Mina Part 25

"I was going to ask you to do that. I also want you to give Jonathan this." She handed Winnie her little book.

"This is your journal!" Winnie exclaimed. She knew what was written there.

"There will be no more secrets between Jonathan and me, not even as to where I've gone." She waited to see that moment of understanding in Winnie's expression then went on. "Tell him that I'd like him to wait in Exeter until I write him. Tell him to please try and understand why I have to go back."

"What if Dracula is still alive?"

Mina smiled bitterly. "Then I'm still cursed, and I'll have to deal with that."

"How?"

"I don't know. Perhaps I'll ask Van Helsing to kill me. I'd trust him to do it well. Perhaps I'll weaken and choose that terrible life.

If so, I will do my best to practice control and hope I'm not suffering from self-delusion. Whatever I choose, I promise that you'll get word of it. Don't look so sad, Winnie. Isn't knowledge better than ignorance?"

"Dearest Mina!" Winnie said, holding out her arms. Winnie cried that night while Mina lay beside her, holding her, comforting her, feeling Winnie's broken breaths warm on her neck, Winnie's anguished pulse so strong against her cheek.

III

April 12, Lille, France. Gance bought me this journal in Calais. The cover is gray leather, embossed with fleur-de-lis; the pages are parchment edged in gold. I have never written in so grand a book before. Its beauty seems fitting somehow, as if I, like the Countess Karina, am setting down the most important moments of my life. As I write, I feel that I have come full circle, with this journal recording the end, as my other did the beginning, of this adventure.

Gance and I parted from Winnie at Croyden and went on to Dover. Our midday Channel crossing was much calmer than my last. I even went on deck, something I had been too ill to do on our last crossing. The cold wind blew across my face.

My cheeks stung from the salt spray, yet I gripped the rail, feeling the boat move beneath me, listening to the power of the waves pounding against the hull.

Gance joined me, though his face seemed even paler than usual and his lips were pressed together. He did not hide his pain well, perhaps because he'd never felt a need to do so before. A sudden lurch of the boat made him slip on the wet deck. He caught the rail to keep from falling and jarred his wound. He cried out, then cut off the sound.

I pulled up a deck chair for him and made him sit. "You should have stayed inside," I said.

"I never miss coming outside on a crossing," he replied, though he took the seat gratefully. I stood where I was, gripping the rail, looking down at the water so black and cold beneath us.

One of the crew noticed me and came down, intending no doubt to suggest I go inside. He noticed Gance sitting in the shadows behind me and went on with only a polite greeting.

How much easier life would be if I had been born a man. The world would be so much kinder to my excesses, my eccentricities. I would have no need of protection from Gance or Jonathan or anyone.

We spent the night at a tiny stone inn in Lille. Gance made no advances save that he kissed me before rolling over and going to sleep.

I lay awake thinking of Jonathan. By now he must know that I have left him. Has he gone to Seward? I alternate between fear for what I have done and incredible joy that I have at last freed myself from all the restraints, all the secrets that bound me.

April 17, Paris. We've stayed here five days in the beautiful stone house of a friend of Gance's, an aged artist whom I will not name or describe too closely for his sake. The crossing was hard on Gance, and he is taking something for the pain.

Nonetheless, his const.i.tution is so strong that healing continues quickly.

I have my own room. It has an iron balcony and stairs leading down to a magnificent courtyard. There, among the carefully tended flower beds, is tin ornate stone-and-tile fountain and delicate iron chairs and tables for guests. I often drink coffee there in the morning with our host. He asked me to pose for him soon after we arrived. It pa.s.ses the time, and he paints while I sit and read. He is u delightful conversationalist, well traveled and well versed in folk legends and beliefs.

Yesterday, as I sat sideways on the bench, posing as he requested with my hair falling over my shoulders, my chin resting on my hand, my legs slightly apart, with the fabric falling between them (a position Millicent would undoubtedly describe as "hoydenish"), he told me the most incredible story about a woman who turned into u werewolf while mesmerized. He said that this beautiful woman-t.i.tled, he added, as if this made even her transformation even more bizarre-howled and bared her teeth, then returned to the present to describe quite vividly having devoured a lamb.

"Do you believe it?" I asked when he'd finished.

"I saw it," he replied.

"Isn't that enough?"

"I may have been mesmerized as well," he concluded with a dry laugh.

I wondered how much Gance had told him, or if the man had seen the mark still so dark on Gance's neck and guessed my obsession. There is no way to ask. Yet the man's point is a valid one.

I pray that when we finally reach the castle, we find no one there at all.After my last sitting, he invited me to see the nearly finished portrait. I walked around to the easel and stared at a woman far too beautiful to be me, with her lips slightly parted as if ready to speak, someone with both trust and pa.s.sion in her eyes.

"It is a fine likeness, don't you think?" my host asked.

"Is it?"

"Oh, yes. I painted your soul as well as your face." He raised my hand to his lips then looked directly into my eyes. "If you ever need a friend, or a place to stay for a while, come to me," he said.

"Thank you. "

He must have sensed that / would not impose, for he quickly added, "I could think of a dozen portraits to do of you the way Dante did with his Lizzie. But unlike Rossetti, I'm far too old to demand anything but your undivided attention and some small bit of adoration for my genius. "

"Not that old, I think," I replied, for though his face was lined, he was also terribly thin, which made him seem older.

"Then you are too young," he replied smoothly.

I laughed. Actually, sitting with him in the little enclosed garden with the sound of falling water, the sun on my face, the easel and scent of oils, I felt more at ease than I've been since this ordeal began.

April 19. Last night Gance dressed and joined us for dinner. We dined in the courtyard and, after the meal, extinguished all the lights and sat beneath the stars drinking wine. It was another night of carefree conversation, all the wittier because of Gance's presence. And yet, perhaps because our host is so genuinely kind, I see the emptiness at Gance's core, and know his wit is nothing more than an intellectual exercise.

Dracula, it is said, no longer has a soul. Gance, of course, does, but he hides it so well. It's no wonder that I was attracted to him. But later he did something so inexplicably at odds with his usual behavior that I cannot comprehend it.

We retired together. I thought he would say good night at my door as he has every night, but instead he followed me inside and kissed me with that intensity I have come to know so well. His hands moved as they always move, so skillfully over my body. As always, I wanted to give him the intensity of pleasure that he gives me. I reached for him and caressed him, but as soon as he began to stiffen under my touch, I heard him gasp in surprise. His hand covered mine and pulled it away. "Not yet," he whispered.

And though he kissed me and though his hands continued to pleasure me, he would not enter me or allow me to straddle him. Finally, unable to respond any further to his touch, I lay beside him. "Does your wound pain you so much?" I asked.

He did not answer, only moved away from me on the bed and said quietly, "I wish. . . "

l waited; he never finished "You wish?" I asked.

"I wish I'd met you years ago." He brushed my cheek then added ruefully, "I suppose my near death just makes me sentimental. You could not have altered my life even then."

I put on my chemise and stole across the hall to my room. Before going to bed, I stood on the balcony for a few moments and noticed my host sitting in the dark courtyard, his white robe just visible in the dim starlight. I wondered if he had fallen asleep or if he sat alone with his thoughts. I wondered what he thought of Gance and me, if he had some guess as to where we were going and what we would face.

We decided at breakfast to leave tonight. There is a private car available, and Gance hopes that by beginning the journey with a night of sleep, he'll be even stronger in the morning.

He seems in a greater hurry than I am. Actually, since I made my decision to go, my nights have been restful and without dreams. Often I think it's because now that I am going to that castle, whatever wants me to return there grants me some peace.

April 20, early morning. Our private car is at the end of the train. There are gilt moldings around the top and a pair of crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Though we did not hire, any servants, we seem to have acquired one anyway, a tiny Indian man who politely let us know that he would do his best to meet our every demand. Gance whispered an order to him, and he returned some time later with champagne and a cold plate of pate and cheeses. He bowed with exaggerated servility before leaving us.

I told Gance of how wondrous it seemed to travel in such luxury. He responded by pouring me more champagne and saying with a wry smile that he was too used to it to see it as anything but common.

"Are you in pain?" I asked.

"A little. I'll check the wound in the morning. "

I saw the need growing in the intensity with which his gray eyes focused on my face and my body. As quickly as desire rose, it vanished. "I should sleep," he said.

I knew that raising his arm was still painful so I helped him undress. Once he was in bed, I turned down the lights nearest him, said good night and went buck to my place at the front of the car. He did not ask me to join him, and I didn't feel inclined to make the first overture. Though Gance volunteered to come on this journey with me, now that we are constantly together, there is little real intimacy between us. In the past, all our discourse began and ended with s.e.x.

As I write this, I think of Jonathan-his vulnerability, his need for comfort and how, in spite of his terror of that castle and the things that lived there, he risked his life and his soul for me.

I am thankful that I left him behind. He has done enough. It is my turn to be brave now. I pray my courage does not fail.

We have just pulled out of Strasbourg. When I wake tomorrow, we will be somewhere in Germany. At least I will have little time to reflect on the danger I face.

TWENTY-FOUR

After Mina had left, Winnie took over her fund-raising duties and cut back on her work in the hospital wards. The social calls, the witty conversation over tea, the constant presentations of hospital needs took Winnie's mind off Mina and the terrible journey she had undertaken.

One afternoon, when she had stopped at the hospital to catch up on some work, a volunteer nurse walked by the tiny office. "We didn't expect to see you today," she said. "Since you're here, you might want to look at the mail piling up in your box."

"Mail?" Winnie went to investigate and found a number of letters and flyers as well as some larger packages. She opened the packages, mostly donations of bandages and other supplies, and stuffed the envelopes in her handbag.

At home, she pa.s.sed the time until dinner reading the letters. There were the usual notes of thanks, many from the children who had been treated at the hospital. Among them was a large envelope with no return address. By the time she pulled the sheets from it, she had guessed what it must be. With shaking hands, she looked down at ma.n.u.script pages, then read the unsigned note that accompanied them. It had been printed as if the sender wanted to hide even a small link to his ident.i.ty.

Mrs. Beason. On his last day of life, Anton Ujvari left an envelope with me. He made me swear that, should something happen to him, I would send it to you. I confess that after he disappeared, I read its contents.

When I heard the details of how he died, I wavered. I very nearly gave these sheets to the police, but I know it is not what Mr. Ujvari wanted and, from how he spoke of you, that you would have had nothing to do with his terrible end.

If there had been a way to contact Mina, Winnie would have waited to read this account. Under the circ.u.mstances, however, she could hardly be blamed for reading it herself.

She sat in a rocking chair close to the little fire. As she began reading, she recalled the likeness of the countess that Mina had shown her-her delicate features, her golden curls, her tiny red lips in their tight, willful bow.

My desperate search for the man I had met was eventually found out, and I was confined to the house, and the gardens surrounding it, while my mother, deciding that I was having a liaison with some poor peasant lad, made plans to leave. I did not protest. Indeed, convinced that I was spurned here as I had been at court, my despondency made me unusually pliant.

Late one night, I woke and saw a woman standing by my bed. Though the room was sultry, her hands were cool and dry as she brushed back the locks of hair from my forehead. I knew the servants. She was not one of them. Besides, a servant would not have been allowed in my chamber without my request.

Nonetheless, I was not afraid. "What is your name?" I asked."Illona," she replied. Her eyes glowed in the light of the single candle burning beside my bed. Her hands were long and delicate like my mother's, her face smooth and pale, and her voice as she spoke her name had an incredible timbre that reminded me less of song than of dance. She resembled the aristocratic Hungarian women at court with their powdered faces and painted lips, but her hair was dark rather than pale and fell like raven's feathers across her shoulders and the white cotton blouse she wore.

Her very beauty calmed me. I sat up in bed, tossing my hair over my back, trying to make myself look pa.s.sable in her magnificent presence. "Why are you here?" I asked.

"To take you to him-to Dracula." I frowned. I did not understand.

She smiled, a slash of red lips against the pale face, the white teeth. "So he was not foolish enough to call himself that,"

she whispered and laughed. "To your lover then. To Vlad? To Tepes?"

I recognized the last name. "He sent you? Yes, take me to him!" I exclaimed so loudly that Illona looked over her shoulder at the door.

Anyone who came would have died before they could make a sound. I know that now. Then, I only a.s.sumed she feared discovery, and I felt so foolish for speaking so thoughtlessly. I pulled on my clothes as quickly as I was able. With her moving before me through the darkness, one of her hands holding mine to lead the way, we stole silently through the dark house and into the night.

Clear, moonless. The stars shed some light, enough to show us the road as we ran to the edge of the estate. A horse was waiting beyond the wall, a coal-black stallion that answered to Illona's call yet s.h.i.+vered with fear as we mounted. She pressed her knees into its side, and with me sitting in front of her, we rode away.

I spoke to her, asking where we were going, how long it would take. She did not answer, but her hands dug into my wrists painfully. I cried out, I trembled. I heard her laughter again. This time it did not sound so beautiful.

The walls of this ancient castle were not so weathered when I first saw them. The upstairs halls were not so damp, and the furnis.h.i.+ngs were still rich and colorful. Illona lit a torch and showed me to an upper-floor chamber. There was wood for a fire, water to drink, even some bread and dried meat and wine.

"Where is he?" I asked as she showed me into the room. "Is he here?"

"He comes in his own good time. Sleep well," she said and pulled the door shut behind her. When I tried to open it, I found it locked.

Even if I had been able to explore, I was far too tired to do so. The bed was soft, the blankets warm. I slept until night, when Illona called my name.

She had brought another woman with her--a woman with hair even darker than hers and eyes that same shade of smoldering green as my lover's.

"This is Joanna," Illona said. "Dracula's sister."

"You resemble each other," I said, uneasily now, for though they had been polite, their presence in my room was too abrupt, had been too soundlessly accomplished. They seemed to be specters rather than women, their bodies long dead and buried in the caverns below us.

"Yes, we do resemble one another," Joanna said in that same strange accent as my lover had. Illona laughed, the brightness of it so at odds with Joanna's tone.

"We must prepare you," Illona declared and moved closer to me, her delicate fingers unhooking the front of my gown, her hands sliding it off my shoulders, my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, while Joanna was content to stand by the door and watch, an indecipherable upward turn to her lips that seemed less a smile than a sign of distaste.

The places where Tepes had drunk from me were scarred and bruised. Illona's fingertips brushed each one of them. My nipples hardened from the memory of what he had done. I am certain I blushed. A woman had never touched me there before.

"He fed on you often," Illona said.

Joanna laughed, too hard it seemed, though I understood her contempt easily enough later.

"Do you please him?" Illona asked, her dark dry eyes, so like his, fixed on mine.

To say yes would have made me feel too wanton, too full of conceit. To say no would have been a lie. I kept silent. "Of course you do, and will continue to do, unless we turn you first." Her face moved close to mine. Her breath was cold and cloyingly sweet like a garden in midsummer- . For the first time, I noticed that her teeth were long and sharp like his. I expected her to kiss me. Instead she rested one hand against the back of my neck and lowered her head, pressing her parted lips against a wound he had made, biting down.

I wanted to scream, to beg the other woman for help, but for a moment I was unable to move. Then the spell broke, and my hands pushed against her, but I might have been a kitten or a little bird for all the effect my struggles had.