Mina (19 page)

He moved too
fast, or perhaps his tea had been drugged, because the walls of the hallway
seemed to be falling down on him, the

floor moving beneath his
feet. At the top of the stairs, he gripped the banister and sank slowly to his
knees.

Her
fragrance. Her beautiful hair. Her lips. "Lucy," he whispered as
someone gripped his arm and helped him to stand. "Lucy," he

said again as he was led back
to his room. There, someone laid him on his bed and began to undress him.

"Lucy, I'm so sorry. I did not mean to kill you," he
moaned. "Killed her? Tell me why, Arthur. I must know," Gance said.

Arthur
turned his head sideways and saw Gance sitting in a chair beside the bed.

How dare he!
How dare Gance interrupt a moment like this! Arthur wanted to throw Gance
bodily from the room, but he had no

strength. She was pressing
down on him, all her sweet honey-colored hair cascading over his face.

He closed
his eyes and surrendered to the reality of the dream, the drug, his love, his
nightmare.

Mina paused just inside the front
door of her house. Around her was the dark polished wood of the foyer, and
beyond the open French doors the sunlit parlor with its great stone hearth
carefully piled with wood. She could go in and sit by the fire or go upstairs and
change, pour herself a glass of sherry and stretch out on the divan beside the
window with a book or magazine. She could write one of the many letters she
owed to old friends still trying to keep in touch. So many things could be done
in these magnificent old rooms if only the walls didn't close in around her,
all her options, like her perception of the rooms themselves, narrowing until there
was only one-sleep. Sleep, dream and remember.

She wished
she were still with Arthur, even wished that Gance had joined them. He made her
laugh and she had need of laughter.

It would be impolite to
return there, and it occurred to her that she had no place else to go.

She heard
the clock chime three. She had not intended to stay with Arthur so long. She
went downstairs to the kitchen, where

Millicent was preparing to
bake meat pies for the evening meal.

"You
went out?" Millicent asked, disapproval clear in her tone.

"Just for a walk." "It's so cold today. Do you
think you're well enough?" "The air did me good, though I am
tired." "Go lie down, Mina. You'll feel better after a nap."

How could
Millicent know! How could the woman ever comprehend her dreams. "You're
right, but I want to come down for

tea," Mina said and went
up to her room, where her bed, soft beneath its crisp lace-trimmed sheets,
waited, sinister as a rack.

She would
not sleep, not now. But she could rest for just a little while. She undressed
and piled the pillows high so she was

reclining
rather than lying down. Among Jonathan's Christmas gifts to her was a
leatherbound collection of works by Emily Bronte. She had read
Wuthering Heights
before, but
the poems were new to her. Carefully, trying to capture the cadence of the
lines, she began to read.

Cold in the
earth-and the deep snow piled above thee,

Far, far
removed, cold in the dreary grave!

Have I
forgot, my only Love, to love thee,

Severed at
last by Time's all-severing wave?

She read on,
wondering if Jonathan had read these lines before he bought the book, or if he
had and bought it anyway. She lay

the book on the bedside table
and closed her eyes.

. . . Somewhere in the tower above
her, she heard Jonathan calling her name, drawing it out in a moan of anguish
and pain that rose and fell in the darkness and stench of these rotting walls.
"Minaaahhhh."

She went to
him through the darkness, moving on faith up the winding stairs, her tread so
light she did not seem to touch the

ground at all.

Had she
already grown so much like them?

The thought
that had once terrified her held no terror now. "Minaaahhhh."

The women were all around him,
floating insubstantial as the mists that surrounded these ancient walls.
Wraiths long dead, yet stronger than ghosts. The transparent white hands held
his arms above him, his legs apart. She watched, unable to move to help him or
to flee as they stripped him, his clothes flung away from his body in tattered
strips.

"Come
Mina, come sister," they called in voices cold and beautiful as ice.
"You loved him once, give him our gift."

Gift! It was
no gift. She moved away, toward the open door, as they laughed and lowered
their red lips to his wrists, his thighs.

Blood flowed too fast for them to drink it, but even as his body
grew whiter; his struggles weaker, she saw how hard his penis had become, how
aroused their touch made him, how ready he was for whatever they offered.

"No!"
she cried and rushed toward him. As she did, she felt her eyeteeth lengthen,
sharpen. Felt the blood lust rising in her.

"No!"
she screamed, then whirled and ran.

The door was
shut, the smell of Jonathan's blood all around her. She beat against the
ancient wood, beat until her hands were

scraped and bloody, beat and
screamed to God to save her ...

"Mina!"
A voice, so familiar, called her from another time.

"Mina! Wake up!" Her eyes opened. Her legs gave way, and
she collapsed in front of the door.

Millicent
knelt beside her. "You were screaming, Mina. And you walked in your
sleep."

Mina looked down at her hands, the scraped knuckles. "You
were pounding on the door." "I had a nightmare." How to explain?
"All I recall now is that it was terrible."

"Terrible
enough. The entire street may have heard you. What must they think?" The
question was only what Mina expected from

the woman, the sympathy in
her tone was the real surprise.

That we torture our servants, Mina thought, and suppressed the
urge to giggle. After being pulled from that dream, laughter of relief, of
hysteria, was so appropriate. She had never felt so thankful to anyone as she
did toward Millicent at this moment. The woman helped her to stand, to walk to
her bed.

"I was taking some tea upstairs. It's on the table outside.
I'll leave it for you." "No! That is, please, just stay with me for a
little while."

"Perhaps
you'd like to get dressed and come upstairs with me," Millicent suggested.
Without being asked, she sat and waited until

Mina had tied back her hair
and put on a gown so that they could climb the stairs together.

Mina had never been asked to Millicent's room before. She had
expected it to be spotless but not nearly so bright or so cluttered with
mementos from Millicent's past. Mina sat on the chaise in the sunlight and, to
dispel the seductive horror of the dream, studied the curios, drawings and
photographs arranged on the chest and shelves above it.

"The pictures
are all of Jonathan, aren't they?" she asked with surprise.

"I never had any children of my own," Millicent said,
her voice defensive, as if Mina would reproach her for this show of pride. "His
mother was always having him pose for drawings or photographs. Such a waste of
money, but after she died, it would have been more of a waste to throw them
away."

"Did Jonathan make the drawings? They look like his
work." "He did. I thought he gave all that up long ago."

"Oh, no. When I met him here in Exeter, he was sketching in
the gardens around the cathedral." She sensed the woman's disapproval and
thought it odd considering how many of his drawings Millicent possessed.
"It was on a Sunday. He said the pastime helped him relax."

Millicent
handed her drawings of Jonathan's father and his mother, and one of herself
when she was younger. She had far too

round a face to be beautiful,
but Jonathan had accentuated the candor and intelligence in it.

"I'd like to set some of these on the sideboard in the
parlor, if you would not mind." "Your things belong there,
Mina."

"And they are. But I have so
few treasures and nothing of Jonathan when he was young. Spare me one. This
one." She reached into the back of the display and pulled out one photograph
of Jonathan when he was about sixteen, standing in front of Millicent.

Millicent's dress was light, and there was a rose pinned to the
collar. From the look of it, this must have been the picture from which he had
done the drawing.

"It was
taken on my birthday," Millicent said softly. "Jonathan gave me the
flower. I treasure it so much."

An idea came
to Mina, a way of mending their bad start with each other. "Aunt
Millicent. This picture of Jonathan is so precious.

Would you part with it for a little while? Jonathan's birthday is
next month. I can have the picture of him turned into a painting to hang above
the parlor mantel. It can be a surprise from both of us."

She saw the natural thriftiness in
Millicent's eyes and went quickly on. "In the Westerna house there was a
delightful picture of Lucy's father when he was a young man. They had it
hanging in the dining room. All good families pose their children. We're lucky
to be able to do it after the fact."

"All
right." Now that it was decided, Millicent was eager to begin. "Where
can it be done?"

"There are portrait artists
here, but I don't know much about them." An idea came to her, one
absolutely daring. "Jonathan told me of one in London. Very good, and
quite reasonable. I'll have to take it there personally. I wouldn't trust this
to the post. What if Jonathan misses me?"

"If you
make it a day trip, Jonathan will never have to know you've gone. If the train
should be late getting back, I can say you

are at Mrs. Beason's."

"Jonathan
always works late on Tuesday. I'll send a wire today and make certain the man
will be there."

On the way
to the train station, Mina stopped at a local artist's studio and dropped off
the picture. With the order complete, she

went down to London and to
meet with Lord Gance's acquaintance at the Audley Bank in Mayfair.

William
Graves was a huge man, naturally muscular in spite of his sedentary job, and
slovenly in appearance. If his eyes had not

been so clear, Mina might
have suspected him of drunkenness. He certainly looked as if he had slept in
the suit he wore.

The intent
way he examined the book reminded her of Van Helsing. "I'm sorry, I can't
help you," he said after looking at a

number of sections of it.

"Can't?"

"You
see, this is not Hungarian. I think it may be a Rumanian dialect, or possibly a
dated version of the language, perhaps written

by a scholar who wanted to
ensure his privacy. What do you think this book might be?"

"A
novel in diary form I was told. I purchased it on a trip through Hungary,"

"Ah!
Well, in that case, I am doubly sad I cannot help you. Most of my work is so
dry. Lord Gance wrote that you were from

Exeter. Is that
correct?"

"It
is,"

"A pity. I know of no one there. On the other hand, there was
a small bookstore in Bloomsbury run by a Romanian family. The son, James, was
born here and does not speak Rumanian, but his father was quite a scholar in
his own country. If he is still alive, Ion Sebescue might be willing to help
you."

"Do you
have any idea how I might find him now?"

"Start in Bloomsbury. For all I
know the family might still live there. The shop was called Guggums Imported
Books and was on the east side of Huntley Street near Bedford Square." He
handed back her book slowly, as if reluctant to part with it. "I wish I could
do more, if only because I would like to read this. I'm fond of old
things."

For the
first time since she came to see him, Mina smiled. He returned it. "What
do I owe you?" she asked.

"Nothing.
It's been a pleasure, Mrs. Harker. Good luck to you."

Luck, indeed! she thought as she left the bank. There wasn't time
to visit Bloomsbury today, which meant another clandestine trip to London. She
considered other means. In spite of Van Helsing's warning about keeping their
journey east private, she could think of only one way to find a translator.

She stopped for lunch and, while
eating, wrote a pair of letters, one to the bookstore and the second to Ion
Sebescue, care of his son, James, and addressed both as simply Huntley Street,
Bloomsbury. As exactly as she was able, she made two copies of the first two
sentences of the journal and enclosed them as well.

Twenty words
in dated Rumanian would hardly attract a fanatic, if they were even a real
concern in London. Yet the return

address had its own problems. Jonathan would not read her mail,
but Millicent would be sure to question any reply. In the end, she decided to
use Winnie Beason's name and the hospital address. Winnie would certainly
understand. She posted them both then hurried to the station to catch the
train that would take her home. The rocking of the train lulled her seductively
to sleep.

... The day was cloudy, with a
chilly wind blowing from the southwest. There were only a few hardy souls
touring the cathedral or walking around the gardens, where even the evergreens
seemed miserable and impatient for spring. He had been sitting on one of the
wooden benches, one arm holding the sketch book steady while he drew. Curious,
she walked behind him. The picture was of an old woman, her face concealed by
shadow, her thin, lined hand stretched out, dropping seeds for the birds.

She looked
from the sketch to the grounds in front of them. There was no woman there. As
she glanced at the artist once more,

she saw that he was watching
her. "She was here yesterday. I'm drawing the memory."

"Wouldn't
that be simpler somewhere warmer?"

"But this is where she was." He grinned, and all the
seriousness seemed to vanish from his face. "Well, it's how I work
anyway." "Are you a professional artist?" "No. A law
clerk. Head clerk, actually, for Peter Hawkins. This is just a hobby."

"You're very good. May I?" She took the pad and studied
his other drawings-the cafe on Exe Street, the great oak on Lord Summer's
estate, a dull still life, a boat on the river. He had a sense of movement and
a sensuality to his work that made him intriguing. If she had not seen the
book, she would have thought the dark-haired young man far too straitlaced to
be interesting.

He bought her coffee. Afterward,
they walked to the river and watched fishermen setting their nets. He looked so
distinguished in his black coat and trousers, and he looked at her with such
love in his gray eyes that she silently blessed the impulse that had had her
walk this way rather than toward the center of town.

"Mina," he whispered, pulling her close. "Dear
Mina." The pressure of his arms was like a vise. She could not breathe in
them, could think of nothing but escape. As he tried to kiss her, she turned
her face away. He called her name, his voice insistent now, demanding.
"Mina."

What choice
did she have? She would not submit, not even to the one she loved. How many
times had she done this in the past?

She could not remember even one, and yet her arms tightened as his
had. Her lips pressed against the side of his neck, warmth against warmth.
"Jonathan," she moaned and bit deeply into his flesh.

All the
bright red blood flowing over the white lace of her dress, the white linen of
his carefully pressed shirt. Someone was

screaming. Jonathan! Her. . .

"Miss!
Miss, wake up!"

Someone was
shaking her roughly. Mina opened her eyes. The pounding of the train, the
uniform of the steward, the faces of

those who shared her car told
her where she was, "I'm so sorry. I had a dream," she said.

"Enough
to wake the dead!" a woman exclaimed.

How
perfectly she put it. Mina smiled. Then, realizing how out of place it must
seem, she placed a hand over her mouth to hide it.

"I'll be all
right," she said to no one in particular. "How far are we from
Exeter?"

"Two
more stops, miss." The man who had shook her spoke kindly, afraid, no
doubt, to upset her further. "If you like, I can

arrange a carriage to take
you home,"