Page 50 of Lucy Undying (Dracula #1)

50

Boston, September 26, 2024

Client Transcript

It’s amazing how quickly men will confess when staring into the glowing red eyes and dripping fangs of death. That night, I delivered Hans, Baris, and four other Nazi spies to the Doctor.

“A little warning next time,” she grumbled, hauling the unconscious bodies through the door. “The professors I work with prefer a little discretion.”

“I saved the president from being assassinated and the Soviets from being framed for it.”

The Doctor gave me a level stare with her depthless black eyes. “And is the war over?”

I didn’t know what I’d expected. Praise? Excitement? I would get neither from her. So I went back to the bar, and I went back to work.

I prevented seventeen— seventeen! —more attempts to assassinate Turkey’s president and blame one side or the other. I never even met the man, and yet it felt all I was ever doing was keeping him alive. In between killing everyone trying to kill the president, I made Italian fascists miss crucial meetings so the British could intercept their messages, passed Nazi secrets on to Greek operatives trying to liberate their country, and prevented my fellow barmaids from being assaulted more times than I could count.

One, Ingrid, was working extra shifts killing as many Nazis as she could. I adored Ingrid. She was loud and funny, quick with a knife, and an excellent kisser. She didn’t know I knew about her after-work activities, which suited me fine, because I had no interest in involving her in mine.

Though there were rumors about me among every intelligence operation in the city, no one could figure out who I worked for, because I didn’t work for anyone. No one could kill me, because I’d already been killed by something far worse than any of them. And no one could catch me, because they all saw a slightly different woman when they looked at me. Just a beauty behind a bar, pouring their drinks and listening.

The Doctor complained about the smell of alcohol every time I crawled into our sleeping space. She also asked the same question whenever I delivered new bodies to her: “And is the war over?”

The answer was always no. No matter what I did, the same plots popped back up. There was always another Hans, always another bomb, always another gun. And through it all, I had to smile and nod and giggle, pretending to be interested in dull men’s dull machinations, pretending like I couldn’t tell exactly what they were thinking, exactly what they wanted.

I often saw my fiancé sit on a stool at my bar, or a lecherous old Dutch man wink at me from across the room. I met all four of them in Istanbul, those men who had loved me and failed to save me. Sometimes they were the ones I was helping, and sometimes they were the ones I was killing.

It wasn’t really them. But it was easy to get lost in time and see them in other people. It still is. One night I sat on the floor of a dark apartment, holding the Texan in my arms. “Why couldn’t you have saved me?” I whispered. “How did you save Mina but not me?”

He didn’t answer, because he wasn’t my Texan. Also because he had been poisoned and was quite dead.

All that purpose and determination that had brought me to Istanbul was drying up and withering away. I had no roots to sustain myself. I got sloppy. I got careless. And I got Ingrid killed.

We often fell into her bed after a long shift if neither of us had somewhere to be. One night as she was getting dressed again, a bloody knife slipped out of her boot. She froze, unaware that I knew all about her activities and could smell the blood long before the knife was ever revealed.

It was my lack of reaction that gave her pause. She sat on the end of the bed. “Wilhelmina,” she said, and I wished she could call me Lucy. Maybe that was part of why I was getting so lost in my head. “I kill men.”

I laughed. “Me, too.”

“I kill Nazis,” she clarified, mildly alarmed at how readily I’d volunteered my confession.

“I know, my pretty darling.” I pulled her close between my legs and began braiding her hair. “I like that about you.”

“How long have you known?” She was breathless with both fear and relief.

“Since we met. You always smell like blood.” I remembered that was a strange thing to say, so I hurriedly added: “And I saw you dragging a body to the Bosporus the night before you started working at the bar. I would have helped, if I’d known you.”

She laughed. “You’re insane.”

“Of course I am.” I pressed a kiss to the neat part between her braids, then held her close. Ingrid was like unhallowed ground. A place I could rest and find some relief. I didn’t love her, though. She didn’t know me, and how can we love those who don’t know us? “I’ll always help you get rid of bodies. Just ask.”

Her eyes brightened. “I have a list. And a plan.”

I should have gotten more details, but I was always looking for someone to tell me what to do. Ingrid’s plan would lead to my best and worst and last night in Istanbul.

Ingrid’s plot was already nearly in full bloom. Seven Nazi and Italian operatives were targeting the British ambassador’s secretary. He held the code to a safe in the ambassador’s office. Inside were details of troop movements in Europe. That was where I came in. The seven men needed to isolate the secretary in a location where no one would look for him or notice he was missing. What better way than using their new friend Wilhelmina to attract his attention and lure him up to a hotel room?

They hadn’t actually told me what they needed him for. Only that they needed him, and they’d buy me a pretty dress and pay me for my troubles. Ingrid had figured out all the rest.

I met one of the Nazis behind the hotel. He was a short man with a pleasant face and the clearest, most beautiful whistle. He gave me the key to the room I was going to use. “Once you get him alone, we’ll follow,” he said. “Leave the door unlocked. When we’re inside, you can go and enjoy the rest of the gala.”

I beamed like I had no thoughts in my head other than a good party. And then, on my way to the front stairs, I whispered the room number to Ingrid, waiting in the shadows just outside.

My entrance into the grand hotel ballroom was like an air raid siren: Everyone froze and looked. Including the British ambassador’s secretary, who should have known better than to believe he was important enough to merit an invitation to this gala. And who definitely should have known he wasn’t important or handsome enough to merit my attention.

The band was excellent. If you’ve never been to a wartime party, I recommend them. Bacchanals, always. The room glittered. Gilt walls, crystal chandeliers, tile like only the old Ottomans could do. Everyone was sumptuously dressed, reeking of secrets and violence and lust. I was drunk on them.

I knew my target on sight, but I couldn’t be too obvious. I danced first with one of the Italians. Eyes like the sea, skin like honey. It was wasteful that I had to break his face later that night.

The secretary bumped into me near a champagne pyramid. I let him think it was his fault and laughed prettily at his attempts to apologize. He was as plain and unremarkable as mushy peas. Jonathan Harker. That was who he reminded me of. I’d forgotten Jonathan existed until then.

I fought the urge to kill the secretary.

“Make it up to me with a dance?” I asked instead of ripping out his heart for taking Mina from me. Not Jonathan, I reminded myself. I knew he wasn’t Jonathan, obviously. But I was thrown off, unbalanced. Distracted. He sounded like home, and home was so far away. So long ago. Every time I looked at him, I imagined Mina living out her life with just such a dull, obliviously entitled man, claiming what he never could have deserved.

I didn’t have to use any of my dazzling powers to get the secretary to follow me up to the room. He didn’t even notice that I failed to lock the door behind us. He began pawing at me immediately, clumsy and eager.

His lust turned to fear as my seven co-conspirators slipped inside. “You can go now, Wilhelmina,” said the beautiful Italian.

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop looking at the secretary, couldn’t stop seeing Jonathan in his place. I didn’t even remember what Jonathan looked like. Maybe it was him. Maybe I’d found him. The age was wrong, the eyes were wrong, everything was wrong, but he felt like Jonathan.

I pushed him to the floor and knelt over him, searching his face. Trying to find the memory of someone I had hated, someone who had taken something precious and perfect from me. But she had never been mine to take, had she?

“Where is she?” I demanded, crying. “Where’s Mina? What happened to her?”

He blubbered desperately. The men shouted at me to leave. And I forgot what the next part of the plan was. Not even the sound of the closet door bursting open and the gun going off could distract me. I shook and shook Jonathan, demanding he tell me where Mina was, what her life had been like, whether he’d ever made her happy.

Ingrid’s scream at last brought me to my senses. I turned to see her favorite knife sticking out of her chest. She looked over at me, devastated. The beautiful Italian turned, satisfied he had taken care of the threat. I smashed his face in, and then grabbed the next nearest man and broke him, too.

But Ingrid, beautiful Ingrid, Ingrid who had never really known me, wasn’t aware I could do the rest all on my own. She had come prepared to finish it.

She reached into her coat, and then the whole room exploded.