Page 85 of Now Comes the Mist

“I will explain everything in due time. I promise.”

He leans his forehead against mine, his face drawn and pleading. The imminent loss of his father has dimmed the light in his eyes, and I tighten my arms around him, every fiber of my being yearning to bring that joy, that smile back. “And you … youwillcome back, Lucy?”

I take his face in my hands. “I swear it to you,” I say fervently. “I will see you again, my love, and this is not goodbye.”

We lie there looking at each other, and my mind races with images of the future, even after the despair I had felt earlier, the certainty that I had no right to exist beside Arthur and Mina any longer. Arthur still wants me. He has seen a bit of what I am and he still wants me, and I wouldmove heaven and earth to fight my limitations, to take no more lives, and to curb my hunger if it meant we could be together for his lifetime. It may be a dream. A fool’s dream, perhaps, but it gives me more strength than I have felt in a long time.

“Kiss me, Arthur, before we sleep. Please?”

His mouth meets mine, soft and lingering, and then I lift the mist again. His eyes close, and he goes limp in my arms. I burrow tightly against him, my tear-streaked face pressed against his strong and steady heart as sleep overcomes me.

It is not the wedding night either of us had hoped for.

But we are together, and for now, that is enough.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Iawaken in utter darkness, surrounded by the crisp scent of cedar. Astonishingly, I smell nothing else, nor can I hear anything. I move my stiff, aching limbs and find that I am lying upon a soft silk cushion. My elbows connect with a rigid structure on both sides, and I frown and try to sit up. My head hits a surface just inches above my face with a resounding thump.

As my eyes adjust to the dark, I see the polished grain of the wood that encases me. The cushion beneath my body is engulfed by my voluminous cream satin skirt. I am wearing my wedding gown, with white gardenias in my hair and on my chest, already wilting.

I have just awoken in my own coffin.

I panic, hitting my fists against the tightly closed lid, wondering if they thought to bury a bell with me. It is a common practice, in case a person who is still alive must ring for help.

But I am not still alive, I think with a dark humor bordering on hysteria. And then the thought begins to calm me. I am not still alive. I do not need air. But the gnawing emptiness in my core tells me that Idoneed sustenance. How long has it been since I fed? How many hours or days has it been since I abandoned that poor man in the shadows of an empty street?

Remorse threatens to choke me, but I push it aside. Right now, I must get out of this coffin. I think of how easily I had lifted that man, though he was bigger and heavier than me. This new existence has come with incredible strength, much greater than that of a human.

And so I make a fist with my right hand, the one that bears my great-grandmother’s jade ring. Slowly, experimentally, I punch the lid. There is an encouraging cracking noise, and I cough as wood splinters rain downon me. I repeat the motion over and over until a jagged line forms along the center of the lid. When the pieces are fragile enough, I push them apart and try to sit up again. Once more, my head hits a hard surface—this time, unyielding stone. I lie back down in disbelief, staring at the solid granite that encases my coffin. Something sharp pokes my shoulder and I turn to see an iron nail, one of many that stud the edges of my coffin. Not only have I been encased in stone, but my coffin has beennailedfirmly shut with dozens of slivers of pure iron. Someone clearly feared that I would rise again.

I give a heavy sigh. “Van Helsing.”

This overly cautious burial has the good doctor’s stamp all over it. But he is only trying to protect the living, as he had attempted to do for me.

I study the heavy stone above me, thinking. They must have put me in the main room of my family’s mausoleum, near Papa and my grandparents. Their tombs are made of finely carved granite, and though the lids were not meant to be removed, they are separate and unattached.

If I am strong enough to break wood with my fist, then perhaps I can shift the lid of my own tomb. Impatiently, I push away my bridal bouquet and press my hands flat against the stone, exerting all my strength to shift it sideways. Slowly, grunting and straining, I manage to move it enough to see pale light filtering in from somewhere. My newly sharpened eyes take in every minute detail of the Westenra mausoleum’s ceiling: a dead fly trapped on a cobweb with one iridescent wing broken; a clutch of milky white spider eggs tucked into a crack in the ceiling; and an errant leaf, long dead and dry, caught between two of the stones.

At last, I am able to wrap my fingers around the lid and slide it aside. I sit up, looking around at the mausoleum of which I have spent so many years dreaming. Not so long ago, I had harbored such silly and romantic ideas of death, in which I would be with Papa again and see everyone I had loved and lost. Vlad was right. I have been stupid indeed.

I brace myself against the side of the tomb and climb out, nearly falling as my heavy full skirts catch on the jagged wooden lid. Impatiently, I tear at them until I reduce them to a thinner, shredded layer of cream satin. The seamstresses had spent months sewing tiny seed pearls into the hem, and I destroy their work in seconds. They had made me a dress to catch the eye of my wedding guests, but now I need a dress that will be light and easy. I run my hands approvingly down the simplified gown and feel a small lump against my leg. Someone has stitched a pocket into the satin, and inside it, I find the bullet that had failed to kill Quincey Morris.He must have asked my maid to bury it with me. I look down at this talisman of protection that had meant so much to him, my heart aching, and replace it in my pocket. He had not intended it to be of much use to me dead, but I will take any good luck charmundead.

I remove my delicate veil of creamy Devon lace but leave the crown of white gardenias atop my head. Someone has taken the trouble of intricately weaving and pinning the flowers into my long, loose waves of hair, and I am too hungry to take the time to remove them.

A freshly carved name on Papa’s tomb catches my eye. The inscription now reads:Phillip Westenra, Jr., and his wife, Audrey.He and Mamma have been reunited at last. I bend to kiss their names and drape my bridal veil over their tomb, fighting back tears. Knowing that they are here together gives me both peace and unimaginable pain. I turn to read the etched words on my own tomb. “Lucy Westenra lies here. Lucy Westenra is dead and gone,” they seem to assert.

But none of it is true.

Lucy Westenra is not dead and gone, and her hunger is growing every second.

I approach the mausoleum doors. An infinitesimal crack between them lets in light too pale to be that of the morning. I press my eye to it and see a blue velvet night sky stretching above the churchyard. Judging from the wilting flowers in my bouquet, I have been buried at least two days, maybe longer. How many evenings have passed since Arthur and I had fallen asleep together on my bed before sunrise? I cannot tell for certain.

I push against the doors, but they are locked as always and do not budge. No doubt the thorough Dr. Van Helsing made certain to watch the caretaker turn the key, or perhaps he locked me in himself, not trusting anyone else to do the job.

I look down at my slim, pale hands, knowing that they are now strong enough to break down the doors. But I am reluctant to damage this sacred monument of my family’s, especially when they are all resting behind me. I quell my rising desperation and think.

The mist. It had carried me out of my house, drawn potential victims to me, and helped me return the children to the orphanage. Perhaps it can somehow help me escape this tomb.

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