Seward, who had once sent blood-red roses as a token of his desire for me.

And Arthur, my own dear Arthur, who had loved me since childhood, who had watched and longed for me, who had asked me to marry him beneath a moonlit sky.

None of them are looking at me with love or admiration. Not anymore. They press together against the opposite wall, the whites of their eyes bright with terror. Dr. Van Helsing is clutching the bulb of garlic, and Quincey holds up the silver cross of his necklace, his lips moving fervently in a prayer, and they are all staring at me as though I am monstrous.

A creature that hell spat out.

The white sheet covering my full-length mirror has been pulled aside by Arthur falling backward, and I see the truth of what I have become in its shining surface: a young woman bled of her beauty by the pallor of death, her black hair wild and two wicked slivers of bone shining between her dry, cracked lips. And all over her skin, the frenetic movement of those pulsing, swirling droplets of blood, clumping into large splotches against her throat and her collarbone and her arms. I cry out and touch my own face, feeling the bumps of the fangs under my lip.

“It’s a curse.” I hear Vlad’s laughter, low and cruel and full of the hatred with which these men who had once loved me now look at me. “I told you, I told you, I told you …”

“What have I done?” I moan. “Oh, what have I done?”

“It is not your fault,” Dr. Van Helsing says.

“Do not blame yourself,” Jack adds, and his pity is even harder to bear than his disgust.

None of them sees me. Me , as I truly am. I am still here and always have been, but the mirror may as well not show my reflection at all.

“None of you will listen to me!” I scream. Suddenly, I am standing on the bed with my fists clenched, towering above them. “Is it so impossible that I made a choice of my own, and embarked on a path of my own, without any of you to guide me?”

Quincey holds up his cross with one hand, and with the other, finds the gun at his side.

“You made a choice? Lucy, what are you saying?” Arthur asks, his voice breaking.

I have been a fool, utterly and completely—so entranced with the gift I imagined, the prize Vlad’s words had painted for me, that I did not see the grave yawning before my feet.

“I love you, Arthur,” I say, sick with despair, collapsing onto the mattress in a swoon. “I wanted so much to be with you and make you happy.” My arms are trembling so much that I cannot lift myself back onto my pillows. I gasp for air, my breathing rough and labored. My gums pinch as the fangs retract, hiding themselves once more in the tissues of my mouth.

Cautiously, Dr. Van Helsing approaches me. Keeping one hand on the garlic, he feels the weakening pulse in my wrist with the other. The heat seems to be rising in the room, and where I was freezing minutes ago, I am now baking in the light of the lamps.

“Window,” I choke out. “Please. I need air.”

The doctor shakes his head. “No, Lucy.”

“Surely it can’t hurt to open one,” Arthur says, hurrying to the window.

“I said no!” Dr. Van Helsing roars. “I will not risk that monster coming in again! Not when this child deserves to die with dignity. Yes, my poor boy, she will die,” he adds in a gentler voice as Arthur lets out a heartbreaking sob. “Her pulse is weak, she has very little blood left, and her heart and lungs are struggling. It will not be long now. Come and say goodbye to her, all of you. It is safe. But for heaven’s sake, the windows must remain closed.” And as if to prove his point, he moves to stand guard in front of my bedroom windows.

No one moves for a long moment. Arthur weeps into his hands, and Quincey, who has put his pistol away but still grips his cross, is praying again with his eyes squeezed shut. At last, Jack comes over to me. He glances at Dr. Van Helsing, who gives an imperceptible nod, before leaning down to press his lips against my forehead. “Goodbye, Lucy,” he whispers.

Quincey wipes his face with a rough hand as he comes over to me. “I told you before that you’ve got grit, and you still do,” he says gruffly. “Thank you, Lucy, for teaching me a thing or two about bravery. I will miss your spirit.” He kisses the top of my head and moves away.

My eyes meet Arthur’s through a haze of tears. There is no need to speak. Everything we want to say is in the way we look at each other, and in the way he falls to his knees beside my bed. I hold his hand over my heart and whisper, “This will always and forever be yours.” I look pleadingly at the doctor. “May we have a moment alone?”

Dr. Van Helsing hesitates, but he must deem it safe, for he leads Jack and Quincey into the hall. “I am afraid I will have to leave your door open,” he says. “It is the best I can do.”

I nod as they retreat, and even that simple movement saps precious energy from me. I wonder how on earth I would be able to kill someone by sunrise if I can scarcely breathe. But when I turn back to Arthur, weeping beside my bed, I know that I have no choice. I have come too far. To die as a woman would be to lose him forever. To exist as a vampire would also mean losing him—that is something I know now that I did not understand before. But at least I would be able to see him again and hover at the fringes of his life.

I must finish this.

“You have a house full of people to choose from,” Vlad had taunted me. I would expect no less from someone without the ability to love. Even in the most intense throes of my unbearable new hunger, I had been able to push Arthur away, to save him from me.

Arthur rests his head upon my chest, and I wrap my feeble arms around him. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. I want to say more, but the words snag in my dry throat. I cough and gasp, my lungs straining. I am burning hot and every inch of me feels rubbed with sandpaper. My skin hurts all over and my eyes sting, and I am desperate for just one breath of fresh air.

I think longingly of the mist, soft and cool. Vlad controlled it with just a movement of his fingers, and in his distraction, it had melted away into nothingness. I yearn for its chill to come back, to caress my feverish face and aching lungs. And when I look over Arthur’s head, I see fog curling outside my windows as though summoned there by my need.

“Arthur,” I whisper. “Will you open the window, please? I want air so badly.”

He gets up at once. “Of course.” He glances at my door, fearful that Dr. Van Helsing will come storming back in, but no one appears and we can hear the others murmuring in low voices across the hall. Very quietly, Arthur pushes one of the windows open. He looks back at me, his face worried, and he does not see the mist slipping into the room.

“Come here to me.” I stretch my arms out and make room for him on the bed, and he lies down beside me, his head on the same pillow, all thoughts of propriety gone. I hold him tight, feeling his solid, reassuring warmth envelop me, so different from Vlad’s arctic embrace.

The mist thickens. It pours through the window and pools onto the floor. I think of it surrounding Arthur and me, hiding and protecting us, and it rises at once at my silent command. Arthur relaxes against me, and his arms slacken as his heartbeat slows.

“Sleep, Arthur,” I breathe. “Sleep here beside me.”

“I love you, Lucy,” he says drowsily, and then he is gone, lost to slumber. His face is so young and innocent and trusting in sleep, his lashes dark against his cheeks.

I hold him, tears scalding my face as I lift my hand to push the mist out the door. The conversation across the hall continues, low and alert; all three of the men are listening for sounds of struggle from my room. But they will not hear anything for hours. I will make sure of it.

I hear Jack’s head droop against the back of the sofa, Dr. Van Helsing’s suit rumple as he goes limp in his chair, and the thud of a heavy body hitting the floor—Quincey, who must have been standing. I whisper an apology and reluctantly pull out of Arthur’s arms as the mist slides throughout the house like a somnolent cloud, putting every living being to sleep.

My knees quiver as I stand, gripping the bedpost for support.

I am alone, a monster in a house full of sleepers.