Page 91 of Lucy Undying (Dracula #1)

91

Salt Lake City, January 25, 2025

Iris

It’s been days. No Dracula. And no Lucy. Hopefully she checks our post soon. I had two letters from her, which were lovely, but also left me feeling vaguely panicked in a way I can’t put my finger on yet.

I’m still shaky, like a vague premonition of doom was pumped into my veins as a chaser to the O negative. The fateful backpack strap, elegantly sewn into a bracelet and left for me under a rock, circles my wrist. I twist it and twist it as I drink my morning tea and choke down some toast. Even my dreams have been hazy, like Lucy and I can’t quite find each other anymore. I’m barely sleeping anyway.

At least a visit to my mailbox reveals a pleasant surprise: Two pieces of actual mail are waiting for me. The first is a package from Rahul and Anthony with spices and detailed instructions from Anthony on how to gradually raise my tolerance. I set it aside with an affectionate smile. The second is a heavy 8-by-12 envelope addressed to…Lucy. The return address is Lucy’s therapist friend.

I can’t imagine what it is. It’s too big to leave for Lucy at our post, and I have no idea how soon she’ll check there. Worried it might be something urgent, I open the package and find a letter on top.

Dear Lucy,

You inspired me to have a penultimate adventure before the final one! It was everything I hoped for. I felt so much hope and peace and joy, staring up at the northern lights. True magic. You were right. I don’t have to understand it.

I wanted you to have copies of your stories, so I transcribed and printed them. I also put the audio files onto this thumb drive, but I suspect you won’t know what that is or how to use it. Maybe your Iris will, though.

I don’t think I’ll see you again. It’s nearly time. I’m going to be buried in the Hillside Memorial Cemetery outside of Boston. No chemicals or prayers, just like I promised. Come visit me sometime.

Love, Vanessa.

My fingers twitch over the papers beneath the letter. As much as I want to read them, they’re not for me. I set the stack on the kitchen table with the thumb drive on top, and then I have a little cry. Lucy’s nearby, but I’m still alone. There’s no one I can talk to.

The doctor said my blood was a precious resource, which at last made such a crucial part of my life make sense: They aren’t just replacing my blood. They’re taking it. All those years as a kid, sitting in a chair with needles in my arms. It was never about trying to treat my disorder. It was always about taking something from me.

What is it about my family’s self-destructing blood that’s so useful? And who is that doctor? And how does she know Lucy? It’s days until my next “treatment.” That feels like an eternity, and even then I have no guarantees I’ll get alone time with the doctor or that she’ll be willing to talk to me.

I stare at Lucy’s letters, but they hold no answers. I need her here. I need to talk to her, ask her questions, exhume her past in hopes of understanding our present a little better. Exhausted and sad, feeling helpless, I stand to finish getting ready for school. My hip catches the table and Lucy’s transcript falls, scattering across the floor.

“Fuck,” I mutter, kneeling to pick up the various pages. My eyes catch on a name. The Doctor.

Oh my god, the Doctor ? I read her description. It has to be the same vampire. The papers in my hands feel like a gift. I can’t talk to Lucy, but I can still hear from her. Until I have her permission to read everything, I’ll just look at the sections that include the Doctor. For all I know, she’s another huge threat and I should be on high alert.

It’s tempting to get sucked into Lucy’s voice and life, but I scan as rapidly and lightly as I can. I’m only looking for one word. I pull every page that mentions the Doctor, quickly shoving the rest of them into my bag to double-check later.

It takes all my willpower to attend class instead of holing up in the library and reading. But anyone watching on behalf of Goldaming Life will note if I’m deviating from my routine.

Between classes I rush outside and sit, pretending to do homework but actually reading through Lucy’s experience in World War One. It’s horrifying and sad and fascinating all at once. How did the Doctor go from the trenches to the Goldaming Life basement?

My phone dings with a text. I pick it up, expecting something annoying from Dickie. But the text is just a blurry photo of…a squirrel?

Who is this? I text back.

I wait for nearly a full minute with the little dots telling me someone is typing on the other end. Then it finally comes through.

You mean what is this it’s a squirrel

I’m about to block the texts when I look closer at the photo. The squirrel is in the mountains behind me. I’d know that landscape anywhere after all my time spent on those stupid trails waiting for Dracula. Which means this text is from…

Are you Lucy’s friend?

It takes another agonizing minute for the reply to come.

Am I? I can’t ask her because she’s sleeping

Did she get my letter last night? Is that why you’re texting me?

I just thought you’d like the squirrel

My finger hovers over the screen. I have a way to contact Lucy now. It’s a very nice squirrel thanks. Tell Lucy to meet me on the trail tonight. We need to talk.

Tonight. I’ll talk to Lucy tonight. Which means I don’t need to read these papers anymore. And I shouldn’t. Not without her permission. Even though I’m totally invested. Now it’s World War Two, and Lucy’s in Istanbul to be a spy. Why does she even like me? She’s so much more interesting than I could ever hope to be.

I lower the papers, staring down at them. Itching to devour every story Lucy’s ever lived. But I don’t want to read about them. I want her to tell them to me like she told this Vanessa. Missing her fiercely and feeling insecure, I pull out her two most recent letters.

I should feel better. I have a way to contact Lucy. I’ll see her tonight. But there’s still something about the letters that’s bothering me. Unease whispering a threat in a language I don’t understand, I just feel. I trace Lucy’s handwriting. The ink fades in and out—I don’t know where she got a pen, but it’s not high-quality, which I’m sure bothers her. It’s not just the ink, though. It’s the words. It feels like—

Oh god, it feels like she’s fading. These aren’t love notes at the beginning of a relationship. They’re love letters at the end of one. These letters are a goodbye.

Maybe I’m reading them wrong. Maybe I’m—

A shadow cuts off the sun. But the chill it brings is far deeper than it should be. I know before looking up who is looming above me.

Dracula wasn’t supposed to find me during the day. I thought I was safe here, so I let my guard down. Idiot, idiot. I stand and start to stammer a suggestion that we go for a walk. Anything to delay so I can text Lucy’s friend.

He grabs me and smashes his mouth against mine. I can’t move. I’m too panicked. Then he bites my lip, and the pain shocks me out of my terror. I push against him, but I can’t create any distance. His arms are like metal bars. He kisses me again. I try to scream but he swallows the sound, devours it. It doesn’t matter that I’m on a college campus in broad daylight. No one notices he’s a monster, because he looks just like them.

He angles his mouth toward my neck, and I can’t stop him. I can’t save myself. I can delay him, though. Give him something he wants even more: an invitation.

“Not here! Come to my house tomorrow.”

His eyes turn from red flames to smoldering coals, and he smiles. It’s the most stomach-turning thing I’ve ever seen. But he lets go of me, satisfied that I’m offering myself up to him.

I walk away. It’s all I can do not to run, but I’m worried it will trigger some sort of predator instinct in him. I imagine him pouncing on my back, dragging me into the bushes and killing me mere feet from the sidewalk. It would be my own damn fault for being so confident I knew what I was doing.

How often will the monsters have to show me they always win before I finally get it through my thick skull?

I wipe my lip, disgust churning thick with shame inside me. Why did I freeze? Why didn’t I scream sooner, or try to fight him off?

I’ve been used so much, my body drained and cut into and taken advantage of. Maybe I don’t know how to do anything but accept it until the danger is past. To delay so I can find a way to fight after. But I hate it. I hate what he did, and I hate what I didn’t do, and I hate everything.

At last I dare to glance over my shoulder. No sign of him. I lean against a building, hands trembling. I drop Lucy’s pages on the ground and call her friend.

“It’s chirping at me, like a little bird!” a voice says from too far away. She’s not holding it to her ear.

I shout to be heard. “Tell Lucy that Dracula just showed up at my school. I need to see her!” Somewhere safe, though. Somewhere Dracula wouldn’t go, somewhere any useless Goldaming guards trailing me wouldn’t want to be, either. “I’ll meet her at the big shopping center by the building with all the spires!” I don’t know how else to describe the Mormon temple nearby.

“Oh, the strange castle with the golden man on top! Is that where Dracula is living? He does like castles.”

“I really doubt it, but then again, who knows. There’s a perfume store in the mall. Lucy will find me there. I’ll wait as long as she needs.” No other vampires will go inside. Ford couldn’t even handle the smell of coffee; perfume is a full artillery barrage to vampire senses.

“I’ll tell her! I’m glad you’re not dead!” There’s a clattering sound like she dropped the phone rather than ending the call. I give it a minute in case she picks it up again, then I hang up.

I crouch down to pick up the pages I dropped. They’re out of order now, and my eyes catch on a sentence that casually destroys my life.

I read the entire Istanbul section. Then I pull the rest from my bag and skim to the end of the transcript. I put it together with what the Doctor told me, barely noted amidst so much other information. I hope she kills him and puts us all out of our misery in one merciful strike.

I was right about Lucy’s letters. They aren’t love notes. They’re suicide notes.

I walk, numb, barely registering crosswalks and streets. At last, I drift like a bad dream into the perfume store. Lucy’s already there, a frantic expression on her beloved face. Her beloved, lying face.

She rushes to me, inspecting my cut lip, checking me for other wounds. “Are you all right? I can’t believe I let this happen. Iris, I’m so sorry, I—”

I hold up a hand to stop her. “If Dracula dies, you die. You didn’t think I should know I’m helping you kill yourself?”