Chapter 116
Previously: The Rose of Whitby – Chapter 115
The actual drawing of the blood goes quickly, Jack has too much experience with setting needles, although he more often has injected things into people rather than drawn blood out of them. Apart from that time nearly twenty years back, of course. By now, he knows that blood transfusions are generally seen as risky, if not downright dubious, by most medical practitioners, but back then he had trusted Van Helsing and they were so very desperate.
Arthur is younger than they were back then, but by fewer years than he likes to admit. He was young and in love and a fool. As the blood pools in the prepared bottle while Quincy, with impressively steady rhythm, pumps the little balloon the way Jack had instructed him, his mind is on something else. Something he noticed when he nearly destroyed their first progress. He’s using separate bottles for everybody now. And as he stoppers the one for Arthur off, removes the needle and tells him he can heal himself, he again feels the tension in his stomach. It’s Quincy’s gentle touch to his shoulder and his nod that spurns him on.
He knows that rose petal trusts Arthur with most of their research, he has seen for himself that Arthur has a good head on his shoulders. So before he dismisses him he asks if he could please check over something scientific for him. He would like a second, well, third, really, opinion because if he misinterprets this, the conclusion may be as tragic as the one he came to all those years ago.
~~~~
Something scientific? Of course, Arthur agrees, though he’s not sure what he can contribute that Dr Seward doesn’t know more about. But it turns out that Dr Seward only asks for his observation after mixing two small samples of blood together. Arthur holds the test tube up to the light and studies it, and, well… the only thing he can see is that the blood seems to be congealing or clumping together or something of the sort?
Dr Seward nods, and hands him a second tube, asks him to compare it to the first one. Arthur tilts it to study how the blood moves, but this one looks normal, so he tells Dr Seward as much.
~~~~
Now that he heard it from another person, Jack isn’t exactly sure anymore what he was hoping for, but he sinks into his chair, Quincy right there again, gentle hand on his shoulder, and he finds himself with something that doesn’t happen often. He can easily identify his emotion, or maybe he can just guess from the sting of tears in his tears. His voice quivers as he thanks Arthur for the confirmation, but it’s more the room, or maybe Quincy, he addresses next.
“Draculya is innocent.”
~~~~
Arthur’s not sure of the significance of all this, but clearly it’s very significant, and usually, Dr Seward doesn’t mind him asking questions, so he dares to ask: “Um… what did we just prove?” Because Mr Basarab still turned Lucy, right? So what’s he innocent of?
~~~~
It takes Quincy slightly rubbing his shoulder to bring Jack’s focus back to the present and he needs a moment to reconstruct Arthur’s question, eyes still stinging, guilt and devastation gnawing at him. “That Art and my blood cannot flow together. I don’t even have Morris’ or VanHelsing’s here, but even if by sheer luck they would fit, Art and I alone would have been enough. We pumped Lucy’s veins full, one of us each night. Draculya didn’t murder her.”
His voice cracks even harder and his head sinks to his chest before he goes on in a strangled sob: “I did.”
~~~~
Quincy startles. He hadn’t known what Jack had been testing. He was only there when Jack started cursing as they tried preparing the first bottle. Tried to keep it cool, add some small things to it that Jack thought would help keep it fluid. Quincy thought maybe there was a chemical mistake and Jack was testing what to add.
He didn’t know he was testing for murder and oh Divine, the need is radiating off the man and that’s Cycy’s beloved papa, so what the hell else is he supposed to do than lean in and hug him while telling him that Lucy is fine now? He needs to tell her to hear what she thinks about it. Jack didn’t mean to hurt her, after all.
~~~~
Arthur’s eyes are wide, and he definitely feels awkward and out of place with Dr Seward’s display of emotion, that… uh, he’s not used to that from adults, definitely not from someone as calm and logical as Dr Seward usually is. But he nods and agrees that Dr Seward didn’t know! He couldn’t know!
~~~~
“We were so desperate. I had called in one of my old professors; I thought I could trust him even though I knew blood transfusions to be problematic. In hindsight, it is such an obvious mistake. I was irrational with emotion.”
Leaning back into his chair, Jack flinches when Quincy gives him a gentle flick against the cheek and reprimands him that he better have been irrational with emotion!
“That’s the woman you love. True love makes idiots out of everybody. A mistake made in love is better than a lack of love and I rather suspect that brilliant tiny firecracker of a woman I got to hang out with for a bit would agree with me. That’s Cycy’s mother and I dare say Cycy got her emotions from there.”
~~~~
Arthur’s… not sure he agrees with Quincy on the value of being irrational with emotion. Like, ideally you would be emotional but still rational, right? But Quincy’s the social one, so he keeps his opinion to himself to see whether Quincy’s reasoning works on Dr Seward. Not that he doesn’t agree that… well, it’s a bit late for despair and guilt now, isn’t it?
~~~~
“That is utterly illogical, but then, so is the human condition.” With a sigh Jack turns and looks at Quincy, who really is disconcertingly close to him. He is convinced Art would suspect mind craft, although Jack isn’t so sure. The kid is just good at making himself easy to talk to, easy to read, (or at least what he wants to be read as, Jack suspects,) and the fact that he is text-book pleasing to the eye, thereby setting off human tendencies to trust beauty, is likely also playing into it. Jack has half an impulse to go French on him just to test what would happen if he gave him a cheek kiss.
Then he realises that he is trying to console himself by fleeing into psychological experiments and that is ungrateful towards the young man who has been very supportive the entire day. It may also make Arthur uncomfortable and that is not what he strives for with him, either. So instead, he looks away again and promises to talk to Lucy; and potentially Draculya, because now he really needs to hear the other side of the story.
~~~~
Now that, Arthur thinks, is very much the logical thing to do, so he says so. And then wonders whether that’s his cue to leave?
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After nodding in agreement, Jack begins to chuckle, because he just realised something. “I believe I will have little choice. Arthur, do you remember rose petal’s insistence that we should just have invited Draculya for tea? She was right all along. I believe I shall just leave it at fatherly pride and move along with our preparations to get her back. Thank you again for your help. You too, Quincy.”
~~~~
Right… “That seems an unlikely thing to be right about, but yes, I suppose she was,” Arthur agrees. (And wonders at her insistence about the other vampire… But. No, the enthrallment is wrong. He believes that, down to his core. So they’re getting that off. And whatever happens after… they’ll deal with after.)
On that note, he takes his leave so Dr Seward and Quincy can finish up with the blood, and returns to help with the final set up of the altar.
As the sun dips towards the horizon and the short December day ends- the shortest day of the year, of course- the churning in his stomach increases, but he pushes that aside. Pushes it aside, and aside, and ignores the meanings and functions of the symbols he’s drawing, on the altar, then on the ground.
Only focuses on getting it right, getting it perfect. No rushing, double- and triple-checking everything. Making sure everyone, including Gregory, knows where to stand. There aren’t any ritual phrases to learn, no incantations. No complicated series of actions, even, or particularly precise timing.
As far as rituals go, this one is really not finicky at all. Which is good, what with it involving a bunch of people with no experience in working magic.
So when darkness falls truly, and he’s finally stepping into his own place at the circle after making sure everyone else is where they’re supposed to be, and it’s time, it’s almost a surprise.
He stares at the altar, where Mr Basarab is waiting to hold Darcy, waiting for Llew to bring her. He clenches his hands, his fingertips cold against his palms, against his wrists when he reaches to rub- feels the stickiness of the ointment Quincy gave him and is reminded to leave it alone.
He takes deep breaths of the cold, wet air, and he can do this. Yes, he can.
He will do this.
And with the resolution, he feels himself settle. His nerves dissipate, like there’s a cool, calm river washing through him, burying it all in the dark of its depths. Like when he gets ready to cast a spell, his eyes are clear, his mind quiet, his hands steady.
~~~~
Darcy’s outside; she can smell that, even before she opens her eyes. But what she sees isn’t any less confusing. A moment or an eternity ago, she was in a circle like that time in her vision, unable to break through, even with her drac. She has no sense of time, but she can see the first stars overhead. Maybe Llew brought her outside? Maybe she has a chance to escape to Radu?
And isn’t there… does she smell him? Wild hope blooms for a moment: He came to save her! But then she realises it’s a different smell and craning her neck, she sees… Is that the actor from Quincy’s theatre? Why is he here? Why did his smell make her think of Radu for a moment? And most importantly, why can she feel his hands on hers?
But that won’t hold her! It’s dark, she can… no, she can’t. She can’t turn bat and rush away. That realisation makes her howl and frantically reach for her drac. No, it’s there, howling right along her. There’s something on its head, searing tight into its fur, and only then does she realise she feels that pressure on her own brow, too. Something is sitting there and every time she tries to jump into her drac, no matter if it’s bat or rat or even wolf, it burns! Burns like a shackle, and that tells her it must be blasted Llew’s fault again, so she screams his name!
He’s there, right there, leaning over her, over where she’s lying on something hard that she had ignored so far, but it’s the wrong height, no, she’s not on the ground. And blasted Llew has his eyes on her, like he’s had ever since he stole her from her papa. If he hurt him… there’s cold metal touching her lips, making her stop. He’s playing a knife against her and he’s leaning close, closer, she wants to flinch away but can’t, not between his shackle on her brow and Basarab, (she thinks that was his name, although she kind of thinks of him as Hook,) holding her so harshly.
Llew giggles right into her ear. “You can’t get away. You betrayed them. They sold you to me. This is punishment. You’ve been a bad, bad wife. Bad sister. Bad mistress. Bad daughter. Give it up. Give it all up to me and this will be over quickly. Let me free you to speak to them one last time. Speak your heart, not your hurt. Let me take the hurt away. You can be good. Good at least for me when you never manage to be good for anybody else. Failed wife, you can’t even be a good whore for him. Failed lover, you can’t even love him the right way. Failed sister, you can’t even protect him. Failed daughter, you can’t even obey when he gives you away. So much failure. I’ll take it away, deal?”
She knows he’s right. Of course she does! She’s been hurting everybody. It’s not as if she doesn’t know! She can’t even remember how she’s always failing Gregory. She doesn’t remember what happens when he leaves her. She only knows the mask, the smell that isn’t a smell, and how she always drains John to recuperate. He gives her so much and she never repays him properly! And Arthur… poor afraid Arthur, who needs her to protect him, but she… she tried running away, to Radu. She was selfish, selfish, selfish. And she’s so sorry.
Of course they would be angry with her, and she deserves it. Whatever they gain from making the bargain with Llew, he’s right, she deserves it. And he… he’s a blasted arse, but yes, she knows how to be good for him, she’s been good for him and he’s given her blood for it. Helped her not to be obsessed with John again. Yes, she can be good for at least him, and she doesn’t want the people she cares about to see her pain. Let her be good for them at least once! So she whispers back: “Deal. Thank you.”
“Good little dhampir. Now bleed and die for me… for them. Seal the pact, only you can.”
She follows the rising knife with her eyes; it’s beautiful, rubies all along the hilt. She loves rubies, always has, ever since her papa gave her that little geology kit as a little girl. She hopes her papa is here. She wants to see him one more time. Please. She wants to tell him she loves him. That she understands. That she wants to be good for him. Yes, she’ll be good.
She’ll even be good for Llew. She can feel the prickle of the new shackle where his other hand is touching her arm, can feel it envelope the ring she’s wearing from Eluned, and part of her is smiling, because of course he couldn’t make his own. But still, she feels the memories of the last days, or however long he had her in that circle, seep away with her hurt and she smiles only deeper.
She doesn’t know why she’s screaming for John, for her papa, for her daddy, and when they don’t come at Llew plunging the knife into her chest, she screams for Radu, too! She doesn’t want to die alone! Please, please don’t let her die alone! She wants to be good for them!
She’s so, so happy when she sees Arthur’s face replace Llew’s above her. Why couldn’t she smell him before? Maybe it’s the shackle on her brow. She doesn’t know. She just knows she loves him. “I’m sorry. Sorry for having been bad for you. I love you, Arthur-dear. Please be safe.”
~~~~
Watching Llew stab Darcy should… maybe be more difficult? Arthur can see Art flinch, definitely, as the blade strikes home. And Lucy had to hold back both John and Dr Seward before they broke the circle when Darcy shouted for them.
But Darcy will be alright. Physically, she’ll be alright. And emotionally… that’s what they’re doing it for. So she can feel what she feels, free from outside influence.
Once this is done, they can explain, and… and he really hopes she forgives them, forgives him. But if she doesn’t, he’ll live with that, too.
The dagger’s hilt is hard and uncomfortable in his hand. It might look beautiful, but it feels unpleasant. Cold and hard and unforgiving. Still, he steps up.
Darcy’s words almost make the water of the cool, deep river ripple. He really wants to explain, to tell her it’s alright, they’ll be alright, she’ll be safe, too. But he can’t, so he merely tells her: “I’m sorry, too,” and places the cut deep and clean and long across her wrist and lower arm before he steps back to his spot again.
No hesitation this time. No needless suffering. He can smell the magic starting to rise as he hands the dagger off to John. It’s earthy but also sweet. Like rotting flowers.
~~~~
John is here! Of course her John is here. He wouldn’t let her die alone, he wouldn’t let others do it. She’s about to tell him that she knew he would be here for her when he leans down forcefully and kisses her. The knife in his hands is like a lover’s caress, just like pain has been before with him, and she loves and wants him so much. She’ll so miss being with him, but he must know that she’s no good for him. She can’t be the mother of his children or his wife. She’s always been bad for him, so this is good bye, and he makes it so sweet. He’s gone so fast that all she can whisper is: “Mon borne!” But she hopes he knows what that means to her, what he means to her.
Papa? Papa! Oh no, he looks so sad. She doesn’t want to make him sad. She’s so sorry for having been so bad that he’s sad. Of course she tells him. She loves him so very, very much! For him she can manage a chirp, even a line of one of the songs he likes, but it makes him cry. Her papa doesn’t cry. She’s doing it wrong, she’s being even worse. No! She didn’t mean to! Now she starts crying, too, only harder when he kisses her forehead. Words never work, she’s always getting them wrong, so she does the one thing she can come up with and fights to catch any part of him to give it a kiss. But he turns away so fast after that that she’s not sure if that was wrong, too.
Then daddy’s there and he’s crying, too, and she tries tell him that he shouldn’t. He needs to look after her papa! Her papa needs him and she can’t love him better, but she knows that her daddy is so very good at being loving, and he’s warm and just the bestest daddy ever. Can he please, please, make her papa as happy as he made her? Please! And she’s sorry that she wasn’t a better sugar doll for him and that they never had enough time, but she loves him lots. Why is she making her fathers cry harder? She is trying so hard to tell them the right things, but she can hear him whimper through the knife cut and the kiss to her forehead, too. He tells her that she’s the best sugar doll, and that makes her relax. It’s not so bad. She is being good for them now.
Oh, her mother? That makes sense! So she apologizes for having been her child, for having been the reason why she had to leave, and why she couldn’t be with Papa for so long. She’ll be better once Darcy’s gone. She’ll have him all to herself. Yes, yes, Darcy thinks she can be good for her mother that way. This is easy, all she has to do is not exist and Lucy will be happy as she should have been before Darcy was ever born. That her mother kisses her cheek, the one Arthur didn’t, makes her startle.
The twitch lets her feel the blood pooling. It’s getting hard to even talk. Her papa, of course, set the cut precise, he would have, he’s so good, such a brilliant doctor.
But she thinks Daddy cut a bit deep on her neck, she can feel wetness inside her throat. She can hear the slight gurgle at talking to her mother, and that’s probably why her mother looks so consternated at her words.
Maybe she should just stop talking.
But oh, no, there’s Gregory. She has to tell him… tell him what? She’s reaching inside of herself, at the way her drac doesn’t even want to lean towards him despite that being how it knows he’s close. But… it’s nothing like how she could feel Radu in her mind, in her soul.
She knows she’s enthralled, and Radu told her that’s not like a blood bond, but she wanted it anyway. She didn’t want to feel so alone and at the same time stalked in her own mind, and Radu could be in there with her, for her. He made her feel safe in her own mind again. And she so, so hopes he is close, too. She doesn’t want him to worry at feeling her die. He must feel her die, right? He’s so close to her.
So close, as she wanted Gregory to be. Her demon prince. The hero of her story. If she has one, if she isn’t just the pretend-heroine of his. He was there when her story started, when she thought it was her fairy tale. Before it became her gothic fairy tale.
But there was John, her rake, her strong man who just doesn’t really need her.
There was Radu, her villain, her safe spot of darkness in all this painful light that hurts her drac.
And there was Quincy, her fellow dhampir, somebody to walk in darkness with her.
She thought maybe she could still have her own happy ending. One of these men must surely safe her from her cursed Prince Charming.
But here he is… the seventh. She knows deep down that that’s how the story goes. The magical number. And no, he isn’t even wearing the handkerchief she made for him. Back when she still believed in the magic of love. But no, here is her husband and she feels the mask settle on her face, feels how helpless she’s been in all of this.
Of course she failed them all. She’s just a powerless little girl and those don’t get to be the princess of their own story, let alone the monster she wants to be. No, he’s the monster, and it leaves her with a bitter taste in her mouth as she feels herself drown in that smell that isn’t a smell, that sense of the warm blood on her skin turning to little crystals, her emotions hardening out into porcelain as the mask creeps lower and lower on her body under his always hungry eyes.
Can’t she at least have him look like a proper monster? Can she not at least die looking at something other than a person?
She tries to yell that at him, a last feeble bark from her drac.
But it’s a blood splatter on her lips.
A cough.
A gurgle.
Or maybe it is a loud enough bark in that cursed chain he holds on her mind, because he does turn. His eyes are larger like this, and maybe she’s hallucinating as she’s dying, but she thinks she can see little wisps of something purple float around herself in the reflection in his irises. Can see his hungry eyes drink those wisps in as she doesn’t even feel the blade anymore.
All she can feel is that coldness along her skin shatter open on her chest and the world sinking into purple tinged nothing.
~~~~
Darcy is looking really pale, and there’s so much blood, all over the altar and the ground- as it’s supposed to be, but it looks like so much more than should even be possible to be in a person. It’s everywhere, and the magic is doing happy, lazy swirls around the circle. Distantly, high up in the sky, Arthur can hear a baying noise. The Wild Hunt. Not wild geese, no, not at all.
And as Darcy’s eyes slide shut, ghostly strands of flowers unfurl from her chest. They sway, like vines in a soft wind. Arthur didn’t know what to expect from the “emotion strands”, but it wasn’t flowers. He can hear Llew giggle and say that that’s so typical of Darcy, and feels a quicksilver sliver of annoyance, like a fish darting in the deep of his river.
Rather than giggling, maybe Llew should help them figure out which strand is which, because they don’t have too much time and this is less obvious than he would have liked it to be. But he already has his notebook in hand, and can see Dr Seward pull out his own, too.
~~~~
About ready to slap at Llew, and not a playful one, Quincy darts in, as close to the circle as he dares, and right up next to Lucy. “Together we’ve got this, girl!”
Even while he tries to see what shades of roses there are, because of course there’s roses, one of the strands gets snatched right out from under his inspection.