Page 80 of Now Comes the Mist

“All is well, my child,” Dr. Van Helsing says with forced heartiness. “Do not fear. Go and get comfortable under your blankets, and Jack and I will come and stay with you.”

The buzzing in my ears has subsided, and as the maids put my nightgown back on me and tuck me into bed, I can easily hear the doctors talking in the hall.

“To fail here is not merely life or death,” Dr. Van Helsing is saying.

“Sir, I mean no disrespect,” Jack says. “But are you certain your mind hasn’t been addled by lack of sleep? You say he flew from the window as abat?”

“I have no energy to persuade you, my boy,” Dr. Van Helsing says tiredly. “I have told you the absolute truth, and you must use your knowledge and your trust in me to help you judge. Lucy Westenra has been thoroughly seduced and infected by that beast who can transform into man, wolf, or bat. And it was not the first time. I saw how they were together.”

“He … he took her?” Jack whispers.

“I saw it, and so did her poor mother.”

Sobs rack my body anew at his words. Grief has become a wall, and I run headlong into it. My mind is a reeling, dizzying carousel of shame athaving been witnessed in the most vulnerable surrender of my soul; rage at Vlad’s blame and rejection; and fear at the reality of what I have chosen. Naïve, Vlad had called me, and stupid, too. He was not wrong. I have been a fool to trust him. I have put my hope into an ocean, turbulent and cruel and fathomless, and now I will drown in its unplumbed depths. He tricked me with his warmth and friendship, his tender promises and lingering kisses. He swept me up in the romance of his existence when he needed to frighten and impress me, but all the time, he was holding back so many truths.

What else do I not know about this curse? How on earth will I ever be able to take a life? And what does any of it matter when I will die, regardless of what I choose?

Grief twists in my gut, knife-sharp. Grief for who I was and can never be again, and grief for my mother, who had loved me more than life itself and who had left this world watching me make my most terrible choice. And what of Arthur and Mina? How did I ever think I could live on beside them and hide the truth of what I have become?

Dr. Van Helsing and Jack hurry in at the sound of my sobs. I am so empty—of blood, of water, of virtue—that I am astonished I can still cry, but I do. I want my mother so badly that I cannot help screaming out at the agony of it. I will never see her eyes shining with pride or feel her arms around me ever again. She died without the comfort of knowing that she would never lose me to death, never have to face the pain of my loss.

Jack takes my hand, his face twisted with sympathy, as Dr. Van Helsing watches us, tense and alert. Even in his pity, he is ready to fight me if I attack them. But I am growing too weak to even contemplate it. My lungs gasp for air as I fall back, limp against my pillows. What little blood left in me is sluggish, dragging itself through my veins with the last vestiges of life.

“Send for Arthur at once,” Dr. Van Helsing says quietly.

Jack nods, his face white. He squeezes my hand before hurrying away.

“Doctor, I’m dying,” I say, my voice faint.

Dr. Van Helsing places a gentle hand on my forehead. “Yes, my child, I’m afraid you are,” he says, a tear slipping down his face. “I am so sorry I could not protect you.”

“It isn’t your fault. Only mine,” I say, my eyelids growing heavy.

“You must never blame yourself,” he says severely. “This was done to you. You could not have asked for it.” Even here, even now, he wants to think that I am perfectly innocent.

I fall into a light, dreamless sleep, and I awaken to everyone gathering in my room. Dr. Van Helsing and Jack stand by the door, their headsbowed. Quincey is at the foot of my bed, his face full of emotion as Arthur cradles me in his arms, weeping disconsolately.

“Arthur,” I whisper, burying my face in his chest. I smell the night air on his coat, damp earth on his shoes, and brandy, which in my careful Arthur is proof indeed of his unbearable sadness. It is the week before his wedding, and he thinks he will lose both his father and his fiancée. “Wait for me. I will return. This is not goodbye.”

“Arthur, that’s enough,” Dr. Van Helsing says, his voice tight. “Come away.”

“Just hold on a minute, will you? Give them some time,” Quincey says sharply.

I move my face to Arthur’s neck, where an artery pulses against my lips with a hypnotic rhythm. The scent of brandy in his blood is stronger here, rich and dark and bitter. It blends with the familiar smell of him, pine and cigars, making me think of our first kiss, and to my horror, I feel a tingling in my gums above my front teeth followed by two sharp pinches as my long, new, lethal fangs sprout from behind my upper lip.No, I tell myself.Not Arthur!

I clamp my lips together, my face contorting with the effort of resisting my hunger.I cannot hurt this gentle man I love. I will not poison him!But a teasing, tantalizing thought persists: that if I bit Arthur, I could make him truly and irrevocably mine, more than any ceremony or prayer book or exchange of rings.No! I will not give in!

With all of the strength left in my failing body, I put my hands against Arthur’s chest and push him away from me, hard. He stumbles against a chair, one of its legs catching on my mirror.

“Lucy?” he sputters. “What are you—”

“Arthur, move away!” Dr. Van Helsing’s voice rises with panic. He and Jack dart forward and drag Arthur backward, away from me. They have seen, and so has Quincey. In summoning my strength to push Arthur away, I had gritted and bared my teeth—allof them.

The men recoil.

Dr. Van Helsing, who had tried so hard to keep me safe.

Quincey Morris, who had asked me to sail to the New World with him.

---