seemingly by just putting a hand on his shoulder. “Not yet,” the Count said. I saw Jonathan’s arm and shoulder flinch under the Count’s touch and knew that he must be using his intense energy to detain him.
Though he had removed his essence from me, I still heard his bitter words inside my mind, and I knew that they were directed at me with the intent to let me know that I had wounded him yet again.
But I was afraid to take my attention off the fight. Quince was seething and out of control. “This is for Lucy,” he said, delivering one blow after the next. Clearly the stronger man, his fury magnified his power. Seward kept circling the two men on the ground, trying to find an opportunity to grab Quince, but his arms were swinging too wildly for anyone to get close.
My eyes followed the barrel of the gun as Quince’s blows sent it pointing all over the room. Arthur’s finger was on the trigger, and I was afraid he would fire it and hit someone. The barrel swung with the force of the punches, making targets of each one of us. I was amazed at how Arthur was able to retain his grip on it.
Morris Quince pulled back his huge fist preparing for the coup de grace. He swung, punching Arthur hard across the face, connecting with a sickening whack. The gun flew out of Arthur’s hand, sliding across the marble, and landing at Von Helsinger’s feet. The doctor quickly picked it up.
Morris did not look up, but continued to pummel Arthur.
“Morris, you’re going to kill him,” Seward said, standing back but using his doctor voice. “Do not do this. You will regret it.”
I turned to the Count. “Please stop him,” I said. I hated Arthur for what he had done, but I did not want to watch a man die.
The Count turned away and looked at Von Helsinger, who held the gun in his quivering hands. I thought he would use it to whack Quince on the head and save Godalming, but instead, he sidestepped the two fighting men and pointed the gun at the Count. The doctor’s hands were shaking as he slowly pulled back the hammer, unsure what he was doing. It looked as if the effort of drawing it backward was more than he had anticipated, and he had to use both thumbs. The barrel of the gun wavered in the air, pointed at everyone and no one.
“Get out of the way, Harker,” he yelled. “Give me a clear shot at the demon!”
I did not want to take my eyes off Von Helsinger, but I felt the Count demanding that I meet his eyes.
I looked at him, and he gave me an almost indiscernible smile. In that instant, I heard the gun explode. Jonathan put his arms around my waist and pulled me aside. I did not see who or what the bullet hit, but, as the deafening noise echoed off the marble floors, sounding through the foyer, Quince stopped hitting Arthur and jumped to his feet.
Von Helsinger was shaking, his big eyes bulging. A puff of smoke hung over the barrel. The Count’s great sapphire eyes were gleaming, brighter than I had ever seen them.
“It is not over, Mina,” he said to me. “It is never going to be over.”
The bullet had punctured his chest, but it had not exploded with blood. Rather, a white vapor began to pour out of the wound. The expression on his face did not change, and he held me with his eyes. Slowly, his body began to fade, like a painting that has muted over time, only this was happening before our very eyes. The color drained out of him until he turned pearlescent and increasingly more transparent, the way he had looked in the Gummlers’ photograph. Particle by particle, his shimmering essence transformed into the fine white mist that I had seen creep through the asylum window. Then, without a trace, he evaporated into the air, joining with some invisible web of things.
Everyone was quiet, watching the miracle in astonishment. For what seemed like a long time, no one moved or spoke, too awestruck by what we had just witnessed. Despite the agenda the men had come with, both Seward and Von Helsinger were moved to wonder. Von Helsinger muttered something in German, and Seward replied, “Amen.”
We stood as tense as statues, staring at the space that the Count’s body had once occupied. Everyone was afraid to move. Morris was the first to let out a deep breath, which reminded the rest of us to breathe. Von Helsinger dropped his gun hand to his side, his arm still shaking. I could hear everyone begin to take breaths. Just as everyone began to exhale, Arthur grabbed the pistol out of the quivering hand of Dr. Von Helsinger and pointed it at Morris. Without hesitation, he shot him in the heart.
Morris dropped to his knees, a look of shock on his face. Godalming kept his gun pointed at his victim’s chest as the other man fell. Morris held out his arms in surrender, and I thought that Arthur was going to fire again, but he did not. He just continued to point the gun at Morris, and by the time the rest of that man’s body crumpled to the ground, his eyes were closed and his once powerful form, lifeless.
John Seward raced to Morris, ripping open his vest and shirt to get to the wound, oblivious to the blood that gushed out of his chest. He tore the shirt apart, exposing the wound, a garish hole marring the perfection of Morris’s youthful body.
“Dear God,” Seward said, and I felt his helplessness.
“If you can remove the bullet, I will close the wound,” I said.
The men looked at me, wondering what I meant, but Jonathan said, “She is capable of it. I have seen it.”
Seward put his hand to Morris’s neck, but then his back slumped in defeat. “Can she raise the dead too?” he asked.
I knew that it was too late. Morris’s life was over the moment the bullet penetrated the heart. Arthur had shot to kill.
“You will never get away with this,” I said to Arthur, ignoring the gun in his hand. I knew he would not turn it on me.
His face was swollen beyond recognition. His eyes looked like little red pinpricks inside the puffy sockets. He had lost his front teeth to Morris’s punches. Bruises were beginning to form below his eyes. In a few hours, his countenance would be as hideous as his character. I suspected that his cheekbone was broken, and his grimace twisted to one side.
“Everyone present saw that I was attacked by a man who was obsessed with my late wife,” he said calmly. “And if you choose to disagree, let me remind you that you are an escapee from a mental asylum and hardly a credible witness.” He gestured to the men. “And the rest of you are accomplices, are you not?” Neither Von Helsinger nor Seward responded, but Jonathan said, “I am taking Mina out of here.”
Jonathan took my arm, but I shook him off. I began to feel my fury rise, the same savage vehemence that had set me on Ursulina. Jonathan must have been aware of what was happening because he stepped back, giving me room. I felt the surge inside me gathering strength, filling me with the excitement of taking revenge. I envisioned myself flying through the air and landing on the murderer, attaching my teeth to his neck and sucking the essence from him until he was dead. I saw it all happen in my mind’s eye. I would not make the incision neatly as I had done with the lamia. No, this time, I would do it savagely with my teeth, tearing into him like an animal, causing him the most severe pain possible. Revenge for Lucy. Revenge for Morris.
Without any effort, my body propelled itself toward him. I did not feel myself moving, but found myself with my legs wrapped around him, suctioned to his body, his hair in my fist, and my hand jerking his head back, exposing his long white neck. His hair felt oily and thin, and he smelled like sweat and gunpowder, nauseating to my stomach, but I would not let that stop me. I heard the gun drop from his hand and onto the floor.
“Help me,” Arthur cried out, his voice strained because I had jerked his neck back so far.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Von Helsinger stoop to pick up the gun, when Jonathan’s boot stepped on his big, meaty hand, and the doctor cried out in pain. “Do what you must, Mina,” Jonathan said.
In as savage a moment as I have ever experienced, I sank my teeth deep into Arthur’s neck. I am certain that all the men were yelling, but I was too focused on my task to give them my attention. Hissing and growling like a wild beast, I did not merely take his blood from one wound, but made a network of incisions on his neck, tearing the flesh each time, causing him fresh agony. I would have drained him to death, but I could not bear the taste or scent of him-acrid, like vinegar left too long on a poultice.
I backed off him and left him slumped and bleeding on the floor. I coughed, spitting the taste of him out of my
