with my reality as I watched the wolf dog I had seen in Whitby growl at Von Helsinger, backing him against a wall and baring his teeth at the incredulous doctor. Von Helsinger pressed himself against the wall, yelling something in German, and the beast lunged at him, pinning him with its thick paws. The treacherous canines were not an inch from Von Helsinger’s face. Seward tried to get to the door, but the wolf dog turned around and, with preternatural speed, leapt on him from behind, sinking its teeth into the doctor’s back. Seward cried out in anguish as he pulled away, leaving some of his flesh in the animal’s mouth. Von Helsinger pushed Seward through the door, but before he could escape, the animal swiped at his face and neck, leaving sharp claw marks from cheek to throat. With a howl of agony, Von Helsinger grabbed his face and fell through the door after Seward, slamming it shut.
I lay in bed paralyzed. The wolf dog jumped on the bed, straddling me, staring at me with its vivid indigo eyes. The last thing I remember seeing in that room was his huge incisors above my face, red and dripping with Seward’s blood.
Part Six
LONDON AND AT SEA
Chapter Fourteen
Now I opened my eyes. The room was dark, though weak autumnal light filtered in through arched windows high on the walls, illuminating the room’s rich aubergine brocade wallpaper. Its color cast a soft violet haze that floated through the bedroom, twinkling the huge diamond-shaped crystals that dropped from two immense, many- tiered silver chandeliers. They were larger than any I had ever seen, things out of a palace or a fairy tale. An imposing, heavily carved wardrobe, which looked as if it had been in place since the early fifteenth century, faced the bed where I lay. Beside it on the wall hung a large bronze shield with an iron French cross at its center, crowned by a gilded fleur-de-lis with a dazzling gemstone in the middle of the petal. Large portraits of nude ladies, odalisques that looked as if an Italian master-Titian, perhaps?-had painted them graced the adjacent wall. A heavy crystal vase of white long-stemmed roses sat on a table at the bedside, their petals tight, but their sweet perfume filling the air, mingling with the aroma of fresh baked bread.
I ran my hands down my body. I was not in my own nightdress but in a pale green gown of fine quality damask silk with a triangular neckline and long, full sleeves that cupped my wrists, draping white lace over my hands to the fingers. I had never seen such a rich garment. I imagined it was something that the queen’s daughters would have worn.
I heard a door open, and it startled me. I pulled the covers to my neck.
“Ah, she is awake.”
It was the voice. His quick footsteps approached the bed, and he soon stood over me. His presence was different this time. He was more solid and real, more like a man-a human-than in all the previous times he had come to me. He looked anchored inside his body, which let me know that I was not dreaming or hallucinating. At least it did not feel that way. Still, his skin was slightly more luminous than that of an average person, and I wondered if it was noticeable enough to attract the attention of those who passed him on the street. He sat next to me and put out his hand, and I put mine into it. His body did not seem to have a temperature. I realize that is difficult to imagine, but while his hand was a perfectly formed male hand, it was neither warm nor cold, but beyond those things. It was concrete, but it had a subtle and peculiar vibratory quality, like the tremor of a violin string.
He put his fingers over my pulse at the wrist, and then leaned into me, inhaling my scent at the neck. I felt little shivers inside me, remembering the dream in which he bit into me and tasted me. But he soon withdrew.
“The medication is still in your blood, but you are recovering well. You are very strong, Mina. Very strong.” His full crimson lips formed a little smile. “Do you like the bed? You have been asleep for two days.”
“I do like it,” I said, my voice crackling with the first words of the day. “It is the most luxurious bed I have ever slept in.”
“It once belonged to Pope Innocent, though he was anything but. Ironic that you are lying in it now.”
“Do you think I am not innocent?” I cannot say that I wasn’t afraid of him; yet there was something between us that made it seem as if we were simply picking up a conversation where we had last left it.
“No, you are innocent, but the pope was not. He knew that he was dying, and he tried to save his life by transfusing the blood of healthy young boys into his sick body. They died, of course, and so did he. If the doctor had given you his blood, you would have died.”
“Is that why you came to me? To save me once again?”
“I came because you called me,” he said.
I was about to dispute this, but I remembered that when I was drifting into unconsciousness, it was he who came into my mind most strongly.
“How do you know that I would have died?” I asked.
“Because I can smell your blood and the blood of the others, including your husband’s, and I can tell by the fragrance which blood will not mix well. It is inexplicable to you, I realize. But if you accept the Gift, you will understand.”
“What Gift?”
“The Gift you have rejected for the better part of a millennium,” he said. “But that is for another day. You are hungry. Your stomach is terribly empty.”
He produced a wide silver tray with wrought handles that was piled with sliced bread, grapes, apricots, oranges, apples, cheeses, and a goblet of red wine, and put it on the bed.
“Wine?” I asked. I wanted a cup of tea.
“Your blood needs its elements. Drink at least some of it.” He sat on the bed next to me. “You must eat now. You will need your strength.”
At that moment, the pungent aroma of the cheeses, the sharp citrus of sliced oranges, and the yeasty smell of the bread overrode both my fear and my curiosity. I wanted to dive into the food like a hungry dock-worker. With great discipline, I picked up a silver knife and spread soft butter across a slice of the warm bread and then daintily cut a piece of dark cheddar cheese. The food tasted exquisite, and I tried to chew slowly, as he was taking in my every move. We sat in silence for a while as I ate my fill and let the wine relax me.
“Where am I?” I finally asked.
“You are in the mansion that I purchased for us in London, the one your fiance found and helped me to buy,” he said with the slightest touch of a smile. “One does not live for seven hundred years without developing a keen sense of irony.”
I imagined how shocked Jonathan must have been to see my picture in the newspaper with the man who left him to be ravished by his nieces. It almost made me forgive him his violent reaction.
“I am very confused. I do not understand-well, any of this-but I do not even understand how you know me,” I said.
“In this particular life trajectory, you have a very obstinate memory. It is difficult sometimes to remain patient with you.” His eyes turned a chilly blue, and he got up off the bed, turning his back to me. “But then, it always has been so,” he said with an air of resignation. “That is why I am taking you to Ireland. We are going to go to the place
