Page 83 of Now Comes the Mist

I am a predator now, a monster whose sustenance is blood. But even through the presence of the newly awakened murderous beast inside me, I can still feel the human part of me reeling back in disgust, my stomach roiling with nausea even through my hunger. Never in my life have I had the gift or the liking for children that comes so easily to other women. This tiny being with its wet mouth and dirty hands and seeping eyes may be full of the blood I crave, but I am still repulsed by it. I cannot kill it. Iwillnot.

Hope blooms on the child’s face. “I’m glad you found me, miss,” she says rapturously.

Why is she so happy to see me?

And then, as I stare into the wide darkness of her large eyes, I see the answer. I see my own reflection, and it isnothinglike what I saw in the mirror after my transformation. In death, my beauty has magnified a thousandfold. My skin glows pale gold, as soft and flawless as the petal of a rose, and my hair and lashes are blacker and more luxuriant than they have ever been. My cheeks are a warm pink, but my lips are a brilliant rose-red as though I have rubbed them with rouge. I am transfixed by my own appearance in the child’s eyes, for something in the giving of my blood and the taking of Vlad’s has caused me to look this way.

As a human, I had been lovely. But as a vampire, I am utterly irresistible.

The child is relieved to see me because instead of being found by a vagrant or a drunk or whoever wanders these streets at night, I have come to her instead: a soft-eyed young woman in a spotless nightgown with an angelic smile and hair like the evening sky.

I am in awe and terror of the cleverness of this curse. This venom Vlad has introduced into my blood understands the concept of self-preservation. It knows that if it makes its host attractive and alluring, then the prey cannot help but come running.

As I had to Vlad. And as this girl has to me.

I think of what other children have called me before: a “bloofer” lady. Abeautifullady, one whose face attracts both their attention and their trust.

The girl throws herself into my arms and tucks her head under my chin, seeking the comfort of a mother. Oh, God, what am I to do? I am torn between devastating hunger for her blood, horror at the deed I am contemplating, and sheer disgust at the feel of this tiny, dirty, doll-like creature attaching itself to me like a tumor. My gums ache as my fangs threaten to snap down again, and I press my lips so tightly together that it hurts.

I will not do this. I willnotkill an innocent child.

Awkwardly, I put a hand on the little girl’s back, my fingers catching on her lanky hair. I remember that there is an orphanage nearby, an establishment patronized by some of the ladies of Mamma’s circle. Indeed, my mother and I have given money every Christmas to help feed and clothe the orphans. This girl must have wandered from there.

“Come, darling,” I say, patting her head as my mouth waters at the seductive smell of her clean, fresh blood a spare inch away. “Let me walk you back.”

She snuggles tighter against me, reluctant to leave my arms, and I think of how this is everything society has asked of me: to be a woman holding a child protectively, just like this. To first be a daughter, and then a wife, and thenthis, a nurturer of small lives sprouted from my own body like damp mushrooms from a moist log. Weeds from the wetness of my womb. I hold her against my weakly beating heart, trying to contain my revulsion at the stench of her innocence, tortured and unsure of what to do as the mist gently swirls around us.

The mist.

I can put her to sleep. I can push her far away from me so that the stains on my soul do not deepen and the reflection in the mirror does not grow bloodier with the blood on my hands.

But before I can take action, I smell new blood approaching, fanning the flames of my steadily increasing and unsatisfied hunger. In the dim light, they appear shoulder to shoulder like sentries in the fog: eight or nine small figures, their bodies frail, their clothes hanging loosely, and their eyes too big for their faces. They home in on us like an army of puppets moving in perfect unison, with identical expressions of hope and relief at the sight of me.

“Oh, miss!”

“We are lost.”

“Help us,” they chant. “Please help us, miss.”

Their grubby doll hands find my face and my hair, their smelly bodies swarming around me like pale grubs on a festering wound. I am faint with horror and my senses are assaulted by these children I have somehow drawn to me through the mist, with their small voices, searching hands, and longing eyes. My head aches with the rhythm of their heartbeats. I can taste my own blood in my mouth as my fangs snap down, piercing through my gums in preparation for a feast.

I stand up and back away as the children paw at me, their plaintive voices shrill and the smell of their blood, velvety and unctuous, clings to my nose with invisible hooks. I am losing my sanity and my control as the tiny sacks of blood surround me. This will become a massacre.

“I told you.” I hear a smile of triumph in Vlad’s whisper. “I told you, I told you.”

I clench my fists and scream, “No!”

The children go still.

Quickly, with trembling hands, I sweep the mist upon them like a shroud. One by one, they fall to the ground, their heartbeats slowing as they sink into deep slumber. I touch my face and realize that I am crying, looking down at these fragile, helpless bodies who had sought a loving young mother through the mist and found a monster instead. Foundme.

“I can’t do this,” I sob. “You were right, Vlad. I have not the courage.”

There is no response. Desperately, my insides quaking with hunger, I lick my own blood from my fangs. And then I use the mist to lift the children into the air before me, moving them back to the orphanage. Even before I reach the building, I can hear the worried voices of adults seeking them. Gently, I lower the bodies beneath a large tree and cry, “Here! I’ve found them!”

And then I flee, because I know I would not be able to help myself if the adults came upon me, too. I half run, half float, weeping as I move through the empty streets. The sky is several shades lighter. Sunrise will come soon enough, and I will die as a human. There will be no returning from that, no seeing Arthur’s smile or Mina’s bright eyes ever again.

“What am I to do?” I utter. “Oh, God, what shall I do?”

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