Page 107 of Lucy Undying

He is no useless noble, no pampered boyar. He is a warrior. A conqueror. He is death. The other vampires may have forgotten, but he’ll remind them, before the end. And then he’ll return at last to his castle, his first resting place, his place of greatest power. He’ll take you with him, in his belly and his veins, sustaining him.

He sleeps, eyes open and dead to the world. He doesn’t dream, and if he did dream, he would not dream of you. Only ever of himself.

He shores up strength, biding his time. The longer he’s away, the more desperate to see him you’ll be. And it works. When he awakes and searches, he sees you on the trail again. Pacing, afraid and upset. You’re looking for him, as you’ve been looking for him—waiting for him, longing for him—your whole life. You’re terrified you’ve lost him. Which means that, at last, you’re ready to invite him in. To accept the gift of his blood, the blessing of his bite.

But he won’t be caught off guard again. The other vampires believe him horrified by weakness, unwilling to be bound by the sun. Fools. He is never vulnerable. Even held in one form by the circle of the sun, he has more power and violence in him than the infant vampires could ever hope to.

And so, beneath the vicious light of day, he strolls along the streets and sidewalks that will take him to you when you least expect it.

91

Salt Lake City, January 25, 2025

Iris

It’s been days. No Dracula. And no Lucy. Hopefully she checks our post soon. I had two letters from her, which were lovely, but also left me feeling vaguely panicked in a way I can’t put my finger on yet.

I’m still shaky, like a vague premonition of doom was pumped into my veins as a chaser to the O negative. The fateful backpack strap, elegantly sewn into a bracelet and left for me under a rock, circles my wrist. I twist it and twist it as I drink my morning tea and choke down some toast. Even my dreams have been hazy, like Lucy and I can’t quite find each other anymore. I’m barely sleeping anyway.

At least a visit to my mailbox reveals a pleasant surprise: Two pieces of actual mail are waiting for me. The first is a package from Rahul and Anthony with spices and detailed instructions from Anthony on how to gradually raise my tolerance. I set it aside with an affectionate smile. The second is a heavy 8-by-12 envelope addressed to…Lucy. The return address is Lucy’s therapist friend.

I can’t imagine what it is. It’s too big to leave for Lucy at our post, and I have no idea how soon she’ll check there. Worried it might be something urgent, I open the package and find a letter on top.

Dear Lucy,

You inspired me to have a penultimate adventure before the final one! It was everything I hoped for. I felt so much hope and peace and joy, staring up at the northern lights. True magic. You were right. I don’t have to understand it.

I wanted you to have copies of your stories, so I transcribed and printed them. I also put the audio files onto this thumb drive, but I suspect you won’t know what that is or how to use it. Maybe your Iris will, though.

I don’t think I’ll see you again. It’s nearly time. I’m going to be buried in the Hillside Memorial Cemetery outside of Boston. No chemicals or prayers, just like I promised. Come visit me sometime.

Love, Vanessa.

My fingers twitch over the papers beneath the letter. As much as I want to read them, they’re not for me. I set the stack on the kitchen table with the thumb drive on top, and then I have a little cry. Lucy’s nearby, but I’m still alone. There’s no one I can talk to.

The doctor said my blood was a precious resource, which at last made such a crucial part of my life make sense: They aren’t just replacing my blood. They’re taking it. All those years as a kid, sitting in a chair with needles in my arms. It was never about trying to treat my disorder. It was always about taking something from me.

What is it about my family’s self-destructing blood that’s so useful? And who is that doctor? And how does she know Lucy? It’s days until my next “treatment.” That feels like an eternity, and even then I have no guarantees I’ll get alone time with the doctor or that she’ll be willing to talk to me.

I stare at Lucy’s letters, but they hold no answers. I need her here. I need to talk to her, ask her questions, exhume her past in hopes of understanding our present a little better. Exhausted and sad, feeling helpless, I stand to finish getting ready for school. My hip catches the table and Lucy’s transcript falls, scattering across the floor.

“Fuck,” I mutter, kneeling to pick up the various pages. My eyes catch on a name. The Doctor.

Oh my god, the Doctor? I read her description. It has to be the same vampire. The papers in my hands feel like a gift. I can’t talk to Lucy, but I can still hear from her. Until I have her permission to read everything, I’ll just look at the sections that include the Doctor. For all I know, she’s another huge threat and I should be on high alert.

It’s tempting to get sucked into Lucy’s voice and life, but I scan as rapidly and lightly as I can. I’m only looking for one word. I pull every page that mentions the Doctor, quickly shoving the rest of them into my bag to double-check later.

It takes all my willpower to attend class instead of holing up in the library and reading. But anyone watching on behalf of Goldaming Life will note if I’m deviating from my routine.

Between classes I rush outside and sit, pretending to do homework but actually reading through Lucy’s experience in World War One. It’s horrifying and sad and fascinating all at once. How did the Doctor go from the trenches to the Goldaming Life basement?

My phone dings with a text. I pick it up, expecting something annoying from Dickie. But the text is just a blurry photo of…a squirrel?

Who is this? I text back.

I wait for nearly a full minute with the little dots telling me someone is typing on the other end. Then it finally comes through.

You mean what is this it’s a squirrel

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