Page 49 of Lucy Undying

But I wouldn’t simply disappear. I waited, and I watched. I stalked the Lover from audiences, just like he did. And the next time she went electric with anticipation, the next time she glowed with the thrill of being seen and desired, I paid attention.

He worked doing filing, paperwork, and the occasional suspect sketch art for the police. There was something dry and lifeless about him, skin flaking around his nostrils, scalp splotchy beneath his thinning hair. His eyes were his only lively feature. They had the intensity of a rodent, hyperalert, always watching. He didn’t see me, though. Not until it was too late.

I wasn’t like him. I didn’t make a production of his death. I didn’t even bite him; I wanted no part of him in me. I snapped his neck and then dumped his worthless body in the Seine.

I knew the Lover would be on stage, frantic with hope. I took away the one thing my friend looked forward to. The one thing that kept her going, that made her infinite afterlife worthwhile. And I didn’t tell her I’d done it, because I wanted her to keep waiting and hoping. It was pathetic. I hated her for it, because I hated myself for the same thing.

We were fools, throwing our bodies in front of men because that was the only way we could ever feel like we mattered.

And so, having at least saved a few of the beautiful dancers who had distracted me in such lovely ways, I left Paris. I thought the Lover incapable of revenge; I was wrong about that.

43

Whitby, October 7, 2024

Iris

“Iris, it’s me!”

Elle’s voice. Elle on my bed.

She scrambles off and hits the lights. There’s no one else in here. My window’s free of floating mothers, and no one is crying. No one needs me to find them and save them. Which is probably for the best, because I’m doing a shit job of saving myself at the moment.

Elle’s flush with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to scare you! I thought you were awake. You said my name.”

I put my hand over my still-racing heart. “It’s okay. Actually, it’s good that you woke me up. I was having a bad dream. What time is it?”

“Midnight.” Elle grins at me, radiating mischief. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” My lack of hesitation surprises me. I’ve learned not to trust anyone. But whether I actually trust her or I just want whatever she’s about to offer with no questions asked, I mean it. “Wait, are we doing a midnight cemetery tour?”

“Better. I promise. Get dressed.”

I do as I’m told, noting that she doesn’t bother leaving the room as I pull off my oversized T-shirt and pull on ripped black jeans, a tank top, and the only jacket I packed, a black hoodie so old it feels like a friend. I want to check and see if she’s watching me, but I also want to be cool and casual so it looks like I don’t care either way.

God, Elle’s turning me into a teenager again.

Elle and I stumble up the hilly stairs in the dark, laughing whenever we miss a step. She leads me higher and higher until we come to the top of the cliffs. In the distance is the ruined abbey, a darker smudge against the moonlit sky. And inside the ruined abbey are strobing lights.

“Secret midnight rave!” Elle declares, triumphant. “Whitby isn’t as boring as it used to be!” She grabs my hand and we run along the path, heedless of rocks or tripping hazards. The wind is in a fury and storm clouds are massing on the horizon, but for now we have the light of the moon, and it’s enough.

Something is missing as we get closer, though. Shouldn’t we hear it by now? I want the thump of bass, the overwhelming vibration of the music. But the reason why is obvious when we arrive at the entrance to the abbey grounds. Not only are the lights all kept low to the floor so they’re not visible from the houses below, but the music isn’t going to attract any attention.

A young man made of nothing but bones and skin flicks his eyes at us. We must pass some test, because he gives us two sets of wireless headphones. “No noise, no cops,” he says simply. Then he holds out his hand.

Elle covers me, for which I’m grateful. Then we’re inside. It’s surreal, watching all these bodies moving in silent coordination, dancing to a beat we don’t hear. In a rush of bleakness so familiar it steals my breath, I feel lost and starkly alone.

Isn’t this my whole life? Everyone else experiencing one reality, and me stuck on the outside of it?

I smash the headphones over my ears. Problem solved. Elle flashes me a giddy thumbs-up and we jump into the fray. I lose her for a bit in the press of bodies. When I find her again, she’s dancing in a wild, frantic way. Still with her catlike grace, but with a borderless, uninhibited energy that I remember from my club days. She definitely took something. I’ve seen a few tablets passed around, small baggies exchanged.

I wish I could participate, could really let go. But I have to maintain absolute control at all times. If I don’t, I’m afraid I’ll never get it back.

I don’t blame Elle, though. I hope it helps her work through her bad memories. I stay close, dancing and laughing and relishing the moments when our bodies are moving together. It’s nice to see tea-loving historian Elle turn into a new version of herself. Her fluid movements, the sharp grace that makes it look like she’s half dancing, half ready to attack whoever is near her, is entrancing. I’ve been into Elle since the moment we met, but tonight she’s not just beautiful and charming. She’s devastatingly sexy.

I shoulder aside a few people trying to take my place. I don’t want to make a pass at her—it would be taking advantage, given how emotionally (and probably chemically) vulnerable Elle is right now—but I can’t not be close to her. I have to be close to her. To keep an eye on her, yes, but also because it’s a physical need. An ache inside me that promises it’ll go away if I can just—

Just what? Seduce her? Make her love me? Make her mine? I can’t do any of that. It would be unfair to her. She deserves better. And besides, I’ll never treat a person like a goal. Or worse, like a vending machine for my own desires.

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