Page 85 of Lucy Undying (Dracula #1)

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Salt Lake City, January 20, 2025

Dracula

You search the trees, walk slower and slower along the path. Lingering. Hoping. Already, your nighttime walks aren’t yours. The space beside you and, soon, that space inside you, are his.

It’s hard not to drag you into the dark crevices between the hills and give you what you need. But he wants to consume you entirely, to swallow the whole of you. He wants to luxuriate and linger.

Tonight, he’ll follow you home. You’ll invite him in. He won’t bite you, though. Not yet. He’ll show you the truth first: Nothing is yours. Your private, safe space is as open to him as your tender, chambered heart.

And then, once invited, he’ll be at his leisure to—

There, again. A moth fluttering at the edge of his senses, a hint of movement that doesn’t belong. Someone else is watching. He’s not alone in the darkness, but whatever is out there hasn’t sensed him yet. He’s too experienced for that. All the vampires creeping around, watching him, studying him, are children. Infants. Idiots.

But this path isn’t safe for him anymore. Maybe he was wrong to choose you. Maybe he was wrong to walk with you out in the open.

No. He refuses to blame himself. He never makes mistakes. Others merely fail to react how they should. It’s inconvenient, not disastrous. And it will be all the more satisfying when you’re his forever.

It’s irritating that he can’t follow you home tonight, though. Another step away from his patterns. He doesn’t like altering his well-worn habits. It makes him agitated, prone to outbursts. He loves control, loves to have it over others, loves to lose it on his own terms. Never anyone else’s.

But now he’s cross and ravenous. He returns to the home of his most recent meal. He doesn’t have the will to find something better to eat. He wants you, only you, but he needs blood. He pauses in his victim’s yard. His aching teeth recoil from the prospect of listening to the woman again. Last time she clung to him, begging him to make her anew, to take her through the Celestial Gate.

He knows of no celestial realms. Only this flat, endless circle, where nothing is ever new or surprising.

It makes him want you even more. You, who have the will to resist him. Who dared defy him and say no. But you were close to accepting him before you were interrupted. He’s nearly there.

Imagining the look on your face as you submit spikes his desire anew and he steps toward the door, but the stench of decay and confidence stops him short. She’s inside, waiting for him. The demon, the only vampire he can’t touch.

Rage consumes him. The demon’s guards are nearby, but it’s easy enough to find them and tear them into their composite pieces. To render them inert objects, which is better than what they were before. Servants to that abomination.

Called by his fury and drawn to the promise of death and rot, every rat in the neighborhood scurries near. Eyes beady points of malice, teeth dripping with anticipation. That is his dread gravity, his influence on the world around him. He didn’t even need to will the rodents there; they obeyed without prompting.

He is power incarnate. He has absolute dominion over life and death. And he wants that wretched vampire bitch gone as much as he has ever wanted anything.

But he can’t destroy her until he’s dismantled her, until he’s torn down the shield of absolute, damnable faith in herself that protects her wherever she is. Her belief in herself is like a cross, holy and unassailable. He always has to be invited in, and she remains a locked door he can’t get past. The rats, however…

With a flick of his hand and a burst of malice, he surges them into the house like a tidal wave of pestilence. Then he shifts into a maelstrom of dark wings and flies toward his true target.

It used to be easy to get into a home. So many servants. Scared girls running a household, allowing anyone with a suit and an air of purpose inside. Now it’s only you in there, with your precious rabbit’s heart beating for him. Waiting for him. What a relief to see you through your window. He can fill his senses with the cleanness of you. The purity. The promise.

But it’s agony to be trapped outside. Is it an invitation, that you don’t close your curtains even though your light is like a beacon? Is it an invitation, that so much of your alabaster skin is bare, demanding he look, demanding he touch and taste and claim? Is it an invitation, that you’re here, alone, with no one to come to the rescue if you scream?

But he knows the limits of his rules. And so he waits. He watches as the light goes out, as you climb into bed. As you stare at the ceiling, a small frown on your face. You didn’t see him tonight, and you’re afraid that you’ll never see him again.

Afraid that you will.

At last, your frown smooths and sleep claims you. But then you begin shifting, restless in your dreams. He knows what you seek in the lawless landscapes of your sleeping mind. He can smell the sharp tang of arousal, and now—

No more waiting, no more planning. You need him. You need him to answer that arousal, to show you what happens when you want.