Blood to Blood (26 page)

Mina studied Arthur's letter carefully, looking for any signs that he might have been controlled but finding none. That evening she shared it with Jonathan, who concurred. "He hardly sounds like Renfield, or even you in the worst of your delirium. And yet…"

"What is it?"

"Nothing. I was thinking of the castle, but I can't ever recall seeing the sister alone. She was always with the others. Perhaps they goaded her on or forced her to join them, in which case, Arthur is probably right."

"And you're not dreaming of her?"

He laughed, kissed her cheek. "Dearest, I usually dream of you, and in the most embarrassing of positions, I might add."

Since Van Helsing's frantic letter five days before, there had been positions—far more than she'd ever expected. They'd gone to her cottage and calmly alerted Essie, who took the news in stride. "She likely won't know where to find you anyway, unless your friend tells her," Essie added.

Essie was right. The firm's address was on the papers Dracula had signed, their house in town well known. But she had kept this place something of a secret, just as Gance had. Better to be discreet in a town so small.

"We might be safer here, or at least get some warning should she come," Jonathan admitted with obvious reluctance. And so they stayed.

Perhaps the presence she had sensed the night of the storm was still roaming these halls, because that night, after she got into her bath, Jonathan brought a bottle of wine from the kitchen and poured them both a glass. When she suggested there was more than enough room for two in the bath, he did not hesitate to join her.

Soap and washcloth became hands and caresses, kisses, embraces and an utterly unsuccessful attempt at something more. They dried off quickly and, laughing, ran for the bed.

He was voracious, more than her match. By the time they were done, something as innocent as the touch of his hand on her arm made her shiver with remembered delight.

She sat on the edge of the bed, lit a lamp and began combing the tangles from her damp hair. He got up, went to the doors and threw them open, letting in the cooler night air. He stood by them awhile, looking out at the dark garden, the river beyond.

"Karina had beautiful hair," he said, almost absentmindedly and without looking at her. "Joanna, those incredible green eyes. As for Illona, it was her body that could not be ignored. But though the others had sparks of life in them still, Illona had none. She terrified me as the others never did. And yes, I am certain she terrified them as well."

Mina didn't answer. It was the first time he had ever spoken of those women without being forced to by either Van Helsing or herself, and the first time he'd ever given details.

"There were nights when I was so weak I could barely move. Those where the times she would come and lie beside me, touching me, forcing me to respond when I thought I hadn't even the strength to draw another breath. Then she would invite the others to come and feast."

Mina got up, moved behind him and wrapped her arms around him as he went on, "And then there was you, so alive, so kind. And all I could think of for too long was her and what she had done to me. Whenever I would respond to you, I could not help but think of her. Everything got jumbled up, too much so. I'm sorry. I never knew how to speak of it before. But I should have. You of all people had the right to know."

She felt him catch his breath, a quick sob. Then he turned to her, held her until she led him back to bed.

In the morning they found Essie dozing in a chair in the solarium, her face to the bare window and the yard. There was a gold cross around her neck, the dinner bell on the table beside her.

So much for Essie's nonchalance.

Mina woke her, only to send her off to bed. "But what about breakfast?" she protested.

"Mr. Harker and I will take care of that ourselves, Essie. You need some sleep."

The nights that followed were long and passionate. Mina dreaded the day that the danger had passed and Jonathan would suggest that they go home.

But when the letter from Arthur came, Jonathan said nothing about leaving, only made the quick suggestion that she allay another's fears and write Van Helsing immediately.

She penned a quick note, intending to address and post the letter immediately. But since she was out of envelopes, she decided to post it after she left her work at the shelter the next day. She was just finishing up when one of the carpenters building a fence around the backyard cut his finger nearly to the bone when his saw slipped.

Dr. Rhys was the closest physician. By the time he had the man's cut stitched and she remembered the letter, it was too late to send it, her last chance until Monday.

"You're fortunate to have found me in," Rhys said. "I'll be leaving for London in two hours. Van Helsing and I are going out for supper tomorrow."

"Are you! Then perhaps you would do me a favor and deliver a letter to him. I'm wondering how he's faring; it's been so long since I've seen him." She found an envelope and handed him the sealed note.

He started to put the letter in his bag, then changed his mind and placed it in the inside pocket of his coat instead. "A physician's bag always looks so inviting to thieves. I would not want to lose it," he explained.

"It's hardly that important. I could always write another."

"I suppose. Are you leaving soon? Perhaps you'd do me the honor of walking with me to the station."

"I'm leaving now and I would be happy to," she replied, grabbing her hat and cloak and taking his arm. Her fingers brushed the back of his hand, and she noticed how cold his skin was, then how stiff he moved, as if he dreaded the journey. More concerned than curious, she asked him about his work.

"The rich come to my private clinic with every petty ailment, most of which they bring on themselves. The poor put off a call until death is sitting on their shoulder. I lost two children this week—one to a beating by his father, the second to venereal disease."

"Dear lord!"

"Lord, indeed. Sometimes I wish I had the solace of a Christian faith and could indeed think of them as innocent and bound for a happier eternity. But in truth, it was the parents who deserved to die. And nothing will be done to any of them. It's more convenient to arrest thieves stealing bread from those thought of as their betters."

She squeezed his hand. "You'd make a marvelous socialist," she commented.

"I'd rather be a judge."

Something in his tone made her pause, turn and look at him. "No, I am quite all right. Just tired and disillusioned," he said, managing a wan smile.

"Then a weekend in London is just what you need. I've never asked, but do you have a sweetheart there?"

"No one. An old teacher. A handful of patients who have become friends. Two distant cousins I see only rarely. And now Van Helsing, who is more interesting than all the others put together."

"Have you ever thought of visiting your home?"

"India? I was raised here. I have thought of going there, though. I'd like to see where my mother was raised."

"You speak of her so often. When did she die?"

His pace slowed, as if the memory took too much effort for anything else. "I was seven. My parents were never married, and my father abandoned us when he became ill and went home to be nursed by his family until he died. While he spent his last months in luxury, tended by his own, we were forced to give up our rooms and move in with friends near St. Bartholomew's. When my mother began showing signs of the same illness that affected my father, the people feared contagion and forced us to leave.

"My mother took a job as a seamstress, then when her eyesight began failing, as a washerwoman. We moved from a flat, to a shared flat, to two rooms, to one.

"And just when we thought our next sleeping spot would be a dark alley in Spitalfields, my father did the decent thing and confessed our existence to his family. Just before he died, he made his sister vow to find us and take care of us. And so she did.

We lived under her care nearly a year before my mother died. After that, my aunt cared for me. She died some twelve years ago. I was just out of medical school and tended her in her last days, and so we came full circle, she and I."

"Were the cousins you mentioned her children?" Mina asked. She knew the answer already but wanted to hide how much Winnie had already told her.

"My uncle's. Rowdy brats who grew up to be rowdier adults. They would have done my father proud. I'm pleased that we have nothing in common."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pried."

"You took my mind off the week. That's a good thing," he replied.

She squeezed his hand again, and they went on in silence. At the station, she waited for his train before finding a cab to take her to Jonathan's office for their ride home.

As she did, Rhys was traveling east, away from the clinic, his practice and the facade of a life he'd built. There was no reason to feel that way but he did, and success only made the sham that much clearer.

Mina's questions had opened old thoughts, ancient wounds and reminded him that wealth hardly changed the person its trappings affected. Having never shaken off those early years of his life, it now seemed that only in the company of strangers of the lowest sort did he find himself feeling completely at home.

As the train pulled into one sleepy village after another, he watched families enter and leave, the quick good-byes of lovers and friends, and the dark, sleeping houses of the towns. He might wish for that life, but like the rakshasas or the vampires of Western lore, he could only observe that happy world, forever apart from it.

The train pulled into Blackfriars Station a little after midnight. Though it was raining, Rhys walked the distance to a single room he kept at a boardinghouse on Queen Street. He carried a razor in his pocket with the tip sharpened to a surgeon's precision but was otherwise blind to the danger the night and neighborhood presented. Along the way he stopped in a pub for a drink and a bottle to take with him.

Alone in his sparsely furnished room, he drank a third of what he'd purchased before changing into clothing more suited to the neighborhood. That done, he put on his coat once more and headed for an all-night club he often frequented near the river.

"Hullo, Chancy!" the barkeep called out as he entered the sooty room, then turned to get the doctor's regular order—a shot of rum and a pint of ale to wash it down.

Anonymous here, he blended with the workingmen and gamblers, all with a few quid to spend and nowhere else to go. He did not believe in demons, but some terrible urge drew him to these places, an urge that could not be denied. He contemplated this as he watched the foam on his beer slide down the inside of his glass, then ordered another and waited for oblivion.

Long past midnight, a woman walked in alone. The barkeep glanced at her, then went back to his conversation at the end of the bar.

Rhys barely noticed her until she came up beside him and pulled on his sleeve. "Doctor?" She looked at him, eyes half focused. When he didn't react, she repeated, less certain now, "Doctor?"

He shrugged, shook his head. "You've got me confused," he said in his best Indian accent, so unlike his usual crisp English.

She continued to stare. "You look just like him… the doctor who treated my little girl."

"Wasn't me," he said without looking at her.

She stood beside him a while longer before finding a table, a pair of friends who bought her a drink.

He finished his own, slowly, glanced at his pocket watch, then left. In the shadows outside the door, he paused to breathe in the thick, damp air.

It was nearly two in the morning and he seemed to be the only living soul outside in all of London's East End. Silence surrounded him, broken only by the distant trickle of water, a pretty sound for something as disgusting as a sewer emptying into the Thames. With his coat wrapped tightly around him to protect him from the damp and chilly air, he walked in the direction of the river, stopping occasionally to listen for the hard and even sound of a patrolman's booted steps. In spite of the alcohol he'd consumed, every sense was alert; only his judgment had been skewed.

He should have walked the few blocks back to his room. It would have been the wise thing to do in this part of town. Instead, he turned down a street that pointed toward the river, the silent wooden walkways, the dark and pressing fog.

He'd almost reached it when a woman stepped out from between two buildings, then retreated to let him pass. Though he could no longer see her face, he could sense her watching him, weighing the danger. No wonder, when there had been four murders in London that summer and whispers of another Ripper heard from pub to pub along the docks.

He stopped, leaned against a hitching post and took a deep breath. His hands were shaking and he seemed to have no control over them. He knew how this must look to the woman and waited to see what she would do. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her move toward him, slowly at first, then with more purpose.