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Arthur prayed that one strike from his hammer would be enough.
But as his left hand gripped the wooden stake, and his right hand drove down the hammer, and the stake split into the flesh with a sickening squelch, the creature in Lucy's body began to scream.
The noise, so cold and wild and utterly terrified, wrapped around Arthur's body and shattered him like glass. He raised the hammer up and smashed it down again, mechanically, feeling the stake ram a bit deeper, cracking bone, splattering blood, as the creature writhed and screamed and clawed at him.
He was not in his body anymore. He was floating, soulless, in cold, dripping rain, a rushing sound in his ears like gale winds. Blood, cold blood, across his face, was the only thin tether back to his body, but otherwise he did not exist. Could not exist.
Once, when he was a teenager, his uncles had taken him boar-hunting. He had been honored to be included on such a dangerous adventure… until the boar they were chasing turned on him, charging toward him with red eyes. He still remembered the way his arms buckled in pain when the creature rammed its mouth into his boar-spear, hit the crosspiece, and smashed into the blade again and again, stamping and screaming, until blood foamed from its maw and it slumped to the ground, still staring at him with desperate eyes.
This creature that was using Lucy's body was spitting up blood, wailing on his arms, thrashing her head side to side, her red eyes begging him to stop, begging him to let her live. But Arthur was not in his body, not the one controlling the calm, methodical way his arm brought down the hammer again and again and again.
The boar had not wanted to die.
This creature did not want to die.
The day of the boar-hunt, Arthur had thrown up. It had been the most viscerally horrifying thing he had ever seen.
And yet, this was worse. So much worse.
He had thought that his strong arms would make this death quick— he had prayed, he had begged, he had promised his soul to God a thousand times, if only it would be quick— but it was not. The creature's wails lessened but it was still moving, still champing its teeth, blood bubbling up between the lips. Dear God, how could this be taking so long?
He slammed the hammer down once more, and felt the stake rip through the flesh and into the coffin-wood beneath.
The creature, still twitching weakly, stared at him with those red eyes: the fire in them was gone, but not the terror. This was no demon, but an animal. An animal who wanted to live…
He felt the hammer drop from his hands, and blackness swamped his vision.
For a moment he could hear and feel nothing, caught up in darkness, the picture of the bloodstained face hovering between him and the void. He couldn't remember what Lucy looked like. He could only see the animal possessing her body who just wanted to live, who just wanted to live…
"Arthur? Arthur!" The voice was coming from a thousand miles away, murky through the darkness…
He felt someone flicking his face, and the smarting pain made him flinch. He could feel his soul drawing back into the body, and the sensations around him became his own. The gasping he heard was his own, the sobbing was his own, the splinters in his left hand, the aching throbbing in his right, the strained shoulder, his body on the floor— a pair of arms wrapped around him from behind and cradling him, the only thing keeping him from spinning off into the void.
"Arthur!"
Jack's voice, urgent and stern. Arthur's eyes flickered open to see Jack crouched in front of his body— Arthur was sitting on the floor, propped up in Quincey's arms. Professor Van Helsing stood behind Jack, his eyes wide in a worried expression, clutching the book of prayer to his chest.
Arthur slumped further back into Quincey's arms, as Jack took Arthur's hands between his and rubbed them vigorously, moving feeling back into them, though his body still felt numb. Quincey eased him onto the floor and let him sit there to catch his breath. The Texan stood up to look in the coffin, and made a murmur of surprise. Jack and Van Helsing looked, too, and Jack let out a small gasp.
Arthur was still only half-attached to his body, but his curiosity moved his muscles without his consent, and Quincey helped him up.
The four of them stood around the coffin and looked at Lucy's body.
It was not the creature anymore, but recognizably Lucy. Her face was smoothed-out and calm, with no sign that this body had just been writhing and screaming and in pain.
Her body was splattered with blood, and the stake still jutted out from her chest.
Arthur swallowed hard— he was going to throw up if he stared at her any longer, so he averted his eyes.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to see Van Helsing looking at him with a nervous expression. "And now Arthur my friend, dear lad, am I not forgiven?"
Arthur's soul was detaching from his body again, peeling away like the skin of an apple. He heard a calm, automatic reply that was probably from his lips: "God bless you that you have given my dear one her soul again, and me peace." He felt the blackness coming on again, and slumped against the professor's chest. Someone was crying, their shoulders shaking— was that him, or someone else?
Quincey touched his back, and Arthur felt a bit more of himself come down into his body again. He raised his head. Van Helsing was speaking to him, and though his brain took in the words, it didn't interpret them. It was all a jumble. Something about her being truly dead now, one of God's beloved… something about kissing her…
Dizzy, Arthur turned to look at the body again, the bloody lips. He saw Jack looking at him intently, but when Arthur moved toward the edge of the coffin, Jack modestly turned his gaze away.
How could he kiss those lips fouled with blood that he himself had boiled up from within her?
Arthur reached down and tucked her stray hairs around her forehead. A part of his mind told him this was unnecessary, since her head must be detached in just a moment. Then he pressed his lips against her forehead.
"Sleep in God's arms," Arthur whispered, though he couldn't believe in God or angels or heaven or any reality beyond this nightmarish moment. And then, not to Lucy but to the creature, "I'm so sorry."
~
Quincey and he sat outside the crypt on the stone steps, the sunshine on their faces, the sound of the birds a mockery to what he had just gone through. Quincey had given him some tobacco to chew, but it just lay limp and sodden in his mouth.
At last Jack and Van Helsing came out of the crypt, locking the door behind them. Van Helsing handed Arthur the key, and he slipped it into his pocket for now. Later he must throw it into the sea rather than tempt himself with the thought of stealing back to weep over his beloved's bones.
The next few minutes were a blur. Van Helsing asked them to vow to help him take down the creature who had done this to Lucy. Arthur remembered clasping the professor's hand and swearing to it— his voice sounded so normal. He felt Quincey draping his coat over him, and using a handkerchief to wipe the worst of the blood off his face.
Jack was chattering incessantly, nearly weeping for joy. He continually clapped Arthur on the back, told him what an exemplary specimen of manhood he was, how brave and noble, how he had looked like the mighty Thor when he put his hand to what must be done, how he had vanquished the foul demon of hell, how Lucy was now with the angels and blessing him from heaven for his deed.
Arthur could vaguely feel himself responding in short but civil replies. He could not hate his friend for his excitement. Jack always was a storyteller, taking cruel reality and narrating it into something noble. A reality where Arthur was a hero, not a killer. A reality where all this senseless violence and horror made sense.
They all had to deal with this in their own way, and this was Jack's.
Arthur retreated further and further away from his body, unconcerned with what was going on. Quincey had him by the arm. Jack and Van Helsing left, with instructions to meet up in two days. The tobacco fell from Arthur's lips. Somebody— probably him— said, "Home. Please take me home."
Later, Arthur honestly couldn't remember how they got back to his house— whether they walked or hailed a carriage, whether it took minutes or hours or days. He had a memory of a cloud that sailed overhead, and stopping to puke in a ditch full of rose-thorns, and the concerned, almost alarmed look on the servant's face when he opened to find Quincey practically hauling Arthur up to his own house.
His next distinct memory was Quincey tugging his jacket off. With tremendous effort, Arthur clawed his way back into his own skin, allowing his mind to process the sensations, to see where he was. His own bathroom, on a wooden chair, with the tub half-full of steaming water next to him. Arthur smelled blood. Quincey was pulling off his cravat now, tossing it in a sodden heap alongside the jacket. Even in the black fabric, the bloodstains were visible.
"Wh-what are you doing?" Arthur asked hazily.
"Taking your clothes off so I can burn them."
Arthur started to sway in his chair as Quincey yanked his waistcoat off his arms— without the pressure against his chest, he was feeling untethered again. He steadied himself with his hands on his knees. "What, so nobody suspects I'm a killer?"
"Yes."
"But I am."
"No, Art Holmwood, not another word." Quincey untucked Arthur's shirt and pulled it unceremoniously off, making Arthur reel again.
"But I am," Arthur said, a bit louder.
There was a soft knock on the door, and Quincey ducked outside for a moment, then reentered carrying two huge kettles of water, which he dumped into the bath. Steam filled the room, making Arthur's skin clammy.
Quincey was back at his clothes, kneeling to pull off his socks and shoes. Arthur put his head in his hands, coughing in the steam. He whispered, "She… she only wanted to live."
Quincey pulled off his second sock with a sharp tug, and grabbed his chin in his hand. "Listen to me, Art," he said severely. "That demon was not Lucy. You know it, and I know it."
"Yeah," Arthur said foggily. Quincey let go of his chin and, with the same clinical manner as taking off his other clothes, unbuckled Arthur's belt. "But she wasn't a demon," Arthur said. "She was just a creature. She didn't ask to be created. She just… wanted… to live…" His voice broke.
Quincey yanked his trousers off, and Arthur nearly fell off his chair with the sharpness of the movement. "Listen here," Quincey said, and Arthur noted with alarm the threatening tone in his voice. "If you don't shut up right now, I'm walking out that door, and I'm not coming back."
Arthur stared at Quincey's face, and for the first time saw the simmering rage underneath. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw clenched, his lips almost curled into a snarl. His threat was in earnest— and if he walked out, Arthur would be alone, really alone.
They each had their way of dealing with it. Storytelling was Jack's. Anger was Quincey's.
Arthur closed his mouth.
"Now get in the damn tub," Quincey said, grabbing Arthur's arm roughly. However, when Arthur leaned on him to stand up, Quincey's touch was gentle. A bit dizzy, Arthur looked down at his drawers— the only white thing he was wearing— and saw spots of blood on them, too. Instinctively he moved his hands to his thighs as if to wipe away the spots, but then for the first time saw his hands. They were covered in dried blood, crinkly and rust-brown, showing every line in his knuckles, under his fingernails— blood, blood, blood…
Arthur swayed, but Quincey held his arm firmly. When Arthur regained his balance, he pulled off his own drawers, kicking them into the pile of clothes to be burned, and let Quincey help him step into the tub.
The water was so scalding hot that Arthur couldn't help but utter a soft cry of pain, but there was a comfort in the searing heat. As soon as he was sitting down, he slid downward into the water, completely immersing himself in the liquid that felt near-boiling. He held his breath but kept his eyes open, staring at the sloshing surface of the water and willing the liquid to burn away this nightmare, to wash his bloodied soul clean.
Through the shifting surface, he saw Quincey lean over, and then hands were on his shoulders, pulling him back up to the open air. Arthur tried to fight the arms— he wanted to stay here, with the heat pressing on his body, this watery womb, his lungs screaming for air.
His head broke the surface and he gasped, feeling hot air rushing into his chest. Quincey pushed him against the back of the tub so his head was out of water, then swept a hand through his wet curls and pushed them out of his face. "You trying to drown yourself, you fool?" he asked, picking up a washcloth and a bar of lye soap.
"Blood," Arthur whispered. He wanted to say so much more, to wail, to pour out all the horror that was catching up with him, making him feel cold even as the water scalded his skin, but all he could say was, "There's so much blood…" His vision was going dark again.
Quincey grabbed his chin, raised his face, and began scrubbing it with the soapy washcloth, so hard that Arthur thought he'd tear the skin off. Arthur gave himself to the rough sensation, closing his eyes and feeling Quincey scour his face, his hair, his neck, his shoulders, his chest, and finally his horrible, bloody hands. The water took a reddish tint as Quincey scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, leaving Arthur's skin soapy, smarting, and painfully pink. Then Quincey grabbed some fresh hot water, poured a little over his hand to test the temperature, and then dumped it over Arthur's head, soap streaming down his body as the searing water washed away the evidence of the deed.
Quincey made Arthur stand up and poured another full kettle of water over his head, then helped him out of the tub and bundled him in a huge, fluffy towel. Arthur weakly leaned against Quincey, shivering as if he was cold, even though his skin was still aflame from the hot water.
It all became hazy for a while— he felt Quincey getting him into his long nightshirt, and helping him stumble to his bed. He felt heavy blankets enfold him, pressing him back into his body, and Quincey's weight settle onto the bed beside him.
Arthur stared at the familiar ceiling, his head spinning. His skin was tingling with pain, but it reminded him of where the edges of his body lay, and realized that his soul must try to inhabit its home again.
With great effort he focused, turning his head a bit to see Quincey sitting beside him with his back against the headboard, lighting up a cigarette with slightly-trembling hands.
"What will the servants think of me?" Arthur asked weakly.
"They've served your family for generations— they won't squeal."
"And what do you think of me?"
Smoke streamed from Quincey's lips, his expression like stone. "I think you're the bravest goddamn man I've ever met."
Arthur wanted to protest, but he didn't have the strength. "Here," Quincey said, holding the cigarette to Arthur's lips so he could take a drag. Arthur drew the warmth deep into his lungs, feeling it steady him. Then Quincey continued smoking, and placed his callused left hand on Arthur's forehead.
"Go to sleep," Quincey said, brushing his palm over Arthur's eyes to close them, as if preparing a body for burial.
Arthur couldn't argue. With the weight of his friend's hands on his eyes, blotting out the nightmare reality, he drifted into an uneasy sleep.
He woke up and found it to be nighttime. For one horrible moment he thought he was alone, but then realized that Quincey was sleeping face to face with him, his warm breaths falling on Arthur's cheeks. Quincey shifted, opened a sleepy eye, and ran his hand through Arthur's hair.
"You're still here," Arthur whispered.
Quincey just nodded, and slid his hand over Arthur's shoulder to gather him to his chest. Arthur sank into him, curling up like a child in his mother's arms after a nightmare. Quincey kissed him on the head and whispered, "Go back to sleep."
As Arthur lay in the silence, feeling the exhausted grief wash over him again, he felt attached to his body for the first time since he had picked up the hammer hours earlier.
He had passed through the nightmare, and it had broken him, but not destroyed him.
He would go on, because he must.
He wanted to live.
~~~