Page 106 of Lucy Undying

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes.

Lord Byron wrote that. If you know the poem, or if you don’t, don’t bother with the rest. This is the part that matters, the part I hold in my heart and whisper to myself today, staring down at the valley that holds you, wishing I were the one holding you.

But you do walk in beauty. You’re all that’s best of dark and bright. The rest of the poem goes on to glorify innocence, but we both know innocence is wielded as a weapon against young women. A whip to wound us, ties to bind us. A commodity to be traded and sold. By the time we know what innocence truly is, it’s been taken from us and we’re shamed for its absence.

You’re not innocent, and I’m sorry for everything that hurt you, but I’m so glad you’ve walked in enough darkness that your eyes adjusted. That you could see the subtle creeping moonlight, frozen under your gaze. That you could pin it in place long enough to give it form once more, to breathe life into the memory of the girl I’d lost long ago.

I’m sure you’ll wonder, about that first moment. If I was following you. If there was a reason I was there at exactly the right time, if there was a motive behind saving you outside the train station. Because in your life—in my life—no one does anything without a motive.

I want you to know, you must know:

There was no reason. I was there to find myself, and I found you on the way.

It was luck, or fate, or the universe at last allowing us both a tiny triumph. I saw a beautiful woman. I wondered what made her eyebrows draw low like that, what she would look like if she were laughing. And then I saw her look left instead of right, and I knew I could save her.

All my countless years wandering, I fed on lives, I envied lives, I ended lives, but I think you’re the first life I ever truly saved.

Even before I realized it, even before I knew you, you were changing me. And I am forever changed. Forever grateful for a universe with a sense of humor, determined to prove I could still be surprised. Forever yours, because as you said, forever is composed of nows. I’m yours now, I’ve been yours since that very first now, and that’s an infinite collection of nows you can hold on to. Time isn’t real, but moments are.

Don’t forget.

If my heart beat, it would beat your name.

Lucy

89

Salt Lake City, January 21, 2025

Lucy—

He was at my house in the middle of the night. I’m going to pace the trail and hope you break the rules and come see me. This is a bad system. Tell your friend to call me or text me. Then I’ll have her number and we can communicate faster.

Anyway. Dracula knows where I live, and he’s swooping closer. There were also some developments at Goldaming Life. I think I met an old enemy of yours, but she hates Goldaming, so she might be an ally. She said something that’s been bothering me. I need clarification.

I need you.

I hate this.

Iris

P.S. Adding this on now—I got your letters and found your gift. Thank you. It’s around my wrist, and you’re around my heart.

90

Salt Lake City, January 25, 2025

Dracula

He retires to the dirt basement of his house. Beneath it lie graves of victims no one knows he’s taken.

Time is a circle, and he’s spun around it this long because he is vicious and bold, yes, but also cunning. His is a legacy spanning centuries and continents, an infinite cycle of obsession and death and rebirth. Wherever he has killed, he can dwell. His home is in the death of countless women, his bed in their resting places, final or otherwise.

The demon vampire woman has the dirt of his first home, the clotted and blood-soaked earth that renews him fastest. Because of that, she thinks she has some measure of control over him. She thinks him satisfied with her offerings and pathetic protection. But he’s finished with the languorous stupor of ease that lulled him into this life. The idle curiosity of what it would be to merely consume, never hunt. The luxury of servants, of sycophants, of travel without fear or threat.

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