Mina awoke gasping as if she was choking on air.
Head swimming, she stumbled out of the bed she usually shared with Jonathan, a chill overtaking her the moment her bare feet touched the cold surface of the floor. If Mina had been in her right mind, she would have noticed that things were amiss right away; in truth, she should have been digging her toes into the plush Persian carpet that lay under her bed—a gift of Mr. Hawkins for his wards' upcoming nuptials. The absence of it should have given her pause, yet Mina was too lost in her panic to spare any thought to that discrepancy.
There was a heaviness to the room, the air stale enough to be suffocating. The window, Mina thought with a pained gasp, where was the window? A powerful smell—not unpleasant, but oppressive, somehow—filled her nostrils. She followed that trail, stumbling through a fog-shrouded space. Her strange surroundings reminded her of that fateful night, at the cemetery in Whitby, and Mina almost expected to see a few tombstones here and there, their grey shapes cutting through the mist like masts over a foggy sea.
Finally, she spied it; the window seemed to be floating in the air, a slight breeze escaping from a crack in one panel. Wreaths of flowers surrounded the wooden frame, bone-white in the moonlight—that was the source of the smell, Mina surmised, grasping something hanging from her neck—a metallic object that was cold to the touch, but which brought its own strange sort of comfort.
Mina was suffocating; she needed to push the window open to get a breath of fresh air or else she would find herself swooning. It seemed an impossible feat to accomplish—oh, she was so dizzy, so tired. Summoning the last of her strength, Mina reached for the latch with a trembling motion.
And yet, something stilled her hand, a fear she could not name nor understand. Again, she was distinctly aware of the pendant hanging from her neck, its cool metal clinging to her sweat-slicked skin under her shift.
Instinct fought against intuition; raw animal fear against rationalisation. Then, in the distance…
"Help…" said a voice, weakly. "Oh, please, help…"
That was a voice Mina knew. A voice that conjured all of her love and pity—a voice that would have made her move mountains. Mina cried out, "Lucy! Lucy, my darling, I am coming! Have no fear, I will find you!"
In a great, forceful motion, Mina pushed the window open. She all but ignored the flowers that scattered at her feet as she leapt outside, the thin fabric of her nightshift fluttering in the wind like a bridal veil—or a shroud worn by a ghost. Again she did not marvel that she found neither grass nor ground under her bare feet. The ever perceptive, prudent Mina should have stopped to wonder what that truly meant—but now her restless body was full of terror and worry. Lucy had called for her! Mina had always rushed to Lucy's side whenever her dear friend beckoned to her, first as girls to protect her from pests and pretenders, then as women to hear her woes and share her joys. Running to Lucy had become instinct to Mina; it was as easy as breathing.
A pale form stood out in the mist, her face hidden by long, lovely fingers. Lucy was clad in white—was that her wedding dress? Or her shroud? Mina shook her head, blinking away tears. Of course not; Lucy was simply wearing her nightshift. She had sleepwalked again to the graveyard, as she had done so many times before.
"Oh, Lucy," said Mina, making for her friend—but then, something stopped her steps, and she hesitated, feeling awkward and foolish all at once. "Lucy, what is wrong?"
There came a soft sob, and a cold hand seemed to twist around Mina's heart at the sound. She made to take a step—but could not move. The crucifix at her neck—for it was a crucifix, Mina now remembered, a last-minute gift from Jonathan, meant to ward off evil—seemed heavier than usual. Lucy threw her a wretched glance.
"Mina, Mina," she wailed. "Is it not dreadful enough that I had to die this way? That I had to find my end through the hand of someone who should have loved me? Even in death I am meant to stand apart from those who cared for me—an unclean, impure thing that deserves to be shunned and hated! Oh, how I miss you, my friend! How I long to hold you in my arms once more…"
"I could never hate you," Mina said, managing to take one step forward. "Oh, my dear, do not say such things about yourself, you are—"
"Am I still welcome in your heart?" Lucy remained ever so beautiful, even with tears streaking her pale cheeks. Even while being dead. "Or have I no place in it anymore—a dreadful, wretched—"
This time, Mina could not contain herself. She all but leapt at Lucy, arms open wide. Strangely enough, it was her darling friend who recoiled now, cringing from Mina's touch.
"No, no," said Lucy, "I would not want to—to taint you as well, my dear, my love, that is as far—as far as you should go…"
Her eyes flicked over to the front of Mina's shift, strangely enough. Their blue depths were—Mina frowned, examining her friend more closely. She remembered that Lucy's eyes were of the palest blue, the hue reminiscent of a cloudless summer sky. Now they seemed to have grown darker, a deep indigo rather than the colour of cornflowers. A queer thing, Mina mused, this single thought piercing the fog enveloping her mind, if only for a brief moment.
Lucy looked again, biting down her lower lip. Her mouth was a pure red, in stark contrast to the glowing whiteness of her skin. "Would, would you…" she said, sweet and demure once more, "reach to touch my cheek, as you always did, when we were girls and I needed to be comforted?" Mina did as she was asked, stiffly extending her arm. Lucy stepped to nuzzle her face in the palm of her hand, sighing contently. "Oh, yes… such sweetness that you bear, Mina… no wonder there are so many who flock to you to partake in it…"
Lucy had nearly purred these words, clearly finding great delight in each of these syllables. Mina blinked, and she could only manage a weak, "Wh-what?" as Lucy covered her hand with her own. She was cold as a corpse.
Lucy looked at Mina through her lashes, her gaze intense, piercing. She ran the tip of her nose against the thin skin of Mina's wrist, as if savouring her smell. Mina felt a surge of… excitation through her veins, a strange, shameful feeling. The hair at the back of her neck was standing on end from anticipation. Was it her imagination or had the faintest of smiles graced Lucy's beautiful, oh-so-red lips? Blood thumped in Mina's ears, loud, so loud, adding to the pain in her head. Everything was so hazy…
"Yes," Lucy said, languid as a cat, "this will do nicely."
The last thing Mina remembered that night was a sharp, fleeting pain—like a pinprick over the skin of her wrist—and the flash of that red, red smile…
Mina awoke with a pained grunt, twisting and turning in sweat-slicked sheets.
Where was she? Despite her sudden panic, she managed enough presence of mind to assess her surroundings. She was in a bed—a miserable cot, just small enough for one person. And yet, it seemed to her as if someone else should have lain close to her, sharing what little warmth there was in this gloomy, sterile space. Who was it, she wondered, heart beating painfully in her chest?
Mina jumped from the bed, ignoring the goosebumps prickling her skin. An omnipresent smell assaulted her senses, making her nauseous. Where did it come from, she wondered? Following her nose, she came upon the window. Why was she not surprised to find flowers there, clumsily arranged in thick clusters? Who had put them there—and why? Wrinkling her nose, Mina pushed the window open, hoping that a breath of fresh air would settle her uneasy stomach.
From outside came a plaintive voice, sounding in the mist-filled distance. "Help me! Oh please, oh please…"
Memories flooded Mina's clouded mind. Fine hands resting on an open book, lips mouthing the words that could be found on the yellowed page. Mina resting shoulder-to-shoulder—as close as property allowed!—with a rosy-cheeked young man, memorising laws and legislation alongside him, not out of love of the material but out of love for him. A laughing voice, saying, "You could take the exam as well!" and adding, ruefully, "I'm quite certain you would do better than me, actually."
It was the same voice now that cried so pitifully for her aid.
Jonathan! Mina had crossed the world halfway to be at his side when he had needed her most; this window—and its worthless wreaths of white flowers—would not be an obstacle potent enough to keep Mina away from her love. She rushed outside, crying out his name over and over. Jonathan! Jonathan!
This vast, sterile space in which Mina now found herself reminded her of the convent where she had found her ailing husband, a lifetime ago in Buda Pesth. Her beloved was on his knees, looking like a man in prayer. Still, his hands were not clasped together, as would have been expected if he had been calling upon the grace of God. Instead Jonathan had buried his sweet face in them, as if ashamed to show himself to Mina.
"Darling!" Mina called, running to him, but he stopped her with an abrupt cry of, "No! No, Mina, do not get nearer, you cannot come!"
Something pricked at the back of Mina's mind, like a half-remembered memory. "Whyever not? Jonathan, what is it?"
"The Count, the cursed one…" Jonathan cast about a fearful glance, as he expected his once-tormentor to spring out of the shadows. "I can feel his presence. He hunts me still, I know it. He must not find you as well, my dear, oh no, no, no…"
"Oh, Jonathan…"
Mina took another step, but her husband let out a wretched sound, wailing, "I have fought, oh, with everything I had, to return to you, my darling—only to find that this home of ours, the one we had hoped to build, is not as I left it." He raised a haunted face toward her, skin as white as bone, hair as grey as ashes. "I am no longer welcome here, Wilhemina. I have left too much of myself back there, in this place of ancient curses and shadows."
"No!" Mina exclaimed. "No, of course not, Jonathan, you are always welcome here, you are always first in my heart! I will never turn you away, never!"
A queer look passed in Jonathan's dark (darker?) eyes, and his tongue darted out of his mouth, wetting dry, cracked lips. "I…" he said, "I no longer feel safe anywhere I go… back there, I…" His gaze flicked over to Mina's chest (she felt her cheeks flushing at his stare), fixing on the crucifix dangling out of her nightshift.
(Why was she even wearing one? She was a faithful of the English Church, after all; she had been raised to shun such idolatry.)
"Perhaps," he continued, "if you would be so kind as to give me that rosary hanging around your lovely neck… yes, perhaps, this will keep his evil at bay, and we will both be safe from his wicked touch."
"Of course," said Mina, taking it off her neck. When she extended her arm, showing the crucifix to Jonathan, she found herself hesitating, however. Her head was heavy, so heavy. Through eyes blurred by pain, she saw her beloved reaching for the holy relic. In response, Mina opened her hand…
…and the crucifix fell to the ground with a disquieting thud.
Before Mina could make any sense of the situation, Jonathan surged forward, wrapping both arms around her waist, his grip tight as a vise. She stumbled backward, falling on a hard surface—the cot where she had been sleeping, only moments prior. Jonathan let out a long, shaky sound, more a sigh of pleasure than one of relief, as he buried his face into her lap, gripping the fabric of her nightshift with tight, possessive fists.
(How could it be that they had gone back to their bedchambers, Mina wondered with a start? Hadn't she left the room when she had climbed out of the window to heed Jonathan's call? How could she have found her way back inside, then?)
"Jonathan—" Mina found herself squeaking, ears tingeing pink. This was wholly undiscovered territory for her. They had lived together as husband and wife for more than a month, yes, but the… unusual circumstances that had preceded their wedding had made it difficult for them to experience many of the matters pertaining to the marriage bed.
("Oh, Mina, I do burn for you," Jonathan had once admitted after another failed attempt; he had been left so miserable by the experience that he had almost been driven to tears. "I do, but when these feelings seize me…" He had shuddered, then, making her shiver as well. "When such… desires… are stirred in me, I am brought back there, with those awful she-devils. I do not want any thought of you to mingle with those memories, darling—oh, to think I could compare the comfort of your presence to their twisted—that I would even dare to—"
"Shh, shh," Mina had said, caressing his hair—once so dark and thick and soft, now streaked with grey and dull to the touch. "It is not the same, it could never be the same, Jonathan…")
Now her husband was looking up at her, his gaze earnest, excited. Some colour had suffused back to his cheeks—not quite the rosy tint she had usually spied on his ever-pleasant features, but at least he was not quite so pale anymore. His hair was the dark brown she fondly remembered, curling across his brow in the way that had driven her to utter distraction during so many days of their shared childhood. Always she had wished to brush those stray curls with her hand; always he had remained clueless to her shameful, secret torment—right until the moment he had asked her to marry him, that blessed moment where she had finally been allowed to reach and run her clumsy fingers through his unruly curls…
"My dear," Jonathan said, closing his eyes as if savouring the very air around him, "what a fragrance you have about you… why, what sweet nectar must flow in your veins, oh wife of mine…"
(Mina had never used any perfume; it was a luxury she could not afford on a schoolmistress' salary. Lucy did—had usually worn sweet fragrances reminiscent of spring, the better to reflect her sunny disposition. God, Mina thought with a sob, she doubted she would ever smell the first lilacs of the season again without wanting to weep.)
"Jonathan, what has gotten into you?" she whispered. "This isn't…" This isn't like you, she wanted to say, but the words lodged in her throat.
"Hm." This small, innocuous sound sent a thrill through her. A hint of desire that was quickly smothered by something else, something she could not name. In fact, it was getting painful to hold even a single thought.
His hands were on her thighs, a heavy, persistent reminder of their close proximity. The way he was looking at her… oh, Jonathan had never looked at her that way. Mina wished that he had looked at her that way; she had nurtured that secret desire throughout their courtship, shamed and thrilled all at once by the impropriety of her longing.
But now Mina could barely stand the intensity of that gaze. What had once been the subject of many forbidden—and delightful—daydreams had suddenly become too much to bear. "Jonathan, Jonathan, I am not sure we should be—"
"There is only us," he said, "only you and I, no one else. Tonight, my dear, this world holds only us…"
This world holds only us… "Oh," Mina said, ever so softly, as the last puzzle piece clicked into place. "This is but a dream…"
"Unfortunately for you," Jonathan replied, in a strange voice unlike his own, "this is a dream no longer…"
As on cue, Mina's eyes rolled back into their sockets.
Thankfully, she remained insensate to the indignity that followed.
The third night, Mina understood what was happening almost immediately.
The garlic flowers she had arranged around the window lay on the ground—trampled by her own feet, no doubt. The crucifix was nowhere to be found; it seemed she had ripped it from her neck. Mina sucked in a shuddering breath, unable to stop herself from shaking. She had read Jonathan's journal carefully. Had studied what had happened to those poor sailors, had listened closely when the Professor had told her the truth of Lucy's passing. Mina had taken every necessary step to protect herself from the dreadful creature who had murdered her sweet, darling friend. Jonathan had kissed her goodbye and reluctantly left her behind to hunt that monster because he thought—because he believed—that Mina would be safe tonight.
Jonathan was wrong.
There was nowhere Mina would be safe tonight.
She stilled, feeling a chill at the nape of her neck. She could not see him, but she was all too aware that the Count was here, watching her closely. She had thought him a predator, but no predator she knew—oh she had read every zoology text growing up, she had memorised the names of so many animals as a child just for the pleasure of the challenge—ever played with their prey; it was simply inefficient as far as hunting strategies went. No, Count Dracula was a parasite, smug and satisfied, bloated with blood. Her blood, Mina thought with a little sob.
"I see the veil has now lifted from your mind, Mrs. Harker," said the Count. His voice was as she had expected—faintly accented, with a touch of the genteelness she usually associated with the aristocratic.
She turned to face him, her body stiff, almost unresponsive to her commands. "You… you shouldn't—"
"Be here? My, but I came at your behest, my dear lady."
"The crucifix and the garlic flowers—"
"Removed by your beautiful hands."
"The invitation to come inside—"
"Made by your own sweet, scrumptious lips. You were so eager that I come to you, those past nights. Of course, you must have been dreadfully alone and afraid, without your sweet Jonathan to keep you company…"
Mina thought of the previous days, how weak—anaemic—she had felt. She grabbed her wrist, rubbing her thumb on the veins showing through the thin, pale skin. There, just below the hem of her sleeve, were two puncture wounds, small enough to be nearly not perceptible to the naked eye. As for the other bite mark… Mina could neither see it on her other wrist nor could she feel its sting upon her neck; surely, it could only be found on –
As her memories cleared, she was seized with a sudden, violent urge to retch; truly, she did not know what kept her from expelling the content of her stomach right here and there. Shuddering from head to toe, Mina stumbled backward, shaking her head and muttering, "No, no, no… it cannot be, you cannot have…"
There was the ghost of a smile upon those blood-red lips, and Mina fought another bout of nausea. "You fought well, and you fought hard, Mrs. Harker," the Count said, his voice unusually soft; he was feeling something akin to pride toward her. Or perhaps it was pity. Either way it made Mina want to scream. "Most people cannot resist me for too long. You held on fast for two nights. Jonathan—"
"Keep his name out of your mouth!" Mina shouted, ashamed of her inept fury; she might as well have been a kitten hissing and baring tiny claws at him. "Don't you dare speak of him!"
There was a bark of laughter. "Ah, your husband does not appreciate your true worth, my dear lady. None of them do. Otherwise, they would have kept you close at hand; they would have used that splendid mind of yours to root me out! They consider themselves to be civilised men, yet it is the trappings of civilization that will be their undoing. Why, your husband was so intent on playing the part of the quintessential gentleman that he was so ever willing to bare his own neck to the wolves salivating over his young, tender flesh…"
He licked his lips then, and Mina felt horror and fury surging through her in equal measure. That man—that monster—had feasted on Jonathan's fear as well as his blood—and by God, it was an unforgivable sin, but she hated him for it. She thought of every moment that Jonathan had awoken in the dead of night, screaming and sobbing in terror. Facing her was the source of all of her beloved's torment: a wretched beast wearing a nobleman's garbs in some sick, twisted jest, a sneering snake of a man without any love or delight in that cold, shrivelled heart of his, a foul creature who thus had to devour more of her hard-earned happiness to even feel remotely alive…
"Not to mention," the Count continued, pacing through the room like a predator on the prowl, "your brave protectors would rather see you—and dear, sweet Lucy—dead than to subject your person to anything that might offend your delicate—that is, womanly—sensibilities."
Mina trembled. "No," she said, shaking her head, "no, they would not, they are not—"
"They are not here," the Count said, "while I am very much present before you. They've failed you, Mina. And in doing so they have failed themselves."
Mina stepped back—but there was nowhere she could run, wasn't there? She did not have one of Mr. Morris's trusty guns; nor was she equipped with a wooden stake, as per the Professor's instructions. She doubted she would have been able to fight back, anyway. She was weak, dizzy from shock and fatigue—and he was high on her blood, greedily eyeing her for more.
The Count was relishing in her fear as if it was a delicacy, oh, he was savouring the anticipation of yet another feast, that much she could feel—wait, Mina wondered, why was she feeling that very sense of triumph coursing through her veins right now? Why could she sense the fog in her mind lifting from the sheer excitement and elation seizing the whole of her being?
The answer came easily now that she could think clearly.
The Count had gone through her mind to manipulate her, to make her move around as if she was his hapless puppet—but in doing so he had linked himself to her as well.
God, in all of His mercy, had given Mina a sliver of hope, small enough that this unholy monster could not see it—feel it—through the bond he had forcefully created between the two of them. No, Mina did not need Mr. Morris's gun to defend herself, nor did she require that frightening blade Jonathan had taken to carry on his person as of late. Mina had another weapon at her disposal, one she had sharpened to a fine edge over the course of her short life, one for which she had often been offered praise by loved ones and strangers alike.
Her mind.
The Count had been cunning enough to pull a cruel ruse on Mina's friends, gorging himself on her very life essence while Jonathan and their companions wasted precious time hunting for shadows. Still, Mina could do the same, could give her beloved the edge he needed to finally put this monster into the ground. She doubted she would even remember the details of this encounter come morning; thus, she would have to tread carefully to set up her trap.
Mina breathed in, deeply. Slowly, the fear left her face, leaving it a smooth mask of near indifference. In a subtle motion, she lifted her chin and bared her neck, as if to goad the Count into action. Like a ravenous beast, he took the bait, surging forward in a flurry of black, a shadow come to life.
As he sank his teeth into the soft flesh of her neck, Mina retreated to the deeper confines of her mind, knowing that he could neither find nor follow her there, in this safest, most secret of spaces. It was this single thread of hope that allowed her to hold on to the last of her sanity as she found herself fading away, crumpling in the Count's tight grasp like a puppet with no strings. As Mina heard, dimly, her sweet Jonathan crying out her name in the distance, she mused, "There, the die is cast."
In other circumstances, Mina would have giggled at the thought of citing those words as if she was a great battle tactician; she was but a mere schoolmistress, after all! Now she grimly went to her fate, leaving her life into the hands of God—and into the hands of Jonathan and their dear companions, whom she knew would never fail nor forsake her.