Page 17 of Lucy Undying

I don’t hunt when I’m like that. It makes me sloppy and careless, and therefore dangerous. I got sloppy and careless tonight. That’s how I ended up in your parking lot, fighting for both our lives. Though this time I wasn’t ravenous for blood, merely…tenderness? Release? Relief?

Obviously, I found none of those. But that’s the danger of giving in to strong desires as a vampire. The part of me that’s me goes away.

Anyhow, in Liaoning, having reached my goal but with no idea what to do next, I stood in the middle of the pier, bedraggled and half mad, staring with wild eyes at nothing. A man took my arm. He moved with furtive urgency, dragging me along in his wake.

“I have a place where you can rest,” he whispered. There was something strange about him. He was human, but there was blood in him that wasn’t his own. I let myself be tugged away from the pier and into the darkness.

19

London, October 4, 2024

Iris

I glare at the safe as though I can open it by sheer loathing. I could pay someone to crack it, but I’d have to use my family credit card. Might as well just text Dickie directly and tell him I’m up to something.

A stupid thought possesses me. My mother used the same code for everything. Security system, phone, ATM pin. She had no idea I knew, and I only used it during the most desperate occasions. Both times it paid off.

This safe looks seriously old, and I don’t know if my mother ever visited Hillingham, but she did technically own it. “Eight.” I turn the knob, the clicking beneath my fingers like the scuttling of insect legs. “Eight. Eighteen. Ninety.” Already certain of defeat, I grab the handle and pull.

The safe opens.

“Holy shit,” I whisper. And then I shout. “Holy shit! I beat you! I beat you!” I point triumphantly at the safe, but it doesn’t respond to my trash talking. It doesn’t need to. As usual, the joke’s on me. Inside is nothing but papers. I flip through them frantically. Letters, ancient contracts and legal documents, more letters, pages and pages of handwritten notes, and, in an identical leather book filled with identical loopy cursive…

“Another fucking journal?” I fling myself backward. The seam of the ancient rug digs into my spine as I stare up at the cracked plaster ceiling. Journals in the floor, journals in the safe. Did that girl really think anyone cared about what she thought? I could have disabused her of that notion.

When you’re a girl in a house like this, no one cares what you think, or how you feel, or what you dream about. No one. They only care what you can do for them.

It’s several minutes before I muster the will to sit up again. I should probably wash my hands or put on special gloves before handling antique books, but I can’t care. I skim through the pages of the new journal. It looks like the same handwriting as the floor volume. Sure enough, in the front I find the name Lucy Westenra again. She’d better have the juiciest stories ever. Or, ideally, detailed instructions on where to find all the jewelry in the house.

Then I notice a cat drawn in the margin, a slinking, sly creature climbing along her words like they’re a playground. It’s a mature version of the drawing in the child’s workbooks.

Lucy was the girl who grew up in this cold house with her toys locked away. I’m instantly intrigued. I wonder if she’s the subject of those paintings, too? Are those her piercing, intelligent brown eyes, staring at me from the past?

“Nope.” I shut the book emphatically. I don’t have time for the problems of someone who lived more than a century ago. I don’t even have time for my own problems.

I return the journal and papers to the safe, then retrieve the other journal from the kitchen and add it to the stack. It feels right to reunite them. I lock them up and, in a burst of paranoia, replace the false back of the cabinet. Maybe I’m wrong and they’re valuable. Until I know for sure, I’ll be careful.

Or maybe I’ll leave them locked up forever. Lucy went to great pains to hide her floor journal. I’d hate to betray her and her playful cats.

Defeated, I step outside. The relief is instantaneous. For such a large structure, Hillingham is remarkably claustrophobic. The solitude is oppressive but somehow I still feel observed. Maybe it’s the wallpaper—a peacock feather design like hundreds of eyes watching my every move. A dead house, reporting back to my dead mother.

I walk to clear my head and my sinuses, gawking at the opulent houses peppering the street. They’re old like Hillingham, but fully wired for electricity and other newfangled marvels like that. I’ll bet they even have Wi-Fi. Half a block away—which is nearly a mile, this neighborhood is so spacious—I finally have enough bars on my phone to use data.

I’ve got to sell things quickly and quietly, and I can’t do that until I know what’s worth money. A quick online search for antiques dealers is overwhelming, though. There are so many in London. Proximity is probably best, given that I don’t have a car. I pull up my map app and zoom in on the area. Before I can target the search, I spot something surprising and promising—a local history museum.

Surely a museum would know what art and furniture in the house is worthwhile! And surely a museum would give me that information for free…

I dial the number. It rings and rings before going to voicemail. “Hi,” I say, “my name’s Iris Goldaming. I just took possession of Hillingham. It’s a mansion. In Haverstock Hill. Anyway, I’m calling because the house hasn’t been occupied or even touched in like a hundred years or more.” Shit, I sound so American. They’re probably rolling their eyes. “It’s basically a time capsule. Anyway, I was hoping someone from the museum could help me know if there’s any, uh, historical value? To the furniture or paintings or books? I wouldn’t want to accidentally throw out some priceless antique.” I laugh lightly like it’s not a matter of survival, merely curiosity. “So, give me a call if you’re interested, or you know of anyone who might be able to help me out. Thanks.”

I leave my number, then hang up. Feeling good about this potential development, the next order of business is finding food. But I don’t need to look for a restaurant—I already have the perfect option. No bad day can’t be improved with Himalayan and Indian food. To my surprise, Rahul himself answers when I call his husband’s place.

“You need rescuing already?” Rahul asks, recognizing my voice, or more likely my accent.

“No, I need butter chicken. And naan. And a side of roasted garlic. And a battery-powered lantern, a sleeping bag, a pillow, a towel, and toilet paper. But I’m assuming you only offer the first three.”

Rahul laughs. “Actually, I’m off to the shops right now. If you want, I can pick up your whole order and have it dropped off. I’ve been worried about you.”

My impulse is to protest, but kindness is rare and always worth accepting. “Thank you. That’s genuinely amazing of you. I’ll pay cash for everything. Unless you want to barter. An exchange of goods: one alarmingly dire house for an extra side of naan?”

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