Page 32 of Now Comes the Mist

“For now, think of me as a friend from far away who will listen without judgment.”

“Far away? Are you not with me right now?” I ask fearfully, burrowing deeper against him as though I am drowning in the sea and he is my only salvation. There is a stark reality to his existence, his voice, and his embrace that makes me forget that I am only dreaming.

His laugh is a low, pleasant sound. “You are extraordinary, Lucy Westenra. I did not think I would meet such a one as you when I have not even set foot upon this land.” He presses a light kiss to my temple. “You see, England has held my interest for decades. How could a tiny country floating helplessly in the grip of oceans come to such godlike power? Always am I drawn to those who grasp for domination, and it is England that commands my imagination this century.”

Century?I think. I long to ask about this curious, hyperbolic turn of phrase. But the soothing rise and fall of his voice is a stream of consciousness in which I am lost. I drift along its current as though he might dictate to me all the secrets of the universe if I listen intently enough.

“But it is not just her ships, commerce, and monarchy that interest me. It is also her society. Her people. The men … and the women.” His hand strokes my back, as meandering as his thoughts. “Death links us all, no matter who we are. Man is born, man breathes, man lives, and man dies. Man is but an animal, and yet English society prefers to forget that. Is this true?”

“I am not certain.” I lift my head to look at him, and his sea-glass gaze is the most intense scrutiny I have ever faced. I am a window he is looking through, and I sense that he can see absolutely everything inside my mind, my heart, and my soul.

“Babies emerge, screaming and bloody, from the pits of their mothers’ wombs, yet this is not spoken of,” he says, his hand moving yet lower on my back. “People rut in the privacy of their bedchambers, and sometimes carriages and darkened halls, yet this is not spoken of. All is prim and proper, buttoned to within an inch of its life, all to maintain a veneer ofpoliteness.”

My breath comes in short, shallow gasps. I have never heard such notions put into words, and I am faint with how easily I can imagine myself closed up in a carriage with him, with all the curtains drawn, or in a dark and empty hall, our limbs tangled in the moonlight.

He runs a hand softly through my hair, and I shiver as electricity dances through my veins. “I have learned that strict rules govern the manners of England’s highest society, and the most rigid of these are laid upon the women.”

Even in the haze of my rising desire, I pull away in surprise.

The man’s mouth curves, sly and seductive, as his hand finds the curve of my bottom, exactly where I had placed Arthur’s the day before. It squeezes deliciously and I gasp with stunned pleasure. “Women do not speak of unpleasant topics such as death,” he murmurs. “They do not long to see the world or give in to their secret dreams, their private hopes, or their deepest longings. Butyouwould if you could, wouldn’t you, Lucy? And why not? Why shouldn’t you be free for the first time in your existence?”

The coat slips from my shoulders as he pulls me to him, chest against chest, mouth against mouth. Slowly, tantalizingly, his tongue swipes across my bottom lip. “Because,” I manage to say, “I would lose everyone dear to me, especially—” I stop myself from saying Arthur’s name just in time, conscious of the sense of betraying him even in a dream.

But the man hears it anyway. “Ah, yes, the saintly Arthur,” he says with wry amusement, “who would keep you safe in his lordly house like a trophy. But you would soon lose your shine. He does not know how to bring out the best of you.” His mouth finds my neck, and the edges of his teeth graze my skin. “What if you gave him up and let yourself go? I wonder if you would be brave enough to make that choice. You who seem bolder than the women who follow your society’s constraints. What if another path were laid before you?”

I think of the red-tipped brambles from my past dreams as his teeth slide over my throat, the promise of them as sharp as thorns.

“Are you yourself not worth choosing?” he murmurs against my skin.

“Women do not choose themselves.” I have unconsciously crushed the flower in my hand, scattering fragile petals all over his coat. I close my eyes and tilt my head back, inviting his lips with abandon. “The perfect woman lives only for others.”

“But you are not the perfect woman?” he asks, his mouth meeting mine again in a lingering kiss. His eyes are almost black with desire.

When he pulls back, I lean forward to kiss him again, but he holds me just an inch apart, smiling. “No. Not like Mamma or Mina, who snuff their own spirits like fingers choking a flame. They are like dolls, happy to be loved and touched and told what to do.”

The man takes the remains of the destroyed flower from me and lifts its broken petals to his nose. “You will be the same if you marry Arthur, no? He, too, is bound by these rules and expects you to be as well.” He chuckles at my consternation. “I can see every encounter you have ever had with him. I can taste your wanting like wine.”

A small thread of fear comes loose in my chest. “How can you see all of this?”

He does not answer. He only runs the crushed flower over my lips, and my unease fades into that languid stupor once more. “I would not deny you anything, Lucy. Unlike Arthur, I will satisfy your thirst. Also unlike him, I understand your craving for death … your instinct that dying could be the one choice you will ever make of your own free will.”

“Yes,” I breathe as he tucks the flower in my hair, just above my ear.

“But have you ever considered that death might not be the escape you wish for?” he asks, studying my face in the pale light. “That it might merely be a different sort of chain?”

I think of my dreams of sinking beneath waves and lying in the mausoleum. Always, I see myself walking into the arms of death, but never what happens next, like a morbid fairy tale with no unveiling of what happensafterthe happy ending.

The man laughs gently, hearing my thoughts. “Tell me this,” he says, wrapping one of my waves of hair around his fingers. “If someone were to push you over that fence and give you that dark dream you long for, would death not be yet another method of being controlled?”

I push through my hazy confusion and look fiercely into his eyes. “Not if I asked for it. Not if I embraced it willingly and stood on the edge of the cliff waiting for the push.”

Something flickers on his face, half admiration, half recognition. “Do you know how else I am unlike Arthur?” he asks. One of his hands is stillon my bottom, and the other finds my bare leg. It slides from my knee up to my thigh, dragging the hem of my nightgown with it, and my mouth goes dry with need. “This is what you wanted him to do to you on the sofa, with your mother and the servants only steps away. You wanted his hand where mine is, his lips where mine are.” He presses his mouth to the pulse galloping in the hollow of my throat.

“Yes,” I gasp, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Oh, yes.”

“I will give you what he cannot,” the man whispers as his hand drifts ever higher.

A shadow falls over our bench, blocking out the moonlight.

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