The room around me faded; I was rapidly losing consciousness. I wanted to stop the doctors, but I was completely incapacitated and the medication made it easier to give into my fate. Floating into that darkness, I felt less and less attached to the idea of escape. I thought that perhaps I should pray, but I could not summon the mental energy to do so. Strangely, the words of a hymn came to me, one I’d sung at the last service I had attended in Exeter. I recalled the resonant pipe organ filling the cathedral, vibrating the nave.
You, Christ, are the king of glory
The eternal Son of the Father
When you took our flesh to set us free
You humbly chose the Virgin’s womb.
You overcame the sting of death
And opened the kingdom of heaven to all believers
You are seated at God’s right hand in glory …
The image that the hymn brought to my mind was neither Christ nor heaven but my savior, standing on the banks of the river with his arms outstretched, inviting me to go to him. What a fool I had been. How I wish that I had known that the danger ahead lay not in his arms but in stubbornly clinging to the life of safety and security that I wanted with Jonathan. What exquisite gifts had my dream lover offered me that I would never know?
I saw his face in my mind’s eye, and I imagined staring into his feral blue eyes, dark as twilight. I wanted to sink into them, to melt into the escape that they promised. My mind was now like a stage where my dreams of the mysterious stranger were played again—his voice, his touch, his kisses, and his blood-draining bite. I was in a somnolent state, in which the line between reality and hallucination was easily blurred, my mind alternating between the sweet sensations of my imagination and the faint sounds in the room—the tinkling glass and metal as Seward and Von Helsinger prepared for the procedure, words muttered between them in German, and the low, ambient hum of the asylum’s inmates.
All of a sudden, I felt a shift in the room, as if someone had made a surprise entrance, but through hazy eyes, I saw that the door was still closed. Von Helsinger’s alarmed voice barked exclamatory words to Seward in German, and Seward responded with a strange cry. I wanted to slip back into my reverie, but then something crashed to the floor, as if one of the doctors had dropped a thing made of glass. I opened my eyes again and in my dreamy state, I thought I saw a thick mist seeping through the shuttered window. Confused, wondering if this was part of a dream, I blinked my eyes and looked again. The two doctors—eyes wide with astonishment—stood frozen, watching the vapor as it swirled before them, growing in luminescence and intensity. Before our eyes, the numinous particles began to sculpt into a form, and I thought that perhaps an angel had come to save me.
Slowly the thing took shape. It was not an angel but a shimmering coat of silver fur, which gradually molded itself over great muscled haunches, its outer ends elongating into a bestial tail and head. My dream world collided with my reality as I watched the wolf dog I had seen in Whitby growl at Von Helsinger, backing him against a wall and baring his teeth at the incredulous doctor. Von Helsinger pressed himself against the wall, yelling something in German, and the beast lunged at him, pinning him with its thick paws. The treacherous canines were not an inch from Von Helsinger’s face. Seward tried to get to the door, but the wolf dog turned around and, with preternatural speed, leapt on him from behind, sinking its teeth into the doctor’s back. Seward cried out in anguish as he pulled away, leaving some of his flesh in the animal’s mouth. Von Helsinger pushed Seward through the door, but before he could escape, the animal swiped at his face and neck, leaving sharp claw marks from cheek to throat. With a howl of agony, Von Helsinger grabbed his face and fell through the door after Seward, slamming it shut.
I lay in bed paralyzed. The wolf dog jumped on the bed, straddling me, staring at me with its vivid indigo eyes. The last thing I remember seeing in that room was his huge incisors above my face, red and dripping with Seward’s blood.
Part Six
LONDON AND AT SEA
Chapter Fourteen
London, 25 October 1890
I woke up under thick velvet covers in a vast bed. Truly, it was like floating on a sea of feathers. I had no idea where I was. I remembered traveling, my body jostled as I lay on what felt like leather. In my stupor, I had wondered if I had died, and the jostling was from my hearse as it rolled toward my grave. If I was dead, I had pondered, then why did my thoughts rattle on? After that, I floated into a long, dreamless repose.
Now I opened my eyes. The room was dark, though weak autumnal light filtered in through arched windows high on the walls, illuminating the room’s rich aubergine brocade wallpaper. Its color cast a soft violet haze that floated through the bedroom, twinkling the huge diamond-shaped crystals that dropped from two immense, many-tiered silver chandeliers. They were larger than any I had ever seen, things out of a palace or a fairy tale. An imposing, heavily carved wardrobe, which looked as if it had been in place since the early fifteenth century, faced the bed where I lay. Beside it on the wall hung a large bronze shield with an iron French cross at its center, crowned by a gilded fleur-de-lis with a dazzling gemstone in the middle of the petal. Large portraits of nude ladies, odalisques that looked as if an Italian master—Titian, perhaps?—had painted them graced the adjacent wall. A heavy crystal vase of white long-stemmed roses sat on a table at the bedside, their petals tight, but their sweet perfume filling the air, mingling with the aroma of fresh baked bread.
I ran my hands down my body. I was not in my own nightdress but in a pale green gown of fine quality damask silk with a triangular neckline and long, full sleeves that cupped my wrists, draping white lace over my hands to the fingers. I had never seen such a rich garment. I imagined it was something that the queen’s daughters would have worn.
I heard a door open, and it startled me. I pulled the covers to my neck.
“Ah, she is awake.”
It was the voice. His quick footsteps approached the bed, and he soon stood over me. His presence was different this time. He was more solid and real, more like a man—a human—than in all the previous times he had come to me. He looked anchored inside his body, which let me know that I was not dreaming or hallucinating. At least it did not feel that way. Still, his skin was slightly more luminous than that of an average person, and I wondered if it was noticeable enough to attract the attention of those who passed him on the street. He sat next to me and put out his hand, and I put mine into it. His body did not seem to have a temperature. I realize that is difficult to imagine, but while his hand was a perfectly formed male hand, it was neither warm nor cold, but beyond those things. It was concrete, but it had a subtle and peculiar vibratory quality, like the tremor of a violin string.
He put his fingers over my pulse at the wrist, and then leaned into me, inhaling my scent at the neck. I felt little shivers inside me, remembering the dream in which he bit into me and tasted me. But he soon withdrew.
“The medication is still in your blood, but you are recovering well. You are very strong, Mina. Very strong.” His full crimson lips formed a little smile. “Do you like the bed? You have been asleep for two days.”
“I do like it,” I said, my voice crackling with the first words of the day. “It is the most luxurious bed I have ever slept in.”
“It once belonged to Pope Innocent, though he was anything but. Ironic that you are lying in it now.”
“Do you think I am not innocent?” I cannot say that I wasn’t afraid of him; yet there was something between us that made it seem as if we were simply picking up a conversation where we had last left it.
“No, you are innocent, but the pope was not. He knew that he was dying, and he tried to save his life by transfusing the blood of healthy young boys into his sick body. They died, of course, and so did he. If the doctor had given you his blood, you would have died.”
“Is that why you came to me? To save me once again?”
“I came because you called me,” he said.
“How do you know that I would have died?” I asked.
“Because I can smell your blood and the blood of the others, including your husband’s, and I can tell by the fragrance which blood will not mix well. It is inexplicable to you, I realize. But if you accept the Gift, you will understand.”
“What Gift?”
“The Gift you have rejected for the better part of a millennium,” he said. “But that is for another day. You are hungry. Your stomach is terribly empty.”
He produced a wide silver tray with wrought handles that was piled with sliced bread, grapes, apricots, oranges, apples, cheeses, and a goblet of red wine, and put it on the bed.
“Wine?” I asked. I wanted a cup of tea.
“Your blood needs its elements. Drink at least some of it.” He sat on the bed next to me. “You must eat now. You will need your strength.”
At that moment, the pungent aroma of the cheeses, the sharp citrus of sliced oranges, and the yeasty smell of the bread overrode both my fear and my curiosity. I wanted to dive into the food like a hungry dock-worker. With great discipline, I picked up a silver knife and spread soft butter across a slice of the warm bread and then daintily cut a piece of dark cheddar cheese. The food tasted exquisite, and I tried to chew slowly, as he was taking in my every move. We sat in silence for a while as I ate my fill and let the wine relax me.
“Where am I?” I finally asked.
“You are in the mansion that I purchased for us in London, the one your fiancé found and helped me to buy,” he said with the slightest touch of a smile. “One does not live for seven hundred years without developing a keen sense of irony.”
I imagined how shocked Jonathan must have been to see my picture in the newspaper with the man who left him to be ravished by his nieces. It almost made me forgive him his violent reaction.
“I am very confused. I do not understand—well, any of this—but I do not even understand how you know me,” I said.
“In this particular life trajectory, you have a very obstinate memory. It is difficult sometimes to remain patient with you.” His eyes turned a chilly blue, and he got up off the bed, turning his back to me. “But then, it always has been so,” he said with an air of resignation. “That is why I am taking you to Ireland. We are going to go to the place where we first met, and then you will begin to remember.”
The Count opened both doors of the heavily carved medieval wardrobe revealing dresses of many colors and fabrics. “I have selected for you clothing for every occasion, but I suggest you dress simply. Ireland is a poor and hostile country. You do not want to appear as a haughty Englishwoman flaunting her wealth.”
“I have no wealth,” I protested. “And I am not going to Ireland!”
“You are wrong on both counts. You will find first that you do, indeed, have wealth and second that you are going to Ireland. Select the things you would like to take on our journey,” he said. “I will have them packed for you. As a courtesy to you, I brought my staff from Paris to run this house. I happen to know that you speak French. We leave this evening for Southampton and we will sail in the morning. I have purchased a small luxury steamer for the trip. Will you please be ready in an hour?”
I see that you are unaccustomed to being told no, I thought but did not say. Something in me wanted to challenge this creature that was both regal and feral.
He read my thoughts as clearly as if I had said them aloud. “Not accustomed to being told no? You have told me no hundreds of times.” His eyes flared bright and angry. I knew that he could easily hurt me—kill me—if he wished. But if he were going to do that, I would prefer that he do it here, rather than on a boat in the middle of the Irish Sea.
“What would happen if I decided not to go?” I asked, trying to test where I stood with him. He had once said he was my servant and my master, but I saw nothing of the servant.
He took two steps back, and I felt the anger he had hurled at me moments before recede. He shrugged. “The choice is yours. The doors to the mansion are open. Walk through them anytime you like.”
His sharp change of tone disarmed me. I could not think of anything to say that would not sound like a schoolgirl fumbling for words.
“I would enjoy watching you dress, but there will be time for that later. I sense that you require some privacy.” He gave me a perfunctory bow. “One hour. Please be ready.” And then he left me alone in the room.
At sea, the next day
The vessel he had purchased had fifty first-class staterooms designed to transport one hundred people and considerable cargo, but besides the crew, we were the only passengers. I was given my own quarters, luxurious and small. I opened the wardrobe, which smelled of sweet sachet. Everything in my trunk—from undergarments to nightdresses to gowns to jewelry—had already been unpacked and hung or folded with supreme precision and care. French soaps, lotions, and powders populated the drawers of the vanity, and a vase of white lilies sat on its top. I sat on the narrow bed, looking out through the round porthole to sea, and marveling that three days prior, I had been in an asylum being tortured with the water cure. But was this voyage going to prove any less dangerous? I must have been lulled into a shallow sleep by the undulation of the sea when I heard a rap at the cabin door. A steward was delivering a note advising me that dinner would be served at eight.
I had seen renderings in The Woman’s World of elegant, bejeweled ladies with gentlemen in ties and tails, dining in the new transatlantic luxury liners, but I did not know the protocol on this mysterious ship. I selected a simple but graceful gown with a sage-colored organza overdress and a seed-pearl choker, hoping that I had chosen well, and I swept my hair up with long, pearl-dotted pins from a small ivory box on the vanity. I checked my appearance in the mirror and then opened the door to find that the steward waited in the hall to escort me.
The centerpiece of the dining room was an atrium of etched glass surrounded by exquisite plaster crown molding patterned with vine roses. Classical columns held up the lower portions of the paneled ceiling. The room would have seated one hundred at its stately mahogany tables, but we were the only diners. Bowls of fruit and big vases of hothouse violet-blue hydrangeas covered the room’s sideboards. In one corner, a pianist softly played a sonata on a grand piano.
“Do you like the music, or would you prefer to dine in silence?” the Count asked, standing up to greet me as I entered the room. He sat at the head of a table wearing evening clothes, much like those in which I had first seen him on the riverbank.
Another steward rushed over to help me into a chair adjacent to the Count. The steward exchanged a few words with the Count in a language I did not understand, bowed, and hurried away.
“The music is lovely,” I said.
“Chopin. Such talent. A pity that he died so young.”
I was woefully ignorant of serious music, an aspect of my education that Headmistress had ignored. “How did he die?” I asked.
“The doctors thought it was some disease of the lungs, but it was exacerbated by his taste for, shall we say, the wrong sort of woman.” He smiled. “Or rather, their taste for him.”
I had arrived in the dining room with a litany of questions, but the soft light from his luminous face and his incalculable eyes that were devouring me erased them all. I thought of Kate’s advice to be silent so that the words of another might come forth, and I tried to relax, but I felt fidgety under his gaze.
“I knew that the dress would match your eyes, or that your eyes would change their color to match the dress,” he said. “And do not worry. All your questions will be answered in due time. That is why we are making this trip.”
Waiters began to appear with tureens of soup, platters of fish and meat, and bowls of vegetables. Another with a huge gold tasting spoon hanging like a necklace at his chest showed the Count a bottle of wine, whi
ch he approved, and when opened, sniffed the cork, and then nodded so that a glass could be poured for me. He ordered the waiters to put everything on the table and retreat to the rear of the room. “I will serve her,” he said. “Tell me what you would like, Mina.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but he put a finger to my lips. “Not that way. Tell me with your thoughts.”
Without looking at the food, I directed my attention by scent to the tureen of turtle soup, whose aroma I recognized from my first dinner at the asylum. “Yes, good,” the Count said, ladling out a small bowlful for me. “What else?”
I relished the aromas of the white fish with wine and capers, the lamb with mint sauce, and the carrots, but rejected the turnips, which I had eaten for so many years at Miss Hadley’s that I had come to abhor them. My repulsion made him laugh, and he signaled for a waiter to take the bowl away. He finished serving the food and sat in his chair with an empty plate in front of him. “Bon appétit,” he said to me.
“You are not eating?” I asked.
“When I am fully living in the body, which I am now, I do feed it, but not tonight,” he said. Seeing my confusion, he added, “I will explain all in time, Mina, but I know your appetites as surely as I know my own, and I know that you are dying to eat but wondering how you might do so politely when your dinner companion is not eating with you. You must forget your training for the moment and enjoy yourself.”
Unlike other times when I seemed to frustrate him, now he seemed utterly amused by me. I obeyed him, taking the first bite of food, and, finding it delicious, I proceeded to eat while he watched.
I finished one glass of wine, which made me more relaxed, even blithe. “You seem to know me exceedingly well, Count, while I know you very little, or at least, I do not remember knowing you, as you say that I do. May I please ask you exactly who and what you are?”
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