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Jack pressed his hands to the wound in Quincey’s side, leaning his whole body into it, trying desperately to keep the blood in.
He ignored the voice in his head that told him it was already too late.
Dammit, if he hadn’t let Quincey talk before starting to treat him... if he hadn’t been so paralyzed by shock, the opposite of what a doctor should be...
It would have made no difference. This wound is beyond your capacity to heal, especially out here with no supplies.
It’s over.
Slowly, Jack removed his hands from Quincey’s wound and clenched them in his coat, feeling the slick, sticky blood, the rough wool.
His vision was blurred by tears, but he saw when Art reached out and closed Quincey’s eyes.
Mrs. Harker kissed Quincey’s hand, then gently set it down.
He should say something, he knew, break this crushing silence, acknowledge what had happened.
But the words weren’t coming. Perhaps there were none.
The words that did come, finally, were Mr. Harker’s.
“We should bury him,” he said.
“That may present some difficulty,” said Van Helsing. “The ground is frozen.” He knocked on the ground with the hand that had been on Quincey’s leg, and Jack became aware that his other hand was resting on his back.
He almost resented the gesture, but didn’t quite.
Art glared at Van Helsing. “We can’t just leave him out here for the wolves!”
“What then do you propose?” Van Helsing’s voice was infuriatingly calm.
“We should take him back with us,” said Art.
“And how do you suggest we do that?” The rage Jack felt spilled out into his voice. “Carrying a body across national borders, with no way to explain how or why he... What, do you want to take him on the train?”
Art glared at Jack, a fury in his eyes the likes of which Jack had seen from him only rarely, and never directed at him . “Yes, if need be! We can’t—”
“Friend Arthur—” Van Helsing interjected.
“If you’re going to tell me to calm down—”
“I had in mind rather to remind you that no one here is your enemy.” Van Helsing’s hand lifted off Jack’s shoulder and moved to Art, who tried vaguely to shrug it off, but his heart clearly wasn’t in it. “We all want to do right by our young friend. There is no question. The question, where it lies, is a matter of possibility, not of intention.”
“I—” Art was squeezing his eyes shut.
Mrs. Harker took his hand.
“You’re right, I suppose,” said Art. “Jack...”
Jack was silent.
He knew he should say something, knew he should reassure Art that he, at least, was still here.
It was utterly beyond him at the moment to shape the mass of emotion swirling around his mind into speech.
Quincey, if he were here, if he weren’t... Quincey would have done that for him. He always knew what Jack was trying to say, sometimes better than Jack did. Left to his own devices, Jack was prone to ramble, to get lost down the dark passageways of his own mind, to say things aloud that were best left unspoken. Quincey was the go-between from Jack to the rest of the world—including, sometimes, Art.
It was too much. Jack couldn’t think about it all at once, everything he’d just lost.
Perhaps fortunately, Mrs. Harker didn’t give him any more time to dwell.
“There’s a hollow in the rock, over there,” she said. “We have no way to seal it, but...”
“There are worse things than wolves in the world,” said Mr. Harker. He turned to his wife. “Mina, are you all right?”
“Quite,” she said tensely. “I mean... as all right as can be expected. He’s really gone, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Mr. Harker frowned, clearly not believing her, but apparently decided to leave it be. “In that case, may I hug you now?”
“Please,” said Mrs. Harker.
Mr. Harker began to move away from where Quincey had been resting on him, and Jack moved to take his place.
Quincey had leaned on him enough times, but this was different. He was heavy, unmoving.
Dead weight.
Once the Harkers broke away from their embrace, Art silently moved to Quincey’s feet.
With Jack taking his shoulders, Art taking his legs, and Mr. Harker and Van Helsing on the sides, they managed to lift him with something approaching grace.
Mrs. Harker led them to the hollow in the rock she’d spoken of.
Inside was a bed of furs, and they gently lay Quincey down on it.
Jack had a brief, absurd thought of we need to cover him with those. He’ll be cold.
Quincey wouldn’t be cold.
He’d never feel cold, or warmth, or anything else again.
“We should read the Burial Service,” said Mrs. Harker. “Does anyone have the prayer book?”
Van Helsing promptly reached into his bag and retrieved a Book of Common Prayer. “I was hoping not to need this.”
He handed it to Mrs. Harker.
Jack felt a surge of fury. It wasn’t for her to do.
His anger dissipated somewhat, however, when he saw that she apparently agreed.
“Oh,” she said, then shoved the book in the general direction of Jack and Art, who, Jack saw, had moved to stand next to each other without realizing it. “No, you two knew him longer—”
“We all loved him,” said Art. “And I suspect Quincey would be honored to have you read.”
Jack was baffled for a moment, but Art gave him a significant look, and Jack understood.
It may not be for her to do, but it’s better than the two of us arguing over who gets to do it. Or even the creation of resentment, if an argument didn’t break out.
As Mrs. Harker began to read, Jack bowed his head and tried to look suitably prayerful.
Instead of raising his thoughts to a God he was currently furious with, Jack subtly looked around.
Art’s eyes were closed. The snow was falling faster. It was getting dark, and Van Helsing held a lamp up to the page when Mrs. Harker started struggling.
In the distance, wolves howled.
Quincey would know what to do. Jack didn’t.
If they all died out here... No.
They’d come this far for Mrs. Harker. Quincey had died for her. They couldn’t let his last act be in vain.
When the service concluded, everyone stared at everyone else, equal uncertainty written on everyone’s features (except Van Helsing, whose features were as unreadable as ever).
“I think I know the way to town,” said Mr. Harker in a hesitant, shaky tone. “But it’s... some distance.”
“There is shelter nearer,” said Van Helsing.
“Where?” Jack snapped. “Even if we were to disturb Quincey’s tomb so far as to take shelter there, there’s not enough room for us all.”
“That is not the shelter to which I was referring,” Van Helsing replied.
“No!” Mr. Harker shouted. “That’s... there are still monsters—”
“He killed them.” Mrs. Harker indicated Van Helsing.
“—even notwithstanding that, that place is cursed! I... I won’t go back.” Mr. Harker was shaking from what seemed to be more than just cold, and Jack recognized the signs of an impending nervous breakdown. If staying out here doesn’t kill us all, staying in the castle might just kill him.
Hopefully his wife’s presence would be enough to prevent that.
“Jonathan.” Mrs. Harker’s voice was soft. “Look around. I’m so sorry, but... it’s that or we all die.”
Mr. Harker looked around, then up, as if beseeching one of the others or God to intervene.
Finally, though, he nodded. “All right.”
...
As a child, Art had spent many hours sitting at a table, trying to pay attention, while his tutor did her best to hammer what felt at the time like the entirety of human knowledge into his brain.
He’d had particular trouble with times tables.
Eight times one is eight. Eight times two is sixteen. Eight times three is twenty-four. Eight times four is...
He’d cried more than once out of sheer frustration, only to earn a strict admonishment that big boys didn’t cry, that it was only mathematics, nothing to get upset about.
Try again.
Eight times one is eight. Eight times two is sixteen. Eight times three is twenty-four. Eight times four is... is thirty-two.
Eventually, he’d learned the secret.
There was a rhythm to it. If he chanted the correct numbers to himself enough times, then kept the rhythm going in his mind, the answers would spring into his mind when he needed them.
From then on, whenever he wanted to cry, he would recite the times tables.
Eight times one is eight. Eight times two is sixteen. Eight times three is twenty-four. Eight times four is thirty-two.
He’d run through the times tables up through twelve twice already on this walk, rhythm melding with his trudging steps, and he wanted to cry as much as ever.
Eight times five is forty. Eight times six is forty-eight...
To hell with this.
Art had always known to put any excessive emotions in a box and shove them away somewhere they wouldn’t show. He’d use his times tables, or recite poetry in his head... anything to keep from being seen as weak.
There was no box in all the world big enough for... this.
Maybe these past few months had all been a horrible, unusually realistic dream. Art had had dreams that seemed to last for days before, why not months?
Yes, it was all a dream. He was still dreaming, and any minute now he was going to wake up and go to breakfast. Lucy would be there, sitting across the table from him, asking what was wrong, and he’d tell her it didn’t matter.
It was only a dream, already fading.
Even as he allowed himself to imagine, though, Art knew it was pointless.
He felt down to his soul that Lucy was gone. That Quincey was gone. That every horrible thing these past months had brought had really happened.
Which meant he had to deal with it, and move forward. However little he wanted to.
He needed to talk to Jack.
Jack wouldn’t want to talk, he knew. Jack would want to curl up into a little prickly ball and hide.
But if he withdrew too far, he might never come out of his shell again.
And the last person left in the world Art had loved before this horrible autumn began would be lost to him forever.
Art looked around.
Jack was a few paces ahead, walking with his head down.
Art quickly caught up.
“Jack,” he whispered.
Jack didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t so much as turn his head.
Art swallowed.
Quincey was the one who could have done this. He’d always been the only one of their trio who could talk about difficult things with anything approaching grace.
It shouldn’t have been Quincey. If Art had been a little faster, gone in there and gotten himself killed instead... he’d be with Lucy right now, and Jack and Quincey would at least have each other.
Art shook his head. No sense dwelling on what could have been. They only had what was, and, horrible though it might have been, they needed to accept it.
They needed to move forward with what they had.
“Jack.”
“What?” Jack’s voice was a bitter snap. He still didn’t turn his head.
“Jack,” Art snapped back under his breath. “Look me in my fucking eyes.”
As Art had been hoping, that got Jack’s attention. His head snapped up, and he glanced over at Mrs. Harker, who didn’t seem to have heard, thankfully.
Finally, Jack looked into Art’s eyes.
Art stared back. “I know some part of you is with Quincey right now. God help me, I wish I could be there too. But you can’t stay. And if I have to drag you back to the land of the living kicking and screaming, well, I’ll do it.” He put his hand on Jack’s shoulder, interrupting their walking. “I will not lose you too.”
Jack kept looking at him, and for a moment, Art thought he was going to say something.
Instead, he shrugged Art’s hand off his shoulder, spun away, and resumed walking.
...
After the group had gotten settled in the castle and eaten their makeshift dinner, Jack watched Van Helsing sprinkle pieces of holy wafer in a circle around them and wondered if he would sleep tonight.
On one hand, he was physically and mentally exhausted, and he always had an easier time sleeping when he’d worn himself out—and when other people were present, as they were tonight.
On the other, he always had a harder time sleeping when he had a lot on his mind.
Who was he trying to fool? He definitely wouldn’t sleep tonight.
The Harkers lay down first, curled up together, and Art promptly positioned himself beside Mr. Harker. Which made sense—Mr. Harker was clearly on edge from being back here, and it would likely be best for him to have as much familiarity as possible (and, knowing Art’s kindness and practical streak and how cold it had been on their journey here, Mr. Harker was more than likely familiar with the feeling of Art sleeping next to him).
Jack lay down on the other side of Art, and felt Van Helsing drape furs over them.
A moment later, Jack heard Van Helsing lie down behind him. It probably should have been strange, lying beside his mentor like this, but Jack was too exhausted to feel much of anything about it.
Please. Let me sleep. Just let me forget for a little while.
As the hours crawled by, Jack became more and more resigned to his fate for the night.
In the stillness and quiet, he could no longer keep himself distracted.
He’s gone.
Quincey…
Memories flooded through his mind, a torrent of the time they’d shared, bringing with it pure pain.
How many last times had there been without either of them knowing it would be the last time?
Jack was laying still, stewing in his misery, when he heard a soft noise.
Someone crying out.
A moment later, the noise repeated, louder.
Mr. Harker. Definitely. Perhaps not surprising, but still unfortunate.
The sounds continued for a minute or so, until, finally, Mrs. Harker’s soft voice cut through the sounds of Mr. Harker’s terror.
“Shh, love,” she said. “It’s all right. I’m here, you’re all right.”
She continued speaking in a soothing voice until Mr. Harker finally began to settle.
“It’s all right,” said Mrs. Harker. “The Professor put a holy circle around us, remember? We’re safe.”
Mr. Harker whispered something back, too quiet for Jack to make out the words.
Jack was beginning to think Mr. Harker had gone back to sleep when Mrs. Harker spoke again.
“I’m right here,” she said. “What do you need?”
“Just you,” replied Mr. Harker in a whisper.
“Here I am.” Mrs. Harker’s voice was soft but resolute.
“I—Mina, I—help me think about something else,” said Mr. Harker frantically.
Oh, dear.
A moment later, Jack’s suspicion was confirmed as he heard the distinct, wet noise of kissing.
He tried to ignore them for a bit, but the sounds were getting less cautious and more enthusiastic, and Jack decided he needed to do something before the Harkers got entirely too carried away.
He cleared his throat.
Instantly, the sounds stopped.
A moment later, Art’s elbow drove into Jack’s side.
“Hey!” Jack responded. “I merely thought they might want to know they’re not the only ones awake.”
“Let them have their moment!” Art said in a sharp whisper.
“I think that ship has sailed,” said Mrs. Harker, voice distinctly embarrassed but level.
“In that case,” said Art in a thoroughly exhausted tone, “let’s all just go back to sleep.”
“Are you all right?” Mrs. Harker asked her husband.
“Fine.” From the tone of his reply, he was anything but.
Apparently, Mrs. Harker could tell. “I’ll be right here. All night. And our friends are here too, they’ll keep us safe.”
“If it would help,” said Van Helsing from where he lay behind Jack, “I will keep watch.”
“That would be lovely,” Mrs. Harker replied.
Van Helsing got up to keep watch, and Jack settled back in to try to sleep.
They had a long way to go in the morning.
...
Art woke to the sensation of someone shaking his shoulder.
Having learned from experience to wake up quickly when someone did that, he opened his eyes, expecting to see Jack or Quincey.
Instead, he saw Mr. Harker.
And the walls of a room.
What...
No.
Memory rushed back with violent force, and it took Art a moment to get himself back under control.
“I’m sorry,” said Mr. Harker, and Art nodded.
He could grieve later, in private. Right now, he needed to be what his friends needed him to be—steady and calm.
He turned and roused Jack, who, by some miracle, was actually asleep. Art had woken a few times in the night—apart from the incident of Mr. Harker’s nightmare—and Jack had been awake each time. But, it seemed, exhaustion had finally won out.
Art hated to wake him. He needed his rest, needed time without the burden of grief pressing on his mind. Maybe, in sleep, he could forget.
But they had to get out of here. Mr. Harker had said it was a long way to the town, and besides, every minute they spent here was clearly telling on him.
When Jack awoke, Art’s hope that sleep had taken him away from this mess was dashed.
Clearly, he remembered.
Dimly, Art could hear the Harkers talking in soft tones, but paid them no mind, looking instead at Jack’s distraught countenance.
Art didn’t know what to say. There was nothing to say, really.
Jack spoke first. “We should get out of here. Mr. Harker, do you know the way to town?”
“I don’t remember where I went after I got away,” said Mr. Harker. “But I know the way back to Bistritz. Fair warning, it’s a long journey on foot.”
“Well then,” Mrs. Harker interjected. “We’d best get going.”
“An excellent idea,” said Van Helsing.
With little ado, they packed the few belongings they had with them and left.
...
At supper that night, at the inn Mr. Harker had stopped at on his way to Dracula’s castle only six months earlier, Jack watched Van Helsing and Mr. Harker eat their stew.
He hadn’t touched his own.
Neither, from the looks of it, had Art or Mrs. Harker.
As Jack looked at Art, Art caught his eye.
Jack raised an eyebrow. What do you want from me?
Art’s face softened sympathetically, and he gave Jack their ‘we need to talk’ look.
I know that, but not here. Jack looked around at the others significantly.
Art looked annoyed, tilting his head in a ‘you knew what I meant’ gesture.
The two of them were sharing a room, and Jack was not looking forward to them being alone in it. They had been, before supper, but not much talking had happened then—they’d been too busy cleaning up and grabbing a few minutes’ rest.
Jack was about to indicate as much when Van Helsing interrupted their silent conversation.
“Friends,” he said. “You must eat. Friend Quincey would not want you to starve on his account.”
How dare he? He had no right to presume to know what Quincey would want, he’d barely known him...
Art, the traitor, picked up his spoon and took a few bites, then set down his spoon and looked at Jack. “He’s right.”
Dammit, Jack knew that, but it was the principle of the thing—
They’d talked about something like this, he and Quincey.
Jack had complained once, when it was just the two of them, about Art’s ability to become anything to anyone, to seamlessly alter himself as the situation required.
It unnerved Jack, honestly. And made him wonder how much of Art’s real self he’d ever seen.
It’s just how he grew up, Quincey had said. Nothing to hold against him. And I’m not sure Art even knows who he is anymore. But I think he feels more himself with us than he ever has.
Jack knew Quincey had talked about him to Art, as well. Explaining that being blunt and sometimes sharp-edged was just how he was, that he didn’t mean any harm by it.
Jack and Art had never really talked about Quincey.
Jack was deep in thought when the innkeeper came up.
She looked at Mr. Harker. “Is the food all right?” she asked in German.
“It’s wonderful,” Mr. Harker replied. “My friends are sad, and so not hungry.”
Jack’s problem had always been being too much himself. Too lost in his own head, not willing or able to change for anyone.
Art had the opposite problem, so willing to distort himself for others that he’d lost his center.
Quincey used to bridge the gap.
Now... Jack had always had trouble meeting people halfway. But, much as he hated to admit it, maybe he needed to start.
“It’s true,” he told the innkeeper, and cautiously took a bite. “Yes, it’s good.”
“I’m glad. And I understand. But you should eat. Your friend did a great thing, and will be rewarded, I am sure.”
Jack knew the innkeeper meant well. But the comment rankled all the same. Whether he was being rewarded or not, Quincey was gone. He’d suffered and died and he wasn’t here anymore.
But Jack didn’t say that.
Instead, he took another bite of stew, focusing on the flavor and the feeling of it settling in his empty stomach to avoid thinking about anything else.
When he looked up, the innkeeper was gone.
Soon, the Harkers left, and Van Helsing excused himself shortly after, leaving Jack and Art alone at the table.
Jack took a deep breath.
He’d never been good at this kind of thing. But he needed to try.
“I—you said you didn’t want to lose me,” he began. “I just—I suppose I wanted you to know that it goes both ways. And I don’t, I don’t know how, but... we’ll make this work out. Somehow. I don’t want to lose you either.”
Art nodded. “Let’s go talk about this in our room.”
...
Later, in their room and not talking, Art wondered if they’d be able to pull this off.
Survive the years stretching out ahead, without one leg of their tripod, without their center, without driving each other away or losing touch.
Clearly, they both wanted to. That was something, at least.
Once they were both in what passed for their nightclothes, Art sat down on the bed. “What now?”
Jack sat on the opposite side and pulled back the covers. “We should go to Texas. Someone needs to tell his family, and I’d prefer not to make them find out via letter. They...” He cut off and swallowed. “Quincey deserves that much.”
Art nodded and slid into bed as Jack did the same. “Will you be able to leave the asylum for that long?”
“I’ve left it in good hands. I told Dr. Hennessey I might be gone for a long time, and that there was a chance I might not return at all, though I certainly would if I could.”
“Should we invite the Harkers?” Art asked.
Jack turned back to Art. “You think we should?”
“We don’t have to, but I think... they were there, and they cared for him, even if they didn’t know him as long. And... Quincey gave his life for Mrs. Harker, and she knows it. I think they’ve a right to be there when we notify his family, if they so choose.”
Jack sat up, fluffed the pillow, and lay back down. “It might be good for them to be around other people for a while. I’m concerned they might isolate otherwise.”
“All right, that’s settled,” said Art. “But it’s not what I meant.”
Jack shot him an annoyed look from his side of the bed. “Haven’t we discussed this enough?”
“I don’t like this any more than you do—”
“Then can we stop?”
“All right, if you want. But if there’s anything you need to say... I think we should just say it. I think these walls are pretty thick, we may not get another chance to speak freely for a while.”
Jack closed his eyes. “What do you want me to say?”
“Whatever you feel you ought to. If anything.”
Jack was silent for so long that Art was fairly certain they were going to fall asleep in silence.
Then, he finally spoke up. “I...”
Art was silent, waiting.
Jack went on. “He told me he loved me, once. In... in those words.” He let out a long, slow breath. “I didn’t say it back. I never did.”
“He knew,” said Art gently. “I promise. He knew.”
“How do you know that?” asked Jack, voice full of pain.
“Because I knew Quincey, and I know how well he knew you.” Art took a deep breath. “And we can fix one thing right now. I... I know it’s not quite the same, but... Jack, I love you.”
Another long silence, and Art worried he’d badly miscalculated.
Then, a quiet “I love you too.”
“There,” said Art. “No more chance of that particular regret, at least.”
Jack laughed, a strange laugh that Art was becoming too familiar with. “I... I don’t think I’d ever said that to anyone.”
Art blinked.
He’d long suspected that Jack’s family situation had been less than ideal, but it still hurt to have it confirmed.
Art’s mother had died giving birth to him, but his father hadn’t blamed him for that, though he could have. Instead, though Art had been primarily raised by nurses and tutors, his father made certain to spend time with him, and made sure Art knew he was loved, with words and actions.
Then, something else occurred to Art, and he closed his eyes as pain flared in his chest. “Not even Lucy?”
Jack made a faint, choked, bitter sound. “I somehow managed to propose marriage without actually telling her I loved her.”
Art swallowed down the lump in his throat. “She figured it out all the same.”
“I suppose.”
“Technically, I didn’t tell her until after we were engaged, so...” Art winced.
“We’re a couple of fools, aren’t we,” said Jack.
“That we are.”
Another silence, this one far less awkward and more companionable.
“Do you think they’ve found each other?” asked Art. “Lucy and Quincey?”
“I hope so,” said Jack quietly.
Art wished he didn’t have to voice his next question, but he truly did need to know. “You’re an expert on the human mind,” he said. “Will it always hurt this much?”
Jack once again breathed out slowly. “Statistically speaking, people lose loved ones all the time. Usually within a few months the worst is over, though in some cases the grief becomes pathological. That’s my medical opinion.”
“And your personal opinion?”
“It’s hard to imagine it ever hurting less,” Jack said quietly. “And I must admit I feel a—a certain repugnance at the thought.”
Art nodded, even though he knew Jack couldn’t see. “I understand.”
Then, Art rolled onto his side facing Jack and opened his arms. “Come here.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s cold and I know you sleep better when you can feel someone breathe. And, since I’m not going to sleep until you do—”
“That is a terrible idea—”
“As I was saying, since I’m not going to sleep until you do, I have a vested interest in you getting some actual sleep tonight.”
“Fine,” Jack grumbled, scooting backward into Art’s arms.
The warmth was pleasant, although it did nothing for the ache in Art’s chest that he supposed was going to be there for the foreseeable future.
An hour passed, then another, before Jack’s breathing told Art he was asleep, and Art finally allowed himself to drift off.
They could go back to the way things ought to be in the morning.
For now, they could sleep. And, for now, in the absence of a world that behaved the way it should, in the absence of most of their lives from before this horrid autumn began...
That would have to be enough.