Page 80 of Lucy Undying

I nearly wept. Being wanted, being touched? It reminded me I was real. I was real, and I was almost finished.

They tried to tear me apart.

I should have seen it coming. I practically invented this form of murdering other vampires. Though my method was always one on one, never seven on one. Hardly seems fair. They nearly killed me, but they’re still so young. Tied to their forms in a way I never was. It’s hard to murder moonlight, but do enough damage and even I can’t shift anymore.

It was a setup. The Queen and the Lover figured out a way of killing me without getting their own hands dirty. I’m not even angry. I’m impressed with their organization and innovation.

So, here I am. I didn’t find him, and I never will. I’m at the end of my search. Out of options, out of hope, out of reasons to keep existing. I was right about why it’s easy to kill old vampires. We’re so tired. We want someone to give us permission to sleep without the threat of waking.

You were right, too. There is something outside. Several somethings, now. It took them awhile to find me again and gather. I’m sorry I kept delaying you, but I wanted to finish my story before they finishme.

I think I’m ready to be finished. Telling you these stories, remembering everything I’ve done and everything I’ve failed at. I’m pathetic. So deeply pathetic, just like the rest of them. We were all mirrors to one another, all living the same story without end.

In her home, the Queen was trying to seize control from Dracula, who had never even set foot on her continent. He didn’t have to, because he has all the power anyway.

On every operating table and in every body, the Doctor was looking for what Dracula took from us. But she couldn’t find it, because it’s his now.

On the stage, the gaze the Lover was really hoping for was Dracula’s. The ending she craved was the one he denied her when he damned her to this endless mocking limbo.

We were, all of us, searching for Dracula. Reborn shaped around the horror of him, broken in the form he gave us. He claimed us and made us his own and tied us to him forever through violence. And then he never thought about us again.

Before you say anything else, Vanessa, I can smell the cancer eating away at you. I know you only listened to my story because you hoped I’d change you. You hoped I’d save you. But I would never do that to you. All I can offer is a swift, painless death right now, if you want. Or you can hide and pray the others pass you by. Not much of a choice, but few of us get any choice in the end.

At least we’ll both get an end. Stories only have meaning if they end, don’t they?

Lucy Westenra. Born in 1871, died in 1890. Forgotten, but not gone. At last about to rest in—

69

London, October 8, 2024

Iris

I expect Elle to argue with me. To tell me why I’m wrong. To insist that I misread things, or that Lucy was writing fiction, or that I’m insane to believe the rambling diary entries of a dying girl. Instead, she stands and leaves. Just walks out without a word.

I sink down and sit among evidence of the truth. That’s what always defeats me in the end, doesn’t it? Anytime I tell the truth, I lose everything. But I couldn’t keep it from Elle. Especially not after reading Lucy’s journal.

Lucy died in part because no one in her life was honest with her. No one gave her the information she needed to keep herself safe. I won’t do that to Elle. If I’ve driven her away forever, if she’s out there counting her lucky stars that she saw how unhinged I am before it was too late, well. At least I saved her from being part of my life and everything that comes with it.

This one hurts more than any of the others, though. The way I feel about Elle is deeper and stranger and better than with anyone I’ve ever loved. There was a part of me—the fragile part with stupid, weak feathers still trying to fly me into a better reality—that hoped Elle would believe me. That she’d be so into history that she’d take historical records of vampires seriously. That maybe she wouldn’t need evidence at all.

It feels like I’ve lost something irreplaceable.

I wipe away tears, shoving aside the painting of Dracula. At least I solved one of my own personal mysteries. Dracula has always been tied to my family. He’s the reason vampires are part of my life; he’s the reason I had to shove a silver dagger in my mother’s corpse to make certain she never came back.

I didn’t get to tell Elle the rest of the story, but it’s so bleak I’m kind of glad. Dracula killed Lucy, those fucking men cut off Lucy’s head, Mina pretended to kill Dracula, and he’s been working with the Goldamings ever since. A literal deal with the devil.

Speaking of devils. I check to make sure my spray bottle is still nearly full. I’ve experimented with a lot of things over the years. Coffee leaves a scent strong enough to mess up my personal smell and throw vampires off, but simmering down garlic to a concentrated reduction hurts them the most. Van Helsing knew what to do. If only he’d told Lucy how to protect herself, instead of entrusting it to those useless, grasping men.

I take the key to Lucy’s room and hang it from a silver chain around my neck, then let myself have a long cry over what I could have had with Elle. I cry for Lucy, too. I don’t regret reading her journal or telling Elle about it. Lucy deserved someone to know the truth. Someone to care about what happened to her. I can’t ever regret that.

And I don’t regret the time I had with Elle, either. The intensity and depth of my connection to her doesn’t make sense, but love rarely does. I’ll miss her for the rest of my life. I hope I didn’t hurt her as badly as this is hurting me. Who knows, maybe I saved her from joining Goldaming Life someday. She’s certainly going to avoid Goldamings forever after me.

Oh god, Elle. I squeeze my eyes shut, pushing aside memories of our perfect hours together.

I can’t wallow. I’m back on the hook for trying to find a way to disappear. For now, I need to get away from Hillingham and all its memories. Lucy was betrayed in this house; she died in this house. And then my family took it and left it to rot as a monument to their evil.

I take a walk to clear my head. I’m half tempted to cover the miles to Elle’s flat and tell her I was kidding. Vampires aren’t real, I just have a stupid American sense of humor. I can take it all back, beg her to take me back.

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