Chapter 26
The world was dark, quiet. The only sound nearby was the crackling of a fireplace.
But Mina could feel the presence of something else in the room, even before she opened her eyes.
Flashes of memories played through her mind—the women, their cruel smiles, fangs, the sting of teeth sinking into her flesh, then that crash of glass before bats filled the air.
“She’s awake,” a voice said. It was not the voice of her husband, nor was it Sofia, which could only mean one thing. Those women were here, in this room.
Mina peeled her eyes open, finding herself in the same position she’d been in on her wedding night. But this time, Jonathan wasn’t near, and she was surrounded by strangers who could not be trusted.
The Count stepped into her line of vision, his brows drawn as he looked down at her. He sighed, crouching down to her eye level. He brushed the hair out of her face, his voice soft as he asked, “What were you doing in the north wing?”
Mina froze. She felt like a child caught in a lie, deciding which path to pursue—honesty and the punishment that came with it, or deception with a hope of freedom? But then another thought occurred to her—was this truly her husband’s first question for her after all that had happened?
A hefty sigh spilled through the room, and the Count’s eyes flitted somewhere beyond her.
He grasped onto Mina’s arms gently and eased her up into a seated position. Pain pulsed through her neck and she flinched, reaching toward it, only to find a bandage had been applied.
“That will heal shortly,” he said.
She shot him a glare, anger coursing through her suddenly. “I sincerely doubt that.”
“Poor thing,” a sarcastic voice said. Mina turned slowly, looking over her shoulder to see the three women there as well. The dark-haired woman was sitting at the desk, her eyes fixed on Mina. “She looks so fretful,” the woman went on, “like a baby deer caught in a trap.”
The redhead giggled from where she sat atop the desk. In the back of the room, Mina found the blonde woman, looking as though she hadn’t wanted to be here at all and was still considering her escape.
Mina turned to the Count, a swell of emotions coursing through her.
“Who are they?” Mina asked. “How long have they been here?” She wasn’t sure what she’d hoped to see in his blue eyes—perhaps guilt, perhaps pity, shame, embarrassment, but his eyes were blank as though speaking to a stranger.
“No need to speak of us as though we’re not in the room,” the redhead said, agitation laced in her words. “I thought the British were supposed to have manners.”
“That’s a rumor, darling,” the dark-haired woman responded.
“Enough.” The Count’s voice cut through the room, and both women went quiet.
He looked at Mina then, taking her hand in his, his eyes softening now as though he were about to utter a proclamation of love.
Even before he spoke the words, she knew she did not want to hear them. “These are your sisters.”
“My . . . sisters?” The word made her stomach churn. Surely he couldn’t be implying . . .
“Yes,” he said, pride in his tone, as though this were an achievement. “My wives.”
Mina stared at him, feeling as though he was a stranger before her. Why would he ever think she would be okay with such a thing? She pulled her hand out of his.
“That can’t be,” she said. “We had a ceremony. With a priest. That would be—that would be bigamy.”
A heavy sigh came from behind them. “Truly, I don’t understand what you see in her,” the redhead said. “She has all the joie de vivre of Jane Eyre, for God’s sake.”
“You were in her very spot once upon a time.” The voice was from the blonde woman, standing against a back wall as though hoping to disappear into it. “You handled it quite poorly if I recall.”
Mina couldn’t see the look the redhead gave the blonde, but she could sense it was not one of warm regard.
“I was never this dull,” she said. The dark-haired woman snickered. “Or daft,” she went on. “I practically spelled it out for you with that book, and yet—” She paused, seeming to sense her error. The woman slowly glanced up, finding Dracula’s eyes on her.
“What book?” he asked. The woman’s gaze flicked to the dark-haired wife before her, the smiles easing off both their faces.
Mina thought back to the novel that had been placed beneath her candle. La Morte Amoureuse. The Dead Woman in Love. It hadn’t been a threat or a warning. It had been a clue to their true nature. The undead.
“Clarimonde.” The Count’s voice cut through the room, authoritative. He stood then, and emphasizing each word, said, “What. Book.”
The redhead, Clarimonde, was silent, and Mina could sense the fear coming off her. A tension had fallen across the room, thick and heavy. It seemed strange that the creature she’d encountered in the gallery could be afraid of anything or anyone.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Clarimonde said. “She came to the north wing. Clearly, she”—the wife gestured toward the hall, where Mina imagined Sofia must be waiting—“has not been doing her job.”
The Count’s eyes moved to Mina’s. “When was this?”
“Before the raid,” Mina said, fear and anger mingling as one within her. “I tried to tell you about it, after you insisted no men had stormed the castle.” Her voice lowered. “After you told me I’d imagined it all.”
He held her gaze, though she could not read his expression. “And where did you get the key?”
She furrowed her brows. “Key?”
“That door is locked,” he said, standing now. He looked toward Clarimonde, toward the other wives. “How did she possibly get in through a locked door?”
“It was Ligeia,” Clarimonde said, stress woven into her words.
“You little wench,” the raven-haired woman replied, standing from her seat. “I did no such thing.” Ligeia’s face shifted from anger to wide-eyed innocence as she moved toward the Count. “Darling,” she said, her eyes fixed on the Count.
Mina couldn’t help but notice a slight hesitation as the woman reached out, placing a hand on his chest. A strange feeling moved through Mina at the sight of another woman’s hand on her husband. But he wasn’t her husband, she supposed, he was their husband.
Ligeia looked up at him, fluttering her lashes. “Do you truly believe I would be so careless?”
“For heaven’s sake,” Clarimonde hissed, taking a step forward.
“You would do that and much worse. If you had been there when she stepped into those halls, she would be dead already.” She glared at Ligeia, then turned to the Count, her tone pleading.
“I didn’t harm her. Even when she crept in like a thief, I didn’t lay a hand on her.
You were lucky it was me and not this one.
I could’ve confronted the girl, but I didn’t. I could’ve drained her dry—”
One moment, the Count was standing beside the couch, and in the next, he was across the room, holding the redhead by her throat, pinning her against the wall.
Mina gasped, standing.
“You could have what?” he asked, his voice in a deep whisper.
Panic spilled through Mina, and she looked to the others for some reaction, but they’d both stilled, their eyes fixed to the struggle playing out before them all.
Clarimonde coughed, clawing at his hands, kicking her feet toward the floor as she strained for breath.
The Count tilted his head, watching as the woman—as his wife—struggled. “Go on,” he said. “Say it. You could have what?”
“Stop,” Mina said, but her voice sounded weak to her own ears. She could hardly believe what she was seeing. This was a dream, this had to be a dream.
Clarimonde’s feet scraped against the wall behind her, but she could not gain her footing.
“Nothing,” the woman just barely choked out. “I said . . . nothing.”
Mina turned to the woman next to her, the fierceness from moments earlier gone from her gaze. “Will you truly not intervene?” Mina asked angrily.
Ligeia glanced at her, a flicker of something behind her eyes that Mina could not place. “She’ll be fine. It’s not as though he can kill her.”
Mina walked nearer, fear overpowered by anger at this display. Why was no one stopping him? Why were they allowing this to go on?
“Let her go,” Mina said firmly.
The Count looked over his shoulder at her, his pupils dilated, his eyes dark. Eyes still fixed to Mina, he dropped the woman, who fell to the floor, gasping for air and gagging, crawling on her hands and feet to get away from him.
The blonde moved quickly, lifting Clarimonde by her arm and bringing her toward the desk. Mina looked over and found Ligeia watching, not moving from her spot, but not looking pleased with herself for the first time.
“Darling,” the Count said, his eyes softening as he looked at Mina.
“I understand you are new to all of this. You know not what you see before you. But I assure you, this is the necessary way of things.” He reached out toward her, and she slapped his hand away, hot anger flaring through her.
He stilled, taking his hand back. His voice was calm and cold as he said, “Your sister needed to learn a lesson. Never to touch what is mine.”
“What is yours?” Mina asked, her voice laced with disgust.
“Yes,” he said firmly. “You are my wife. As such, no one may touch you but me.”
Nausea crashed through her stomach. “I am not your property,” she hissed. “I am not yours to own or possess.”
A smile spread across the Count’s face, and her stomach twisted at the sight.
“All in this castle is mine,” he said, gesturing around them. “Look out that window,” the Count said, pointing to the pane next to him. “All you see—the land, the predators, the prey. All of it is mine.”
Mina flicked a glance toward the desk, where the redhead and the blonde stood now, hoping for someone to say something, anything.
But it was clear none of them would dispute him.
How was it possible that these women, who had shown themselves to be monsters with deadly strength and sharp fangs, had submitted to this one man?