Page 69 of Lucy Undying (Dracula #1)

69

London, October 8, 2024

Iris

I expect Elle to argue with me. To tell me why I’m wrong. To insist that I misread things, or that Lucy was writing fiction, or that I’m insane to believe the rambling diary entries of a dying girl. Instead, she stands and leaves. Just walks out without a word.

I sink down and sit among evidence of the truth. That’s what always defeats me in the end, doesn’t it? Anytime I tell the truth, I lose everything. But I couldn’t keep it from Elle. Especially not after reading Lucy’s journal.

Lucy died in part because no one in her life was honest with her. No one gave her the information she needed to keep herself safe. I won’t do that to Elle. If I’ve driven her away forever, if she’s out there counting her lucky stars that she saw how unhinged I am before it was too late, well. At least I saved her from being part of my life and everything that comes with it.

This one hurts more than any of the others, though. The way I feel about Elle is deeper and stranger and better than with anyone I’ve ever loved. There was a part of me—the fragile part with stupid, weak feathers still trying to fly me into a better reality—that hoped Elle would believe me. That she’d be so into history that she’d take historical records of vampires seriously. That maybe she wouldn’t need evidence at all.

It feels like I’ve lost something irreplaceable.

I wipe away tears, shoving aside the painting of Dracula. At least I solved one of my own personal mysteries. Dracula has always been tied to my family. He’s the reason vampires are part of my life; he’s the reason I had to shove a silver dagger in my mother’s corpse to make certain she never came back.

I didn’t get to tell Elle the rest of the story, but it’s so bleak I’m kind of glad. Dracula killed Lucy, those fucking men cut off Lucy’s head, Mina pretended to kill Dracula, and he’s been working with the Goldamings ever since. A literal deal with the devil.

Speaking of devils. I check to make sure my spray bottle is still nearly full. I’ve experimented with a lot of things over the years. Coffee leaves a scent strong enough to mess up my personal smell and throw vampires off, but simmering down garlic to a concentrated reduction hurts them the most. Van Helsing knew what to do. If only he’d told Lucy how to protect herself, instead of entrusting it to those useless, grasping men.

I take the key to Lucy’s room and hang it from a silver chain around my neck, then let myself have a long cry over what I could have had with Elle. I cry for Lucy, too. I don’t regret reading her journal or telling Elle about it. Lucy deserved someone to know the truth. Someone to care about what happened to her. I can’t ever regret that.

And I don’t regret the time I had with Elle, either. The intensity and depth of my connection to her doesn’t make sense, but love rarely does. I’ll miss her for the rest of my life. I hope I didn’t hurt her as badly as this is hurting me. Who knows, maybe I saved her from joining Goldaming Life someday. She’s certainly going to avoid Goldamings forever after me.

Oh god, Elle. I squeeze my eyes shut, pushing aside memories of our perfect hours together.

I can’t wallow. I’m back on the hook for trying to find a way to disappear. For now, I need to get away from Hillingham and all its memories. Lucy was betrayed in this house; she died in this house. And then my family took it and left it to rot as a monument to their evil.

I take a walk to clear my head. I’m half tempted to cover the miles to Elle’s flat and tell her I was kidding. Vampires aren’t real, I just have a stupid American sense of humor. I can take it all back, beg her to take me back.

But I don’t. If we can’t really know each other, how can we really love each other? Instead, I walk until I have reception. Levi Richardson, Rahul’s solicitor friend, has responded to my email. I pull myself together and we have a quick, productive call.

I keep walking until his follow-up emails and the documents come through. I don’t even bother reviewing them, I just sign and return. I’m stealing something back from my family. Giving a gift to someone who deserves it, instead of taking everything I can from everyone around me.

That’s assuming Rahul and Anthony are willing to sign, too. I hope they will be. I don’t think getting the house will cause them any trouble, but I can’t be certain. There’s always a risk. Maybe they’ll want to close the door on me forever, too. I wouldn’t blame them.

When I finally loop back to Hillingham, trudging through the gloriously wealthy neighborhood, with its grand manors and ancient trees, someone is waiting on my doorstep. It’s not Elle, but Anthony is almost as welcome a sight, sitting there surrounded by bags of take-out containers. He rushes to me and wraps me in a hug.

I lean in, loving the scents of garlic, onion, and ginger on him. He smells like life and nourishment and comfort. I needed this hug so badly.

“Are you certain?” he says as he lets me go. “ Really certain? Because this is mental. You’re giving us a house. A mansion. A mansion in a super-posh neighborhood.”

“I’m one hundred percent certain. It’s yours, whatever you want to do with it. Sell it, rent it, move into it. It’s up to you.”

Tears catch in the thick dark lashes around Anthony’s eyes, glittering in the sunlight. He’s beautiful, and so is Rahul, and they’re beautiful together. “We’ve been wanting to start a family, but it hasn’t felt possible. With this, though…” He trails off, looking up at the house with genuine love. I don’t think anyone has looked at Hillingham that way in more than a century. Maybe ever.

I’m trying not to cry, too. “Honestly, you’re doing me a favor. I’ll get to feel good about this for so long. I don’t have many things to feel good about lately.”

“Well, I’m going to repay you. I made you everything on the menu, including a new tub of roasted garlic.”

“See, and now I’m back in your debt again, because that’s worth way more than this stupid old house.” We walk arm in arm back inside and sit at the table. I expect Anthony to leave, but he’s closed the restaurant for the rest of the afternoon. Both to bring me food and to make sure I’m serious.

“Rahul’s on a shift, but he’s coming by as soon as he’s off.”

“To double-check your assessment that I’m not out of my mind?”

“Always good to get a second opinion.” He laughs and scoops more curry for me.

Anthony’s phone dings just as we’ve finally finished eating. “More paperwork in from Levi. I think it’s the last of it.” He looks up at me, uncertain, but not in a pleading way. In a way that gives me an out if I want it.

I don’t want it. “My phone has no signal here. Can I use yours as a hot spot?”

He sets it up. I download the documents and finish signing everything. It’s done. The stolen house is stolen no longer. Whatever Rahul and Anthony do with Hillingham, it’ll be better than Mina and Arthur making it a tomb of bad memories and deadly lies.

Thanks to Anthony’s hot-spot connection, my phone rings. An unknown number. I brace myself for whatever new fuckery Goldaming Life is up to. It didn’t take them long to figure out I was selling this property for a single pound, but they’re too late. Dickie himself told me I could be a philanthropist here, and legally the house isn’t mine anymore. Which means it’s not theirs, either.

I hold up a finger to Anthony and walk down the hall to answer, not wanting him to overhear and worry.

“What?” I say.

“Oh, erm, hello. Is this Iris Goldaming?” The man on the other end of the line sounds old and kind and British, which unsettles me. It’s not the type of voice I expected.

“Yes?”

“Hello, dear. My name is Tim Liu. I’m the director of the London Hills Museum of History. I apologize that we haven’t gotten back to you sooner. Our administrative assistant is on maternity leave, and I’m afraid the messages have been allowed to pile up. I’m also sorry that I don’t have better news.”

My heart seizes. Something happened to Elle. No, he’s probably calling on her behalf to tell me she’s not coming back. That’s it; that has to be it. “Is everything okay? Why are you calling?”

“As a courtesy to tell you that there’s no one on our staff who can provide the appraisal services you need. I can recommend several trustworthy antiques dealers. And if you find anything of local historical value, we’d be happy to consider any donations to our collections.”

“That’s fine,” I say, fighting my burning humiliation. “You don’t need to recommend anyone. Don’t worry about replacing Elle.”

“Who’s Elle?”

I speak slowly, worried my accent is throwing him. “You already sent one of your employees. Elle. She’s been helping me, but she quit today.”

“Oh, dear. This is— Oh, dear. I think you should ring the police. But no, let’s get this sorted before we jump to conclusions. We don’t have anyone on our staff by that name. Did you contact any other museums or stores? Is it possible she works for them? Because I’m afraid perhaps you’re the victim of—”

“Thank you so much, I’ll figure it out on my own.” I end the call with numb fingers. I am figuring it out. Much, much too late.

That day, when Elle showed up on the doorstep. I was the one who said she’d come from the museum. I gave her the perfect cover story, wrapped up like a gift. She didn’t even have to do anything to convince me to let her in. And because she’s beautiful and I wanted her to like me, I never questioned it. I thought the coincidence of meeting her again was fate finally doing me a solid.

“Oh, Iris,” I say, walking without thinking into the den. All this time in my family, all this time with my mother’s vicious schemes, and I fell for such an obvious manipulation. Elle didn’t save me from being hit by a car because she happened to be in the right place at the right time. She was there because she was following me.

And then I gave her access to this house, took her with me on a fucking weekend holiday, shared all my plans to run away. Which means Goldaming Life knows everything.

I’m such an idiot it’s actually hilarious. I pick up Lucy’s journal. I want to laugh because it’s yet another thing we have in common: being so besotted with a woman that we let her destroy everything.

No. I can still salvage this. They don’t know that I know about Elle. If she’s been undermining me this whole time, then there are probably things in this house that are worthwhile. Things I wasn’t supposed to find. I searched everything before she did, though, and she never left the house with anything I didn’t give her.

Except…she went in the attic without me. The attic she told me had water damage and nothing worth looking at.

“Everything okay?” Anthony shouts. “Levi’s calling in a moment to discuss how this affects us in terms of taxes and fees so there aren’t any surprises. Rahul’s heading over after his shift with some champagne, and we’ll really celebrate!”

“Great,” I say, hoping my voice sounds normal. “Just gonna go take a bath.” I trudge upstairs, every step heavy with dread and pain.

I don’t know how I looked at Elle and saw sincerity, even love, when there was only calculating manipulation. Of all the betrayals in my life, why does this one feel like the deepest?

Maybe it’s what I deserve. I’m getting Mina and Arthur’s karma. My own heart broken the way they broke Lucy’s. I have three-fourths of a literature degree—enough to appreciate the elegantly cruel poetic parallel of it all.

On the third floor I pass the servants’ quarters, then pause at the ladder leading up to the attic. Maybe I don’t look. Maybe I turn around and run, right now. Leave it all behind. Never know what I wasn’t supposed to find.

But I have to see what Elle was keeping from me. What Goldaming Life didn’t want me to have. I climb up. The attic is dim, a long narrow room with a single round window letting in the last afternoon rays of sun. Crossbeams run everywhere; there’s barely any room to navigate.

At first glance, there’s nothing surprising. A jumble of old furniture, some trunks, a stack of paintings. But what’s not here flashes like a neon sign declaring my stupidity. There’s no water damage. Each new confirmation of her betrayal cuts a little deeper. I turn on my phone flashlight and sweep the area, no idea what I’m looking for. It’s impossible to navigate. I trip, knocking over a stack of framed art.

My light catches on the painting at the bottom. Unlike the others, this one is free of dust. Someone pulled it out recently and spent time looking at it, then stuck it on the bottom of the pile. Why would Elle hide this from me?

I pick up the portrait and set it on a broken chair so I can take it in. Each feature of the subject registers individually, as though my brain can’t process it as a whole yet.

Rich blond hair with a widow’s peak hairline. Apple cheeks. A small, delicately pointed chin. Expressive eyebrows. A hint of dimples punctuating a rosebud mouth. And eyes so dark blue they could look brown or black, depending on the light. A beautiful portrait of the woman I’ve already fallen in love with through her writing, and was starting to fall in love with in real life.

“There you are,” I whisper.

“Here I am,” she says behind me.