Now Comes the Mist

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

I t is tempting to lie in the darkness of my coffin, cut off from the world and the ones I thought would always love me. If I am not alive, I reason, then I can simply ignore my hunger and linger here in the shadows, neither in danger of exposing Vlad nor harming another person as Dr. Van Helsing feared I would. A good, obedient little corpse, doing as the men tell her to do.

But death does not suit me. Lying still does not suit me. And before night comes again, my boredom grows even more unbearable than my sadness or hunger, and I tell myself that leaving is only sensible. Dr. Van Helsing will likely return to destroy me for good. Quincey and Jack will be with him, ready to finish the job. And Arthur? Will he watch as they send me straight into the fires of hell? Will Mina cry when I am well and truly gone, or will she be glad?

I wipe my eyes, slide the lid off my tomb, and sit up. To my shock, the mausoleum is full of lit candles. The trail of lights sends shadows flickering over the walls as it leads down to the crypt where more of my family members are interred. I step out of my coffin and hear a noise when my hand meets the granite. I look down to see that Arthur’s ring has been moved to my other hand, next to my great-grandmother’s jade, and Vlad’s garnet is now on my wedding finger. I regard it bitterly, but do not take it off. This shackle is what I deserve, after all.

I follow the trail of candles into the bowels of the Westenra mausoleum and discover an enormous pile of goods scattered across the stone floor.

From a wooden chest spills an obscene amount of money, from the currency of England to that of France, Germany, and Austria-Hungary. There are traveling papers, documents, and trunks packed with gowns and veils, most of them black, all of them finely made and expensive. There are chemises, nightgowns, stockings, hairbrushes, and other toiletry items—though I note the absence of any mirrors—and shoes for all occasions. Against the wall sits a long narrow box of plain and sturdy wood, filled with earth that smells of rich forests and frost-tipped mountains.

Vlad has not only taken the time to thoroughly prepare me for my journey, but has left me one of his precious resting places to protect me from the sun and human eyes. I know better than to be touched, however, being all too familiar with his alternating kindness and cruelty by now—and after all, he is sending me away as though I am a bothersome child. What strikes me most is this proof that he does not know how differently the sun affects us, and it is a secret I shall keep to myself, in hopes that it will prove useful someday.

I ignore the gowns and choose a simple dark shirt, pants, and a cap to tuck my hair under, glad that Vlad was perceptive enough to include men’s clothing, which will likely make it safer to travel. I put my wedding gown and slippers into a trunk, and as I am putting on comfortable dark shoes, I see a letter of travel instructions he has left me. His bold, scrawling handwriting is as forceful as a demand, and the words are cool, emotionless, and to the point.

“A carriage will come in three days’ time,” he writes. “Your belongings and papers—as well as you yourself, safe in the box of earth—will wait at the churchyard entrance, to be taken to a private car on a train bound for Dover. From there, a ferry will take you to Calais, then Paris by train and a series of other conveyances beyond. You will arrive in the Mountains of Deep Winter no later than the end of October.” The final words give me a strange sensation, as though they are dissolving into my bones. They are a direct command to which I will be beholden.

Despite my impending exile and separation from Arthur and Mina, I cannot help but feel a twinge of eagerness to see places I had only ever hoped to experience in my dreams. My excitement soon sours into restlessness and anxiety, however, and I find it too hard to remain here, surrounded by the family I must leave behind. And so, even before the first rays of sunlight touch the sky, I decide that I will say goodbye to London. I hesitate at the doors of the tomb, both hoping to see Arthur and Mina still outside, concerned and repentant, and also wishing to avoid them if they are and save myself the pain of loving people I can never have again.

As though it has heard the emotions warring in my breast, the mist comes floating gently in and takes me in its hold. I feel my hair and skin and bones become particles of air, though my mind and consciousness are still present, and I soar out of the mausoleum in the form of the mist itself. I have no eyes to see and no ears to hear as I rise high above the churchyard and float to the back entrance, where the mist lowers me and I materialize as a woman once more.

I find several large rats with which to suppress my hunger and go out onto the empty street, pulling my cap low upon my brow. The city is just beginning to awaken as I walk along the rows of houses, listening to neighbors greet each other and carriages clattering along. I smell late autumn flowers, burning leaves, the remnants of cooking upon a man’s jacket, the soap in a woman’s hair, and candle wax wafting toward me from a shop.

Though it is day, I feel that I am sleepwalking again. A dreamy surreality overtakes me and a set of lines from Keats echoes through my head:

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

I move through the lanes and alleys of the city, one undead among the living. My hunger waxes and wanes as I take in a bouquet of tens of thousands of different types of blood: sweet or savory, fragrant or sour, fresh or stale, thin with illness or rich with health. But I restrain myself as I continue on, my feet finding all the familiar places—the avenues of the park where Mamma and I had gone on long drives, talking and laughing; the shops Mina and I had frequented, holding new hats and gloves up against each other as an excuse to touch; the houses in which I had danced and flirted and fallen in love, my smile dazzling to hide the darkness within.

Men and women alike had stared avidly at me in that former life, just as taken by my overt difference as by my beauty. But with my costly hats and splendid gowns, neat gloves and well-made shoes, they had made the effort—at least to my face—to be polite, and to treat me as Papa had promised they would as long as I strove to be perfect and unobjectionable in every way.

But now, in the plain dark clothes of a working man, with no lace or jewels to make my tilting dark eyes, olive skin, and too-black hair more palatable to them, I attract open hostility and revulsion. Ladies pointedly cross the street to avoid me, and governesses herd their charges away to protect them from such an unsightly foreigner. “The docks are that way! Go home!” one man barks. I ignore him and move past, but not before I hear him say, “Damned bloody Chinamen. They’re everywhere now! Can they not leave their silks and spices and be gone?” to which his companion reminds him, sniggering, “Don’t forget their opium and their women.”

Minutes become hours, day melts into night, and sun and moon take turns rising and falling as I wander on in a daze, confronted by memories, sparks of joy and waves of grief, nasty comments and even nastier looks. I stop only to feed on birds, foxes, and squirrels, whatever I can find to dull the edges of my hunger. I feel no exhaustion, no compulsion to sleep.

And then, on the third evening, as sunset bleeds from the sky, I smell garlic, acrid enough to break me out of my daze. I find myself in a poor part of London, where the faces are thinner and more tired. I follow the scent to a food stand where an elderly Chinese couple is cooking hot, savory pockets of beef and shrimp. My mouth waters not for their blood, but for the dumplings, and when the wife waves me over, I approach, though I have avoided being too close to humans for the past few days. She scoops two dumplings onto a little plate and pours a dark, thick sauce over them that smells of even more garlic. I take them and hand her some coins in return from the supply Vlad gave me. She gives a short nod and turns her attention back to her work.

I look warily at the plate. Vlad cannot withstand garlic or the taste of human food. Garlic clearly does not offend me , but will human food repel me as well?

I take a small, tentative bite of a dumpling, expecting it to crumble like dust in my mouth. But instead, it is delicious. I close my eyes, overwhelmed by the palette of flavors: the tang of onions, the rich smokiness of the meat, and the snap and warmth of a dozen spices, all melding against my tongue. I imagine Papa here with me, kind eyes crinkling and a hearty belly laugh as he watches me eat something he would have adored. “You are my daughter,” I picture him telling me, “and whatever choices you make, you make with good reason. Learn to live as you are now, Lucy, and try to be happy as you deserve. As you will always deserve.”

My face is wet as I swallow the rest of the dumpling and then the other.

Perhaps this existence will not be as I had hoped. Perhaps it will come with a whole host of considerations that I, in my human selfishness, had not understood. But there may be flashes of joy like this, small and simple. I may learn, in that castle far away, to live with intention, to only satisfy myself with human food and animal blood, and to avoid doing more harm. And I may still be a daughter worthy of my parents’ love and pride.

But no sooner have these hopes entered my mind than I smell it.

The fragrance stokes my hunger a thousand times more than the garlic did.

My eyes fly open, and I see a man. He is short and round, nondescript, perhaps Southeast Asian as I myself am. He has a scar on his chin and weary eyes, but when he smiles at the elderly couple as he purchases three dumplings, his face is kind. And his blood, his blood , with notes of smoky garlic, sun-ripened fruit, and clean cinnamon—an odd but utterly enchanting blend. I hold my breath, trying not to breathe in any more of the scent, but doing so only intensifies it.

I have not fed on human blood in days , and standing this close to the most indescribably perfect blood I have ever scented, I find it difficult to resist. No, not difficult. Impossible .

Papa’s laugh. Mamma’s smile. My conviction to lead a life of which I can be proud.

All of it vanishes in an instant, dissolving under the furious hunger that shoots sparks of need through my body. I will not kill , I tell myself, cajoling and persuasive. I will taste him and then leave him be. I will try harder to stop drinking this time. I have successfully abstained from human blood for days, after all. Do I not deserve a reward?

The man’s eyes widen as I approach, and I see my reflection clearly in the dark pools of his pupils. In these few days of wandering, I had appeared to humans only as a foreign young man, threadbare and bedraggled. But now, my growing hunger transforms my skin and eyes, making them glow, and enhances my beauty in sharp contrast to my simple attire. My demonic infection has recognized its next victim, and it is doing everything it can to lure him in.

He asks a question in a language I do not know, hushed and awed. But when I move into the shadow of a building, he follows without hesitation, leaving the light and noise of the food stand and the small crowd that has begun to gather to buy dumplings.

I will take just a little blood , I think as my appetite roars. And then I will stop myself.

Tongues of mist materialize and wrap themselves around us, and people pass by us without a second glance. The man’s eyes are now half-closed and the plate teeters in his hand. His breathing does not change as I take the food from him and set it on a doorstep.

What happens next is a blur.

One moment, I am looking at this man whose blood smells like a heavenly elixir. And the next, his body is crumpled at my feet with two little red holes in his neck, utterly empty of breath, of blood, of life. His blank eyes stare up at me sightlessly. The dead weight of his arm slides off his chest, and on his limp hand I see a wedding band of cheap metal. I collapse onto the doorstep, shaking. How can this have happened so quickly? I told myself I would stop. I barely remember my fangs snapping down … and now I have killed again. I have murdered someone’s husband. Someone’s son, or friend, or brother, or even father. I have robbed another person of blood they never owed me, and I have deprived another family of their loved one.

“I meant to stop,” I whisper. “I meant to—”

“Lucy.” Vlad’s voice is so clear that I startle and look around, expecting to see his menacing shape, but he is not there. He is only in my mind. “Remember what you promised me.”

Something in my body takes over. I lift the mist and wrap it around the dead man, as Vlad had done to the woman I killed. As soon as the man is on his feet, with his blank and unseeing eyes still open, he begins to stumble mindlessly through the thickening fog, swept away into the world of the mist, never to be found again. I watch him stagger toward the docks of dirty, ramshackle boats, my gut clenched with self-loathing. And then I am moving away, flying.

In the mist, I hurry through the dark streets of London, unseen by anyone I pass. Only animals lift their heads, tense and sniffing. I drift along lanes and alleys until I am in the churchyard again. In the Westenra mausoleum, I stand staring at the tomb that bears my name. And I know, I know I deserve Arthur’s and Mina’s rejection and Quincey’s hatred and Dr. Van Helsing’s determination to kill me. If a looking glass were here, I would see my true self: a demon, a beast of the shadows, my skin swirling with the evidence of what I have stolen.

I gave up my soul to embrace this curse with hungry arms, and all that awaits me now is an eternity of damnation and disgust, overwhelming hunger and deep-rooted loneliness. Vlad does not care what becomes of me, Mina and Arthur believe that I am better off dead, and I have lost Mamma and Papa forever. There is no one to love or help me, not anymore.

I descend into the candlelit crypt and my eyes fall upon a wooden hairbrush among my new belongings. I contemplate breaking it and burying the sharp point into my heart, freeing the world of the mistake of me. But true death would not erase what I have done. The stain of my deeds is already spreading like poisonous ink. What have I committed to? What have I chosen?

If I go on this way, I will destroy everything I touch and harm everyone I love. There is nothing for me now but to hide myself away from the world, for I do not deserve anything or anyone in it. And one day, when I have retired long enough for penance, I will find the strength to stake my own heart. I will find the courage to die.

Fury and grief and self-hatred war within me. I smash boxes of jewels and shoes, shatter bottles of scent, kick holes into the chest of money, tear up gowns and hats and veils and fling them into the far corners of the crypt. None of it matters anymore. None of it means anything. It is all nothing, just like me. My heel connects with a trunk, and I kick it viciously, sending it flying into the pile of travel documents. An envelope slips out from between the papers, and I seize it in a blind rage, preparing to rip it into a million pieces. I cannot take another cold and commanding letter from the man who had fooled me into thinking he cared, who tricked me and withheld information from me, and who had the gall to shame me for trusting him.

But I freeze when I see the handwriting, small and neat and perfect, on the thick cream-colored envelope. A governess’s elegant and practiced hand.

For Lucy , Mina has written. And on the back, in tiny letters beneath the unbroken seal, she has added, as though not for my eyes: Will you please see that she gets it?

Who was she addressing? Vlad? Only he could have placed it here for me.

I stare down at the envelope for a long and breathless moment as that feeling of surreality returns. Surely, I am sleepwalking. I am lost in the mist and wandering in my dreams again, for Mina would never write to me now, not when she fears and hates me.

Mystified, scarcely daring to hope, I sink to my knees and tear the envelope open to find a thick sheaf of paper, all the pages filled on both sides in Mina’s impeccable hand.

My cherished Lucy,

I write this on the 30th of September, two days after Arthur, Mr. Morris, the doctors, and I saw you. My heart had shattered upon receiving news of your death, and never did I imagine that I would see you again. No matter how my soul rails against it, I cannot stifle the joy that came from hearing your voice once more. It soothes my fear and horror at the choice you have made.

I wish I had been the friend you deserved, for then you might have felt that you could talk to me before making this decision all alone. You looked so sad that night, Lucy. Mr. Morris may have seen you as evil and seductive—at first, at least—but I saw your loneliness and despair. I want you to know that you will always have my love and friendship. That would not have changed with your natural death, and it has not changed now, with your … I hardly know what word to use. Your new state of being, I suppose.

That night, we saw you retreat into the mausoleum, and Dr. Van Helsing was ready to follow. He told us that piercing you through the heart with a stake of wood and cutting off your head would save your soul and send you to Heaven, where you truly belong. At this, your poor Arthur, always so quiet and mild, actually tried to attack him and had to be held back by the other men. He loves you still, Lucy, so much that I weep to think of it. Dr. Van Helsing and the others relented and agreed to go home after they had taken the little girl back to her family.

When Arthur regained control of himself, he said to me, “Mrs. Harker, I know you love Lucy as much as I do. The doctor believes she will sleep during the day for fear of the sun, and I have a notion that he and Jack will return in the morning to kill her.”

“They can’t! They mustn’t,” I cried.

“Mr. Morris is all for it. Which means that you and I are the only ones who can protect her. Please, Mrs. Harker. I hate to ask you when your husband is ill and you ought to be home with him, but I wish that you would please come back and help me keep Lucy safe.”

I have never seen a man cry before. Jonathan never has, not even on the worst days of his illness, when I knew he wanted to. But Arthur wept inconsolably as he spoke, and I could only touch his shoulder and say, “Have no fear, my friend. I shall stand watch with you until dawn.”

Well, Lucy, it was a lucky notion of his. I patrolled the churchyard entrance with him until sunrise, when Dr. Van Helsing—who is every bit as much of a hunter as Mr. Morris—came back with the other men in tow. When I saw his face, I knew he would not rest until you were no more.

I truly thought he and Arthur would kill each other. Arthur refused to move out of his way, so Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris pinned him to the ground. Oh, the violence with which they treated their friend! “I am sorry, Mrs. Harker,” Mr. Morris said to me. “I am sorry that you stayed.”

“I will not move, either,” I told Dr. Van Helsing, prostrating myself before him. “Will you hurt me, too, Mr. Morris? Or you, Dr. Seward? I beg you to let Lucy be. Do not take her life.”

“It is not a life, Madam Mina,” Dr. Van Helsing said quietly, “but an evil, soulless existence that she must now endure. In the name of the love you once bore her, let me pass.”

“Evil? Soulless? Take those words back!” I had never shouted like that in all my life, and the men went still with shock. “If you want to kill Lucy, you will have to kill me first. Go on! My head and my heart are here for the taking, and I would rather you destroy me than her.”

Lucy, I meant those words. Every one of them.

They protested that you had almost harmed a child, to which I replied, “I should not have said what I did. Lucy may not like children, but she would never hurt them. Not even now. I have loved her long and well and ought to beg her forgiveness for making such an assumption.”

Mr. Morris shook his head. “It wasn’t an assumption, ma’am.”

“The doctors examined the child thoroughly,” I said. “There was not a scratch on her. Lucy did not hurt her, though she had the opportunity. Please go away and let her be!”

Dr. Van Helsing’s eyes held such sorrow as he looked at me. “Madam Mina, you do not know what you ask.” But something about my plea touched him, and the men vowed not to return that day. I believed them, but Arthur did not and stayed with you all afternoon. I went home to care for Jonathan, and when I came back, Arthur was on the bench with his head in his hands.

“I cannot leave her,” he said. “I cannot leave my love.”

For two nights and a day, we watched over you. I had to leave now and then to see to Jonathan, but then I would return to sit with Arthur. Writing this helped distract me from my fear, for always I sensed a presence watching us. My intuition told me that this being did not wish to harm Arthur and me … at least, not right away. And I knew they had something to do with you.

I am sobbing as I read Mina’s words. The page ends with a large ink blot, and then the letter continues with one last sheet, her neat handwriting becoming crooked and agitated.

Oh, Lucy! Such distressing news since I last wrote to you!

On the third day, I stayed at home, as Jonathan was growing worried by my long absences and lack of appetite. He took a nap after lunch—sleep has been elusive for him ever since his journey—and a good thing, too, because Arthur came to see me, looking frantic.

“She is gone, Mrs. Harker,” he said. “Lucy is gone!”

That morning, the doctors and Mr. Morris had returned to the churchyard bearing wood and iron, and Arthur had been too weak from lack of food and rest to fight them. They bullied the caretaker into opening the Westenra mausoleum … but what should they discover but an empty tomb? There was no sign of you. Perhaps you had not been there for days.

Where are you, my darling? Can I be writing this letter to no one?

No sooner had Jonathan and I returned to England than we received news of Mr. Hawkins’s death. He had loved my husband as a son and had left his business and his entire fortune to him. You can imagine how touched Jonathan felt. Ill as he was, he insisted on going to London at once now that he was a partner in the firm. I came, too, to take care of him.

I was already worn down with grief for Mr. Hawkins and worry for Jonathan, and so the news of your and your mother’s deaths almost destroyed me. I wrote to Arthur, telling him that we were in town, and he came to me on the very eve of your wedding, half-frantic with terror. He told me of a strange notion that Dr. Van Helsing had regarding your demise. I lied to my husband that night, telling him that Arthur had invited me to a gathering of your loved ones to celebrate your life. It was the first time I have ever been untruthful to him.

Oh, Lucy, something dreadful indeed befell Jonathan in those mountains. He has never spoken of it, and I fear he never will. All he would say was that he had kept a journal there and wished to spare me the details, but he would give it to me if ever I desired to read it. What a joy it is to be so loved and trusted by one’s husband … and yet I am so afraid to even touch it, Lucy, even as my intuition tells me that it may be important to us somehow. Not just to Jonathan and me, but also to you. I cannot explain why, even to myself.

Lucy, please don’t go. Don’t leave us. Arthur and I love you and we want to help you. Read this letter, find us, and show us how. We are not afraid. We know you would never hurt us.

Stay, dear heart, and save us the agony of your loss. I know you have done wrong and your new existence compels you to commit awful, unspeakable deeds, but there must be something we can do. We will come up with a plan and talk it over, you and Arthur and I, and in time, we may change Dr. Van Helsing’s mind and enlist his assistance as well.

What a fine, first-class brain that man has! I sigh as I write this, for it sounds foolishly hopeful even to me. He is dangerously single-minded, cool, and calculating. He is like a train that, once on the tracks, will not veer until it reaches its destination. But we shall cross that bridge when it appears, shall we not, my Lucy?

I must end this letter and seal it with a kiss. I love you, I love you, I love you.

Please find me. Please don’t leave us.

Your Mina

I read the letter again and again. I run my hands over the words and weep until there is nothing left in me. Mina wrote this. She wrote this as she and Arthur protected me, watched over me, and guarded me ferociously from Dr. Van Helsing. They love me still. They love me even now, as I knew they would, and they always will. I should not have doubted or let Vlad shake my faith in them. In the heat and shock of the moment, Mina had used the word monster , but she had not meant it. One would not write such a letter of love and devotion to a monster.

I hold the letter against my heart, trembling with joy and gratitude. But what could Arthur and Mina possibly do to help me? They are even more powerless against this curse than I am. They have not seen for themselves the horrors I have wrought … the lives I have taken.

I want to believe that they would be safe with me, but how can I promise myself that after tonight? I have no self-control. I can trust myself no longer. And I would only serve as a constant reminder of loss and pain and horror if I stayed with them. They are better off without me. Mina has Jonathan, and Arthur has his friends, and perhaps one day, a good woman who will love him better than I can, as excruciating as it is for me to imagine that.

I must let go of them. I must learn to live with myself and what I have done.

I have this letter, this declaration of love and friendship, to give me strength and remind me that once, I was loved—that I am still loved—and that will have to be enough.

I kiss Mina’s letter and fold it into my corset, right over my heart. And then I pick my way through the wreckage of the crypt. I gather my travel papers and what undamaged items I can find and pack them into the trunks, and then I put on a long black traveling gown and a heavy veil of crape to conceal my face. I transform myself and my belongings into a column of mist and drift out to the churchyard gates to wait.

Everything I have done will forever weigh on me like an invisible chain. Link by link, I feel it around my neck, my wrists, and my ankles.

But somehow, I can bear it more than I could an hour ago. And when the carriage appears on the empty street, just as a new dawn touches the sky, I put a hand over my heart where Mina’s promises of love and affirmation warm my ice-cold skin. And I allow myself to hope, even if it can only ever be just a beautiful dream, that one day, I will see her and Arthur again .