Page 18 of Lucy Undying

“How about we stick with cash for now. The naan market fluctuates wildly and I can’t be sure I’m getting the better end of that deal.”

“Fair enough.” I walk back to the house feeling lighter. Delicious food is coming, the museum lead might pan out, and at least I won’t be stuck in the dark tonight. Plus, I’ve done a search on London zoo escapes and I think Rahul was right about the wolf. Which oddly makes me like Hillingham a bit more.

But my affection doesn’t last long. Hillingham rises like a schoolyard bully waiting for me to show weakness. I linger on the street, unwilling to go back in. I really should find a hotel. Suck it up and use the credit card Dickie gave me. That would be an understandable expense, one that wouldn’t raise red flags.

But using the company credit card feels like acceptance. The first silken strand of Goldaming Life’s web snaring me until I’m wrapped so tightly I can never break free.

Besides, staying in a house without electricity will be like all the camping trips Mom and Dad never took me on. It’s an adventure. The last challenge before freedom. I killed to get out; what’s a little discomfort to stay that way?

A car drives by, slowing as it passes me. The neighbors are probably ready to call the cops, wondering who’s creeping around Hillingham. I hurry inside as my phone dings with a message from an unknown number. It’s a photo, which is taking forever to load. Must be from Rahul, asking about my supply preferences. Response is impossible as a single pathetic bar of reception flickers in and out of existence. I’m sure he’ll figure it out.

Since I’m going to see another human being again soon, I head to the bathroom. My sink wash from before didn’t include my hair, so I quickly soap it clean by leaning over the side of the tub and ducking my head under the faucet. The tub is clawfoot, cast-iron, in good shape. Maybe I can sell it.

My whole body goes tense from the discomfort of frigidly cold water. Cold is an instant anxiety trigger. I pick up my phone hoping Rahul’s message came through, but the photo takes me a few seconds to process. Not from Rahul, after all.

It’s the back of me, staring up at Hillingham. Taken mere minutes ago.

Those fuckers. Those absolute fuckers. I try to call Dickie, but whatever atmospheric anomaly gave me a single bar is gone again. I scream at my phone, then throw it across the bathroom.

Drying my hair with my old shirt, I drag on something clean. I’m coming down the stairs, shivering and paranoid, when I see a shadow lurking beyond the stained glass of the front door.

I leap the last few steps, unlock the door, and fling it open. “If you think you can scare me into—”

I stop dead, face-to-face with my angel from the train station.

20

Boston, September 25, 2024

Client Transcript

There was something hollow about the stranger tugging me away from the Liaoning port. His skin, hair, and eyes had the bleached quality of dead coral, and I tried not to shudder as his skeletal fingers tugged my arm.

Dracula almost never fed off men—his type is young and female and full of promise. But he’d still figured out how to use them. Like Raven’s contact in London, this man was one of Dracula’s familiars. Gaunt, gray men, lingering in the space between life and death, neither fully human nor infected enough to become vampires. The blood in his belly wasn’t a matter of survival; the familiar chose to drink blood to feel closer to his master. I didn’t know any of this at the time. All I knew was I needed help, and he seemed to be offering it.

There was enough variety of sailors at the port that he didn’t stand out, but I definitely did. And starving as I was, I couldn’t change my appearance. I needed to feed so I could be what people expected when they looked at me. As you know, a woman is always in danger if she doesn’t show the world what they expect to see. Even a vampire woman.

“Blood,” I moaned through cracked lips.

“Yes, yes, come on, quickly.”

There was an urgency to his movements that I didn’t like. It wasn’t purposeful and assured. He dragged me, creeping from shadow to shadow, constantly looking over his shoulder.

His manner was possessive. It was the way rats grab bits of food, every sense on alert as they rush to get their prize to safety where they can consume it at their leisure. I was his prize. But I would never be a man’s meal again.

I leapt onto his back. My knee cracked his spine in half as I bit through his throat and tried to drink. His blood was foul. Like spoiled milk. Even thinking of the taste now makes me gag. I couldn’t stop, though; I was too desperate. There was fresher blood inside him, uncorrupted by the poison in his veins. I made a mess of pulling out his stomach, but I managed not to puncture it.

Oh, the look on your face. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh. If it makes you feel better, think of it like a juice pouch. At least it was fresher than his own blood. And it was enough to clear some of the fog. I could at last think.

I was crouched in a dark alley between two warehouses that stank of fish and salt. I could hear heartbeats all around me, smell the rich, complex scents of their late suppers. All while that thing’s supper seeped, repulsive but replenishing, through my stomach and into my veins.

Mina would have chided me. Look at that mess! Always acting without thinking! In my defense, I was only a few months undead. But imaginary Mina was right. Aside from the gore, I’d made a mess of the whole situation—I’d ripped out his throat before talking to him. Now he couldn’t answer any of my questions.

He lay there, surrounded by trash and his own pale, flaccid intestines, hands uselessly scrabbling to put them back in. Dracula had granted him some small measure of power and strength, so he wasn’t dead yet. But he wasn’t going to recover anytime soon, if ever.

I searched his pockets. Of all the things he could have been doing with his life, he’d bound himself to a vampire and lurked alone here, wearing the most atrocious, reeking, ill-fitting clothes! The least he could have done was take advantage of the incredible textiles being traded. So many beautiful things in the world, and he cared about none of them.

His hideous jacket held an envelope, several knives, and a tool that looked like a sharp-tipped metal straw. I removed the envelope and set it aside, but my mind was stuck on Mina and how disappointed she’d be in me. She hated when I left things undone. Embroidery unfinished, letters half written, paintings abandoned. For all I knew, the familiar didn’t deserve to suffer. I erred on the side of compassion. I wasn’t certain whether he’d turn into a vampire after death. Given what I’d done to him, I preferred he not be able to come back.

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