Page 90 of Now Comes the Mist

Vlad lied to me again. Or did he?

Perhaps he had assumed, as I did, that his limitations would also become my own.

The sun endangers him, but here I stand in its glow. He has no reflection in a mirror, and I do, albeit changed. His eyes become ringed with red when he feeds, but mine remain the same. And when Dr. Van Helsing had held up garlic, it had not pained me in the way it should have.

This condition is different in me than it is in Vlad. Why? And can he truly not know?

Voices reach my ears. The caretaker approaches, talking to visitors, and I hastily retreat. It would not do to have them see a woman in an expensive wedding dress, standing in front of a tomb when she ought to be lying dead inside it. And I have much thinking to do before the sun sets, for if vampirism has such strange and inexplicable exceptions for me, then surely I can think of a way to break free of Vlad’s control.

The day passes more quickly now, and at moonrise, I slip back into the dark and empty churchyard. Tonight, I will find my friends and tell them all—but not before I have fed first, to ensure their safety. Fear twists my gut, but I cling to the hope that Arthur will not turn me away. We will marry, and we will be happy, and we will remain together for the rest of his life—many years for him, and a short time for me. And when Mina returns from Budapest, I will continue to be the doting friend I have always been to her, only young and beautiful forevermore.

These pleasant fantasies occupy my mind as I perform the unsavory task of seeking out small creatures in the dark: rats, squirrels, and even an unlucky fox. Their blood is bland or sour, but it does abate my hunger. I bury the bodies and take care to clean my face, hands, and teeth, fretting at the inconvenience of wearing a white dress as a vampire. The thought amuses me, for it is proof that somewhere inside me still resides the human Lucy, who had once worried about subjects as insipid as gowns and flirting and parties.

I am about to summon the mist to bring me to Arthur when I hear a small voice ask, “Where is my mamma? Please, can you help me find my mamma?”

“Not again!” I growl. “I have not the time for this!”

The child goes still, frightened. She is perhaps nine, with pale skin, golden curls, and blue eyes, the type of girl that other women would covet and call apretty little thing. But to me, her eyes are too big, her hands are too small, and her quavering voice sets my teeth on edge. She wears a costly, beribboned nightgown, ridiculous on a child. Somehow, she hasleft the safety of her home to find me in the mist, either because she sleeps lightly or walks in her slumber as I do.

I hear myself hum a lullaby, low and sweet, as I kneel with a reassuring smile.No!I want to shout at the hunger that rears its head. The girl’s blood smells of pear drops and sherbet lemons, and my mouth fills with saliva, longing to taste her after eating such unsatisfying meals.

But never,nevershall I harm a child.

“Hello, darling,” I say gently as the tips of my fangs poke down from my gums. “I am going to send you home to your mamma. Where do you live?”

“Sheridan Lane,” she says. “In the yellow house on the corner.”

“That is not too far. Let me walk you back.”

She fixes her large eyes upon my face. “Will you come inside and play dolls with me?” she asks, and hunger and nausea battle within me at this eager invitation from my prey. She slips her hand into mine, warm and sticky and confiding, and I flinch at her touch. “Please? Mamma and Papa never have time to play with me, and Lily and Edith are too grown-up now for dolls.”

“I … I’m not sure I can,” I say weakly.

“Please,” she wheedles, wrapping her arms around my neck. The sugary smell of her blood intensifies a hundredfold, and I am forced to close my eyes, struggling to regain control. “I think you are a very nice and very pretty lady. And I want you to be my friend.”

“Thank you. But I do not—”

The little girl gives me a sticky kiss on the cheek. Her throat is an inch from my mouth, fragile and perfect and full of blood. “No, I will not!” I cry, as my fangs snap down from my gums. Frantically, I call up the mist to put her to sleep as I had done with the orphan children.

But my exclamation has startled her. She pulls away and sees my teeth, and her shrill scream stabs the darkness. Now, I am the one clutching her, desperate to quiet her and keep her from running away to awaken everyone on the surrounding streets.

And then Dr. Van Helsing is there. He must have been hiding behind a large gravestone, for he is only twenty feet away, his face blanched with horror as he holds up an enormous bunch of garlic. Once more, the cloying scent fills me with memories of my parents: Papa reading to me in a room soft with lamplight; Mamma cuddling a smaller me upon her lap; the three of us at Christmas, laughing as Mamma tries one of Papa’s dishes and makes a face at the strong smell.

Other shapes appear from the shadows of the churchyard.

Quincey Morris’s long open coat flutters as he brandishes two silver pistols, both barrels pointed at me. Jack Seward holds up a wooden cross, grim and determined. Arthur’s eyes are wild with horror, and Mina, still wrapped in her blue traveling cloak, covers her mouth either to suppress a scream or keep from being sick. She collapses, white as death, onto the stone bench where I had surrendered my virtue to Vlad.

They look at me in a way they never have before: as though I am a rotten and revolting corpse. And I realize that the suggestive tableau of me gripping a frightened, shrieking child, my fangs gleaming in the darkness, is exactly why Vlad knew they would reject me. To them, in this moment, I am the image of a demon from hell, evil and irredeemable, my arms imprisoning an innocent child in some twisted perversion of motherhood.

“No,” I gasp. “No, please! This is not what it looks like!”

“Let the girl go,” Dr. Van Helsing says evenly, advancing a step.

“I was going to put her to sleep. I was going to send her home!” I babble.

“Why do you think we wouldeverbelieve you?” Quincey Morris demands, and his cold voice chills me to the bone. It hurts me as much as if he had already shot me. “You soulless she-devil, trying to murder a little girl right before our eyes. We all saw you!”

“No! No, I would never!” I sob. “She lives on Sheridan Lane. I was going to walk her—”

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