Now Comes the Mist

CHAPTER THIRTY

I awaken in utter darkness, surrounded by the crisp scent of cedar. Astonishingly, I smell nothing else, nor can I hear anything. I move my stiff, aching limbs and find that I am lying upon a soft silk cushion. My elbows connect with a rigid structure on both sides, and I frown and try to sit up. My head hits a surface just inches above my face with a resounding thump.

As my eyes adjust to the dark, I see the polished grain of the wood that encases me. The cushion beneath my body is engulfed by my voluminous cream satin skirt. I am wearing my wedding gown, with white gardenias in my hair and on my chest, already wilting.

I have just awoken in my own coffin.

I panic, hitting my fists against the tightly closed lid, wondering if they thought to bury a bell with me. It is a common practice, in case a person who is still alive must ring for help.

But I am not still alive , I think with a dark humor bordering on hysteria. And then the thought begins to calm me. I am not still alive. I do not need air. But the gnawing emptiness in my core tells me that I do need sustenance. How long has it been since I fed? How many hours or days has it been since I abandoned that poor man in the shadows of an empty street?

Remorse threatens to choke me, but I push it aside. Right now, I must get out of this coffin. I think of how easily I had lifted that man, though he was bigger and heavier than me. This new existence has come with incredible strength, much greater than that of a human.

And so I make a fist with my right hand, the one that bears my great-grandmother’s jade ring. Slowly, experimentally, I punch the lid. There is an encouraging cracking noise, and I cough as wood splinters rain down on me. I repeat the motion over and over until a jagged line forms along the center of the lid. When the pieces are fragile enough, I push them apart and try to sit up again. Once more, my head hits a hard surface—this time, unyielding stone. I lie back down in disbelief, staring at the solid granite that encases my coffin. Something sharp pokes my shoulder and I turn to see an iron nail, one of many that stud the edges of my coffin. Not only have I been encased in stone, but my coffin has been nailed firmly shut with dozens of slivers of pure iron. Someone clearly feared that I would rise again.

I give a heavy sigh. “Van Helsing.”

This overly cautious burial has the good doctor’s stamp all over it. But he is only trying to protect the living, as he had attempted to do for me.

I study the heavy stone above me, thinking. They must have put me in the main room of my family’s mausoleum, near Papa and my grandparents. Their tombs are made of finely carved granite, and though the lids were not meant to be removed, they are separate and unattached.

If I am strong enough to break wood with my fist, then perhaps I can shift the lid of my own tomb. Impatiently, I push away my bridal bouquet and press my hands flat against the stone, exerting all my strength to shift it sideways. Slowly, grunting and straining, I manage to move it enough to see pale light filtering in from somewhere. My newly sharpened eyes take in every minute detail of the Westenra mausoleum’s ceiling: a dead fly trapped on a cobweb with one iridescent wing broken; a clutch of milky white spider eggs tucked into a crack in the ceiling; and an errant leaf, long dead and dry, caught between two of the stones.

At last, I am able to wrap my fingers around the lid and slide it aside. I sit up, looking around at the mausoleum of which I have spent so many years dreaming. Not so long ago, I had harbored such silly and romantic ideas of death, in which I would be with Papa again and see everyone I had loved and lost. Vlad was right. I have been stupid indeed.

I brace myself against the side of the tomb and climb out, nearly falling as my heavy full skirts catch on the jagged wooden lid. Impatiently, I tear at them until I reduce them to a thinner, shredded layer of cream satin. The seamstresses had spent months sewing tiny seed pearls into the hem, and I destroy their work in seconds. They had made me a dress to catch the eye of my wedding guests, but now I need a dress that will be light and easy. I run my hands approvingly down the simplified gown and feel a small lump against my leg. Someone has stitched a pocket into the satin, and inside it, I find the bullet that had failed to kill Quincey Morris. He must have asked my maid to bury it with me. I look down at this talisman of protection that had meant so much to him, my heart aching, and replace it in my pocket. He had not intended it to be of much use to me dead, but I will take any good luck charm undead .

I remove my delicate veil of creamy Devon lace but leave the crown of white gardenias atop my head. Someone has taken the trouble of intricately weaving and pinning the flowers into my long, loose waves of hair, and I am too hungry to take the time to remove them.

A freshly carved name on Papa’s tomb catches my eye. The inscription now reads: Phillip Westenra, Jr., and his wife, Audrey. He and Mamma have been reunited at last. I bend to kiss their names and drape my bridal veil over their tomb, fighting back tears. Knowing that they are here together gives me both peace and unimaginable pain. I turn to read the etched words on my own tomb. “Lucy Westenra lies here. Lucy Westenra is dead and gone,” they seem to assert.

But none of it is true.

Lucy Westenra is not dead and gone, and her hunger is growing every second.

I approach the mausoleum doors. An infinitesimal crack between them lets in light too pale to be that of the morning. I press my eye to it and see a blue velvet night sky stretching above the churchyard. Judging from the wilting flowers in my bouquet, I have been buried at least two days, maybe longer. How many evenings have passed since Arthur and I had fallen asleep together on my bed before sunrise? I cannot tell for certain.

I push against the doors, but they are locked as always and do not budge. No doubt the thorough Dr. Van Helsing made certain to watch the caretaker turn the key, or perhaps he locked me in himself, not trusting anyone else to do the job.

I look down at my slim, pale hands, knowing that they are now strong enough to break down the doors. But I am reluctant to damage this sacred monument of my family’s, especially when they are all resting behind me. I quell my rising desperation and think.

The mist. It had carried me out of my house, drawn potential victims to me, and helped me return the children to the orphanage. Perhaps it can somehow help me escape this tomb.

A thin stream slips into the mausoleum at once, wrapping itself around my waist like rope. I begin to float and then, impossibly, I am drifting through the crack between the doors as though my body has transformed into vapor. In seconds, I am standing before the bench where I willingly gave Vlad my innocence.

An involuntary smile of glee creeps onto my face. This existence may be a curse, but it has also given me indescribable and untold power. No granite tomb or locked door can keep me out now. The world is open to me, laid bare for the taking, and I will hold it cupped in the palm of my hand like a firefly, to nurture or destroy at my will.

But just as quickly, my glee fades. I am ravenous again, and there is only one answer to the question of my unholy hunger. I will not harm anyone , I think, clenching my jaw. Somehow, I will resist temptation tonight. I will make do with animal blood, as thin and unsatisfying as it may be. Blood is blood, and I refuse to commit another murder. Arthur still loves and wants me, and I will not do anything that is unworthy of him. It strikes me then that perhaps I do not need to take a life. Perhaps I can drink only a little, just enough to satiate me without snuffing out another existence. After all, Vlad had bitten me twice and had sickened, not killed me, and he had told me about biting Jonathan Harker multiple times. I press my clasped hands to my stomach, against the tiny kernel of hope nestling in the maw of the starving monster there.

“Lucy, come here.”

I tense at the sound of Vlad’s voice. But the churchyard is empty.

“I said, come here.”

My legs begin to move of their own accord. My feet in their white slippers take steps I do not tell them to take. The mist slips from my waist and curls ahead of me like a finger beckoning, leading me out of the churchyard. Something is compelling me onward when I do not even know my destination. I grab hold of a lamppost on the dark and empty street, trying to stop my legs. But my body is no longer my own, and my hands loosen and let go as I continue to walk.

“You cannot fight me,” Vlad says calmly. “My word is your command.”

“Where are you taking me?” I ask, frustrated and afraid, as my body moves like a marionette controlled by his invisible hands. “Tell me and I will come of my own free will.”

“Ah, but I know you too well,” he says with a smile in his voice. “And I will not take any chances. Do hurry, won’t you? We don’t have all night.”

The mist lifts me off the ground. My long shredded bridal skirt flutters as I fly through the fog, past closed businesses and silent houses full of sleeping people. In the shadows of the night, I pass half a dozen tiny figures, shoulder to shoulder in the fog, their arms outstretched to me. “Not again,” I gasp. “Not more children. Vlad, get me away from them.”

“We cannot help who we attract. I, beautiful young women, and you, motherless urchins,” Vlad says, laughing, but the mist begins to pull me faster, dragging me out of sight.

I end up in front of an ornate black iron gate. The red brick home it surrounds is elegant and luxurious, with large windows and a pair of white marble lions on the doorstep. Through the open door, I hear the sounds of a party: people laughing and chattering, glasses clinking, and a piano playing a joyful melody. The mist pushes me inside. I follow the noise and the warm glow of light to an enormous ballroom filled with candles and walls covered in oil paintings.

There are people everywhere, all in various states of undress.

A fat man wearing only a linen shirt chases after three naked, dark-skinned women, his buttocks quivering with mirth and exertion. A brocade divan groans under the weight of revelers experimenting with an array of substances. One man sniffs a handful of sparkling grey powder into his nostril, while the woman at his feet drains a glass of poisonous green liquid before going limp, her long black curls fanning out over his lap. Across the room, a rowdy game of blind man’s bluff is taking place: a blindfolded woman stumbles about, her breasts bouncing as she attempts to catch one of the giggling, caramel-skinned girls circling her. Everywhere are sofas, chairs, and even beds occupied by people drinking and carousing, mouths bobbing between legs, hands stroking unclothed limbs, skin and hair of ebony or mahogany or copper gleaming.

But I find none of it appealing. All the people have unfocused eyes, vacant smiles, and a looseness to the sway of their heads. I shiver, watching a girl with deep-olive skin being tugged between two grinning men, their arousal evident as she staggers back and forth, eyes half-closed.

In the center of the room is a long dining table packed with food and wine, the china and crystal glittering in the candlelight. The people seated there seem even more somnolent; several of them have fallen forward onto their plates, their eyes closed, and one man with thick jet-black hair is drooling onto his own shoulder, his lids flickering open every now and then.

At the head of this table is Vlad in crimson velvet, his skin so white that it almost glows in comparison to that of the two beautiful, full-figured girls enthroned upon his lap. His long pale hands are like spiders creeping over the earth of their umber skin, seeking a place to burrow and invade. One girl kisses his neck while the other nestles against him, pressing her head of long, tight black curls into his chest, but he pays them no mind. It is clear he has been watching me since the moment I stepped into the room.

“Hello, Lucy,” he says, his low, rich voice cutting through the noise of the party. His eyes are black pools and his fangs glisten in the light. He has been feeding, and feeding well, for every neck at the dining table is wet with blood. “How kind of you to come.”

“Did I have a choice?” I ask sourly.

“Well, no. But only because this party is for you and I wanted to make certain you would attend.” Vlad gestures to an enormous, multitiered confection of a white cake, dripping with pale sugar icing like lace. “I knew you would be dressed for this special occasion.”

I glance down at my high-necked, long-sleeved gown, pristine but for the shredded skirts, rows of seed pearls still hanging on for dear life. “What do you mean, this party is for me?”

“It’s our wedding, of course. Yours and mine.”

“I am not marrying you,” I say flatly.

“You already have. You became my newest bride the moment you stole my blood, and now you must honor and obey me as your husband.” Vlad bares his fangs in a garish smile. He shoves the girls onto the floor, where they lie still, and pats his vacant lap. “Come here, wife.”

“I am not your—” I begin, but I feel my body jerk into motion again as though his deep, magnetic voice is a rope tied to each of my limbs. I grab on to anything I can—the back of a sofa, the edge of a table, even a dazed partygoer’s arm—and almost fall in my effort to fight him. But it is like trying to stand in the ocean as the waves pull and the sand shifts beneath me.

Vlad sighs. His eyes are lightening to their customary blue-green. “Why do you have to make everything so difficult? You should know by now that it is easier not to struggle.”

“And you should know by now that I always will.” I gasp as my body flies toward him and lands sideways in his lap. My arms lock around his neck as he kisses my cheek and hugs me close, burying his face in my hair. “Let go of me, Vlad.”

He ignores me, touching my crown of white gardenias. “You smell lovely for someone who just came out of a tomb. I like these. Pale flowers become you … and so does death. How was your first feeding? Have you had a chance to weep and wail over it yet?” He laughs.

I grit my teeth. Sitting this close to him reminds me of the night we played our harp duet, when I had been entranced by him, when I had foolishly thought he was everything I wanted. If my arms were not fastened around his neck against my will, I believe I would hit him. “You made it clear you had no interest in me any longer. Why have you called to me?”

“To teach you about your new existence, of course. You thought I would be cruel enough to forsake you? How hurtful.” He tilts his head. “Though it would have been fun to watch you struggle, crying into your food and trying to wander about in the sun. That would have exposed me to discovery, however, and I have not yet sampled all that England has to offer. I ought to teach you how to better dispose of your meals. If you keep leaving drained bodies under trees, you might just set that little Chinese doctor on my trail.”

“I thought you weren’t afraid of him,” I snap.

“I am not afraid of him, my dear, but of the inconvenience of being on the run. You will know it well. It is something you never anticipated, did you? In your stupidity and arrogance.” He flicks my nose with a fingertip, and I jerk away from his touch. “Most humans do not like vampires. I’m sure you can imagine why. Too often have I had to flee mobs waving torches and howling for my death. Once one of them gets wind of what I am, the fear will spread quickly to more of them. It happens in every place, in every age, sooner or later.”

“You have been a vampire for hundreds of years and still have not learned to hide yourself?” I ask contemptuously. “You have spent immortality well, I see.”

His eyes blaze with cold blue fire, but his voice remains calm. “Watch how you speak to your master. You will soon learn how difficult it is to move invisibly among the prey you hunt. You think you can hide what you are and stay with your precious Arthur and Mina all their lives without attracting fear and curiosity?” His gaze bores into mine, and pinpricks of pain pierce my scalp. “Vampires cannot stay with anyone. They cannot get close to anyone. They cannot love .”

I wince. “Stop it.”

“You think you are better than I am. I can hear you.”

“Get out of my mind,” I snarl, and miraculously, the pain disappears at once. I feel his invasion of my thoughts fading, though I have not even tried to envision my silver shield.

Vlad growls. “You are my property, and so is your mind.”

Once more, I feel the sharp pain of his invasion. And once more, I push it out of my head as easily as breathing. Clearly, my new strength is not just limited to my physical body.

But my pleasure and surprise are short-lived as he pinches my chin between his fingers, hard. “You belong to me. You are an extension of me, however much you want to judge me for enjoying my victims. Can you not see what fun they are having?” Roughly, he turns my head.

The olive-skinned girl is on a bed in her corset and nothing else, lying with the men who had been tugging her about. Behind a billowing curtain, the fat pale man wrestles with the three dark-skinned women he had been chasing. Meanwhile, at the piano, a blond woman is playing with her head thrown back in pleasure. Another woman, naked and copper-skinned, who had been kneeling between the pianist’s legs, gets up and wipes her mouth before collapsing to the floor again. Her gaze finds me, and in it I see a desperate plea.

“None of them are here by consent,” I say, sick with revulsion. I look around the dining table at everyone fainting and limp in their chairs. “You forced them to attend.”

Vlad chuckles. “How charming that you think consent means anything anymore. I am not only your master, but theirs as well. I could make anyone do anything I wish. I could have Arthur here in a minute, kneeling between my legs, or Mina waiting for me on that bed. They are all just animals. Slaves for my food and my pleasure.”

My stomach roils with nausea. “How did you call so many of them to you?” I ask, and then I see what I had not noticed before. Every window of this ballroom is open, and the mist is slipping in like a vine of smoke. “You used the mist. You can make humans sleep—”

“Or put them in a trance, as you did to those poor children.” He smiles at my shock. “You will find, my dear, that we are irresistibly attractive to humans. So much so that we can call to them even without meaning to. They will come running through the mist, those lucky few who are caught between two worlds. The waking and the dreaming …”

“And the living and the dead,” I whisper.

“Those who sleep lightly are drawn to us, as are those who walk in their dreams. But you already knew that.” Vlad’s smile widens. “You judge me prematurely. You do not know how fun it can be to make them lose their inhibitions. Let me show you.” He nods at the copper-skinned woman sprawled on the floor, who gets up immediately and stumbles over to us, trembling.

Her knees are red from having knelt in front of the pianist, and her head lolls to one side as though too heavy to hold upright. My gut clenches at the pain in her eyes, even as my newly awakened hunger roars at the clean apple-blossom scent of her blood.

“Let her go, Vlad,” I say furiously. “Let them all go.”

“And have you skip a meal? Don’t be silly.” Vlad strokes my cheek with a cold finger. “Go on and feed, Lucy. This is my wedding gift to you. Drain her dry.”

Against my will, my body flies toward the woman until we are standing inches apart. She is much taller than me and painfully thin, and the holes on her neck are ragged and careless. Up close, her blood smells even more fragrant, as soft and warm and floral as a spring morning. I feel the pinch of pain in my gums as my fangs snap down involuntarily.

“No,” I say desperately. “No, Vlad, I won’t do this again. I cannot take another life.”

“You can and you will.”

“Perhaps I can take only a little. Just enough to satisfy me …” But even as I say it, I know I will not be able to control my devastating hunger. I seized every drop from that vagrant on the street in the blink of an eye, and the intense emptiness roaring inside of me now would destroy any willpower I had. I turn to Vlad, trembling. “You drink from humans without killing them. You did it to me, and to everyone in this room. Teach me. Show me how. Please.”

“I cannot,” he says calmly. “For I never allow my hunger to grow as uncontrollable as yours. That is something you will learn to do with time. For now, do as I say. Kill her.”

I look up into the woman’s drowsy face. Her features are sharp and clear beneath long waves of dark hair. Her eyes are large, dark, and filled with tears of horror and sorrow and hopelessness. In them, I see my own terrible beauty, showy and obscene as a full-blown rose, a virginal woman with blossoms in her hair. And I wonder if this curse will lead to an addiction to seeing myself in the frightened eyes of humans.

“Lucy?” Vlad prompts me.

“No,” I say again, but then I hear the young woman mumble something.

“Please.”

“What did you say?” I whisper.

“Please,” she utters again as a tear rolls down her cheek. “Kill me.”

“Are you making her say this?” I demand of Vlad, appalled.

But he only says, his voice cold and even, “Drain her, Lucy.”

I look into the woman’s eyes, so conscious and alert and full of sadness. She blinks at me, and the plea in her eyes convinces me. She wants to be free.

“Kill me,” she murmurs again.

My arms are around her, and my fangs are buried in her throat before I even register that I have moved. She lets out a sharp gasp and freezes as her blood—as sweet and mellow as it smells—gushes into my mouth. I hear Vlad laughing as I drink and drink and drink, and the woman sinks to her knees once more. I bend to keep my lips fastened to her neck, the salty taste of her skin melding beautifully with the honey of her blood. I have never tasted anything so delicious in all my life, not even the meals Papa had favored, full of garlic and herbs, or the strawberry cakes I had once loved above all else. Stop , I try to tell myself. You have fed enough. You can stop this now. Let her go, let her live. But my predatory body refuses to obey. My fangs remain embedded in her skin and my hands clench on her shoulders, and I am lost, lost to the oblivion of satisfying my all-encompassing need to consume. She gives a muffled moan, her face pressed into me as I drink until there is nothing left but an empty shell that crumbles at my feet.

My face is wet with my own tears. I feel a curious mingling of grief and exaltation—a simultaneous clench of my heart for this second life I have stolen and the spreading stain upon my soul, but also the relief of my hunger subsiding and the joy of the fresh new blood pouring through my body. Perhaps it will always be this way—perhaps this momentary despair and this intoxicating euphoria will forever appear side by side, with every person I dare harm.

I fall to my knees before the slain woman, weak with remorse and self-hatred.

“Do you see the peace on her face?” Vlad asks. “You have given her a gift.”

“Don’t,” I sob.

“Now, watch carefully. This is how we dispose of our food.” He lifts his hand, and the mist rises, wrapping itself around the dead woman’s body like puppet strings and pulling her to her feet. She does not fall, to my shock, but stands with her head drooping to one side and her arms limp. The ropes of fog grow thicker and thicker until they cover her completely, and I see her eyes open, empty and sightless. Her mouth hangs agape as she staggers through the mist like a lost, dead wanderer, and the sight of it reminds me of my dreams—of sometimes seeing other people stumbling in the silvery fog, some of them dead.

“What have you done to her?” I ask shakily.

“I have hidden her in the mist. It is a world few inhabit, and the perfect place to conceal one’s indiscretions. Her shell will wander on and on, as will those of everyone we kill, and not a soul in the waking world will be any the wiser. I did the same with that vagrant you drank,” he adds, looking at me expectantly as the dead woman staggers deeper into the mist and finally vanishes. “Well? Where is my thanks?”

I stare at him in numb silence.

“What’s the matter, Lucy? Have you realized the consequences of your actions at last? Do you finally understand that the foolish story you told yourself—about choosing this existence because you didn’t want your loved ones to grieve—was a fairy tale?” Vlad comes over and tilts my chin up to meet the dead mirrors of his eyes, which refuse to reflect me. “It was purely selfish on your part. You wanted to hold on to Arthur and Mina, but without responsibility. To please him but earn your freedom at the same time, and to keep her without having to act upon your lust. Oh yes, my dear, I know every corner of your wretched soul.”

I try to pull away, but his fingers tighten on my chin. “You know nothing about love,” I spit. “Don’t speak of Arthur and Mina as though you know anything about them.”

“I know they will hate you.”

“They will love me even now. Arthur said he would still want me.”

Vlad lifts me onto my feet. “It would have been better if you had died,” he says with quiet malevolence, leaning in until our noses almost touch. “And Arthur and Mina would agree.”

I haul back and slap him across the face, my body reacting before my mind has even registered the thought. His head barely moves, no doubt having anticipated my blow long before it fell, but his eyes narrow to jagged pinpricks. My handprint appears, pink upon his white cheek.

“I made you, Lucy,” he says softly, wrapping his large, brutal hand around my throat. “And I can unmake you. With one movement, I could snap your head off like a dandelion and render your choice useless. Everything you sacrificed will have been for nothing.”

“I cared for you,” I choke out, clutching his wrist. “I would never have loved you, nor you me. But I would have tried to make you happy had you been the man on the cliffs.”

“And who am I if not that man?”

“Someone both cruel and common. Someone disappointing,” I say, coughing. If I am to die, strangled by his hand, then I will die speaking my truth. “That man on the cliffs treated me as no one ever has: as a person with hopes worthy of respect. He was kind and generous, though I was mortal and he was all-powerful.” My tears splash onto his hand, and he flinches. “Kill me, then, Vlad, for I know I will never see that man again.”

“He is here, you silly, vain, self-obsessed girl. He is here, and you have changed.”

“We both have,” I say, my voice soft and full of grief. “You wanted me to stay a pawn in your game, but I refused. That is why you hate me now.”

He lets go of me and turns away, but not before I see the rare emotion in his eyes. “It is not your business what I feel. You are only to do whatever I say. I’m afraid, my dear, that in your unseemly quest to escape from society’s rules, you failed to take into account that there would be new rules. And as your husband and master, I have you at my bidding.”

I ball my hands into fists. “You do not. I have power of my own—”

Vlad whirls around, his face full of laughter. “Power! You think breaking a flimsy coffin or floating upon the air is power ? My poor, ignorant girl, let me show you the truth.” He takes a seat at the head of the table once more. “Come and stand before me.”

At once, an immense pressure drags me toward him. I strain with all my might, my limbs quivering with the effort, but I quickly grow weak and tired. The pull is too much to bear, as is the smug smile on Vlad’s thin lips, and my feet slide right across the floor toward him.

“Good,” he says approvingly as though I had done it of my own will. “Now, kneel.”

“I will not,” I snap, but I am yanked onto my hands and knees before him at once by an invisible force. I glare at him, breathing hard, humiliated and furious enough to rip him apart with my bare hands … or die trying, which is surely what would happen.

“Now do you believe what I say?” he asks gently. “I hate that I must resort to such measures with you, Lucy. You reminded me just now of how much I enjoyed those nights with you in Whitby, but you constantly and unwisely push me to the limits of my anger.” He touches my cheek. “I do not hate you. And I could still show you that kindness and generosity of which you spoke if you would only accept the consequences of your own actions.”

I refuse to look at him. “You call it kindness and generosity to force me into submission and insult me? To show disgust and condescension?”

“I am only trying to teach you, little bride, to own your mistakes rather than foisting the blame onto others. You just told me that you cared for me, and so you must listen well.”

“I will never care for you again,” I whisper, turning away from him. “That is over and done. You may not hate me, but I will certainly hate you.”

Vlad sighs. “What shall we do with you, my petulant child? You could stay in your tomb, but I believe the doctor will come back to finish you off.” He thinks for a moment. “Best to ship you off to the Carpathians with the other brides. You would be out of the way and would not endanger my reputation here. Why, I have hardly had time to decorate my new house, Carfax!”

Fear crawls up my throat like bile. “No, please! Please don’t send me away.”

“Are you begging me?” he asks, smiling.

“I will not go,” I say, my chest tight at the thought of leaving Arthur and Mina, perhaps forever. “I want to stay here. Please.”

“But you told me so often of your wish to travel,” Vlad says coaxingly as though humoring a fussy child. “You wanted, quite desperately, to see the world.”

“This is not seeing the world. This is being locked up in some old castle far away from the people I love.” My voice trembles with panic. I could not even fight him when he had forced me to kneel. If he ordered me to cross the sea, I would not be able to resist, and we both know it. I push aside the tatters of my pride. “Please, Vlad, do not send me away from here.”

He raises an eyebrow. “A moment ago, you flew at me, hit me, and told me that you hated me. And now you humbly plead with me to let you stay?”

“Only for the length of Arthur and Mina’s lifetimes. It would be a blink of an eye to you, Vlad. You, who have lived so many ages. Let me have this short time with them, and I will be cautious and not risk your reputation. I cannot give them up.”

“But what if they wish to give you up?” he asks softly. “What if they cannot accept you as you are now and reject you despite what the noble Arthur said?”

I think of how Jack and Quincey and Dr. Van Helsing had pressed themselves against the wall like frightened animals upon seeing my fangs. Of how hard I’d had to fight against the temptation of Arthur’s blood. But I push the memories away. The men’s fear had come from the unexpected, and if I could just show myself to them and explain everything, perhaps they would understand. “They will still care,” I whisper, clasping my hands to hide their trembling. “When I return, they will be glad and welcome me back.”

The pity on Vlad’s face is infinitely more difficult to bear than his cruelty and mockery. “Let us strike a bargain,” he says. “If your friends accept you, knowing what you are, then I will accede to your request, provided that you dispose of your food appropriately. You will never expose me. You will never speak of me to anyone.” His words are slow and deliberate, an incantation, and somehow, I can feel the command sinking into my skin and bones.

I swallow hard. “And if they do not accept me?”

“If your friends are disgusted by your new nature—as I believe they will be—then you will go to my castle in the mountains without further argument. Are we agreed?”

I shudder, but only from habit. My muscles still hold the memory of being human, and human Lucy would certainly have quaked at such an ultimatum.

“Well?” Vlad asks.

“I accept,” I say.

It is the only answer I can give.