Blood to Blood (8 page)

That would change, and soon, she thought, and looked at Joanna with something akin to love.

Mina had left him without so much as a note of explanation—as if one were needed after the shoddy way he'd behaved, Jonathan admitted to himself. In the week since then, Jonathan had gone about his daily routine with wooden precision. He thought that work could keep his mind off her, and how she had looked at him over their glasses of brandy.

I should have had more. Maybe then
… ?

Now his work held no joy for him because it had no purpose. Instead he looked forward to the smaller pleasures. The walk to and from the office seemed to energize him—the stop at the bakery in the morning, the stop at the pub on the way home, often late at night.

His aunt had written from Reading, asking if Mina had come home. He understood what she really wanted, but he couldn't face her and tell her that they had reached no decision about their future; worse, had barely even talked. He sent a vague reply that he hoped would keep her away longer.

A week of emptiness passed. Another. Then something happened, something terrifying and strangely exhilarating: He began to dream again.

It wasn't of Mina or of the dark vampire bride who had seduced him so easily in those cold and empty halls. Instead he dreamed of the strange vampire woman, the shy one who had always stood close to the door, as if ready to flee if he took a step toward her. She had always waited while the dark one had stolen his will to fight with her strange hypnotic stare, the licentiousness of her body and her cold and hungry lips. Then the shy one had come forward to join the other two. She had always seemed the plainest of the three, except for those eyes, cat's green with fire in their depths.

In these dreams, she wasn't shy any longer. Instead, like a wolf, she attacked, ripping at his clothes, his skin, the flesh beneath. Nothing pleasureable in this touch; only pain, searing and horrible, until her lips pressed against the wounds, drawing away his blood, his life, his—

He would wake with a start, heart pounding, bathed in sweat with the sheets tangled around him.

He began using brandy to help him sleep. From the state of his bed in the morning, it seemed to make the dreams no less vivid, but at least he could not recall them when he woke.

But as the dreams grew stronger, the remedy lost its effectiveness. He thought of consulting Jack Seward, asking for some drug to help him rest, but wisely knew where that could lead. Instead, he began working longer hours, though lack of sleep made concentration difficult. One afternoon, when one of his employees reluctantly suggested that he take some time off and get some rest, he admitted defeat and left.

He walked through the streets of Exeter, aimlessly it seemed until, well after dark, he found himself on the river road and guessed his destination.

He had not visited Mina's house before, though the infamous address was already fixed in his memory. Fortunately, the sky was clear, the half moon bright, and the polished brass numbers on the gate stood out like a beacon, calling him home.

The gate was half open, and he slipped through it. From the outside, the house seemed less the den of sin it had been rumored to be when Gance owned it than a charming cottage. He walked to the door but decided not to knock, not yet. Trying not to tread on the violets and lupine that marked the narrow path, he went around the house to the back and into a rose garden.

Moonlight glittered off the water in the fountain and the little white stones that marked the path to the water's edge. The space smelled lovely in the still damp of this warm summer night—of wild roses and wysteria and other, less familiar blooms. In a place like this, he half expected to see the woman in his dreams, waiting with pale arms outstretched.

Shaking off the thought, he approached the little house. Work was under way on one side, the wooden shell of an addition already in place. He avoided it and moved toward the vast expanse of glass that made up almost all of one corner, where he tried to peer inside.

Until an hour before Jonathan's stealthy arrival, Mina had been lying awake in bed, reading the morning paper she had not had a chance to look at earlier. It had been a hectic day, one of many in the past week.

Two days after Arthur's visit, carpenters had come and begun the addition, a larger one than she'd planned on, since she realized that she might want an occasional guest to stay over and would need at least one extra room besides Essie's. She and Essie had been trying to keep the dust at an acceptable level and the knicknacks from being destroyed by the pounding. At the same time, they were attempting to set up the house for full-time use rather than an occasional quick visit. Mina sent Essie shopping for pots and pans while she handled the more delicate task of picking out china and silver, and a dining table and chairs small enough to use in the solarium.

Like Jonathan, she was trying to find consolation in her work, and at last she was succeeding.

She had just drifted off when she heard Essie's frantic whisper coming from the hall outside her door. "Wake up, mum—Mina! There's someone prowling outside!" By the time Mina opened her eyes, Essie was already in the room, shaking her.

Mina put on a robe, handing a second to Essie, who came upstairs wearing only a thin slip. Mina felt oddly calm as she pulled the revolver from the bed-table drawer. With Essie close behind her—"I couldn't bear to be left alone now, mum!"—they went downstairs.

There was a man standing outside the doors, his face hidden by the dark, his form outlined by the moonlit landscape behind him. As Mina walked through the dark room, with the gun aimed at his chest, she recognized the form. Confident that she was right, she lit a candle and threw open the doors.

"Please, mum!" Essie begged.

"It's all right, Essie," Mina said as she lowered the weapon. "It's just my husband." She pulled open the door and drew him inside.

"Go sleep in my bed, Essie," she added. "I think I should talk to him here."

Essie looked at her a moment, frowning, then obeyed.

Once they were alone, Mina lit a lamp, then studied her husband more carefully. He was blushing, justifiably so, and looked ready to bolt from the room if she said a word of reproach. She noticed that his hair looked uncombed, his suit a bit rumpled, and his face lined from care or exhaustion. It was so unlike meticulous Jonathan that she wanted to laugh, but she knew it would be cruel to do so when he seemed so obviously miserable.

She went to the settee where Essie had been sleeping, folded the girl's blanket and sheet and laid them on top of her pillow. She sat on the edge of the settee and motioned Jonathan into one of the wicker chairs.

"If you're going to pay a surprise visit so late, don't you think you ought to use the door?" she asked.

"I didn't intend. It just… happened."

"Happened? You mean you were sleepwalking?" she asked, more concerned now.

"I was afraid to sleep. I have dreams again, and these are more vivid than anything before."

She moved to his side, took his hands. "Jonathan, are you certain that when you were their prisoner you never drank a drop of their blood?"

"Never that I can remember, but there were many nights there that I can't remember at all. Perhaps I was wrong about that. Perhaps I am—"

She cut him off. "Which of them do you dream about?"

"The green-eyed one, who always seemed a bit mad."

"She was mad, and she's the one still alive, if you can call that sort of existence living." For a long time they didn't speak; then Mina offered an opinion. "I believe the dreams mean that she's coming, Jonathan. It may take her months or even years to get here, but she'll come. You have to be ready when she does."

"Not 'we'?" he asked.

"I'm hardly certain of our future yet and neither are you," she replied.

She hadn't intended her voice to sound sharp, but perhaps he caught some of her anger through her tone. He moved closer to her and kissed her cheek. "I do love you," he said.

His touch brought back so many memories. She wanted to kiss him, to love him. But Essie was sleeping in her bed, and she doubted that Jonathan would ever consent to any intimacy here, when Essie might walk in at any moment.

Hardly a night for romance, so she suggested instead. "Sleep here tonight. In the morning, we should wire Arthur to see if Van Helsing is still staying with him. I think you need to ask his advice about this."

"He hardly helped you before," Jonathan reminded her.

"But he may know something of her history. It may tell us what sort of a threat she'll be."

"I'll have to leave here early tomorrow… work, and all that. I could wire him from town."

"I'll do it. I was intending to write Arthur anyway. He came and saw the house a week ago, and soon after he left, he wrote me and said that he'd read Karina's journal. It was not a pleasant note, and I need to keep in touch. Perhaps he and Van Helsing would like to come here. The two of them can stay with the Westenras. There's scarcely room for me and Essie here, especially with the carpentry work going on."

"And I'm imposing. I should go home."

"You'll do nothing of the sort." She pointed to the dark windows. "It's misted over. You'll have no moon to light the way to the main road. Now lay down here and I'll sleep with Essie upstairs. We'll have plenty of room." She handed him the blanket and sheet. "Perhaps I'll see you in the morning."

She climbed the stairs slowly, half expecting him to call her back. Or follow. Or say good-bye and leave. He did none of that. She heard him moving in the solarium, the swish of the sheet on the damask upholstery.

She found Essie stretched out on the carpet beside her bed, wrapped in a spare blanket. Given how difficult it had been to convince the girl to sleep on the settee, she should have expected this. She decided not to wake her. Instead, she slipped off her shoes, stepped over Essie, and lay down.

Downstairs, Jonathan lay awake in the darkness. He felt foolish for startling that poor servant and for disturbing Mina at such a late hour. Worse, he was afraid to sleep. He'd been alone in his house for weeks, and if his dreams made him cry out, there was no one to hear him. But here…

Mina had dreamed like that once, and he had not been nearly as understanding as she was now. If he had the means to make amends, he would. Now that they were allies again, perhaps she would repeat the offer she'd made that night in their home.

He vowed that next time he would not refuse her.

He thought of this as he stared out at the lawn, struggling to stay awake for just a few moments longer, until he was certain the rest of the house was deep in sleep.

And then, just as he was about to give way to his exhaustion, the moon broke through the fog, painting the garden in silver and gray. He stood and walked toward the windows. As he did, he saw something move near the edge of the lawn. Some animal perhaps, or another intruder with less benign intent than his.

He pulled the doors open, stepped into the yard and started down the path.

The earth was soft beneath his feet, the night air chilly against the bare skin on his exposed arms and chest. He was close to the river when he saw the figure move again, this time downstream, near the thick hedge fence of a neighbor's property. He followed, wondering if he should call out or if he might only startle someone else with his foolishness.

As he watched the distant indistinct form, it seemed to wink out like a snuffled candle. Frightened now, he turned to rush back to the house and found himself face to face with his nightmare.

But she did not look so terrible now with those red lips and eyes so green that even the moonlight could not steal their color.

"Come," she whispered, and he followed her back to the water. They stopped on the edge, and she faced him and reached out her hand.

He did not know how it happened, but a touch of her hand removed the last pieces of clothing he wore. A quick, disdainful toss sent them into the river, where they floated into the current at its heart and flowed slowly downstream.

He paid them no mind. His eyes were trapped on hers, his body on the feather touch of hands—enticing, almost real.

Was this a dream?

These creatures were from the realm of dreams. How was he to know?

Then she kissed him, her lips soft but cold. Her body pressed against his, colder still, so cold it made him ache at his core. He felt no fear, only pity for this creature, and he would give whatever he could to help her.

Her hands continued the soft brushes against his skin. Each touch made him shiver, stole a bit more of his will. When they finally reached his crotch, it only took a quick brush against the tip of his penis to make him hard and ready.