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The sliver of light from Van Helsing's lantern fell on Lucy's face.
No, not Lucy. That thing gnawing on the throat of the small child, blood dripping onto its chin and burial dress— that could not be Lucy. Arthur's eyes saw the familiar shape of her hair, her face, the curves of her body, and yet he could not believe for an instant that this was his beloved, the one he had wept over until his eyes had run dry, the one he thought was safely buried and at rest in heaven.
His knees buckled, and if Jack hadn't caught him he would have fallen to the ground. Instead, he swayed against him, his eyes fixed on the creature as its face contorted into a snarl. It hurled the child down into the grass, the motion so sudden and so callous that a cry of pain escaped Arthur's throat, then spread its arms wide and advanced toward the little group huddling around the lantern.
The body seemed to be floating toward him, moving like a ghost but so sharply defined, so real, that he knew it could not be. He staggered back, wrenching out of Jack's grasp, and hid his face in his hands, sick with fear and horror.
Through the icy nightmare of the moment, Lucy's voice cut through.
"Come to me, Arthur!"
Her voice was ringing and clear, like a bell, strong and full of life. He felt like a cold gust of wind had slapped him, snapping him out of the nightmare, and as he raised his head, startled, he found that it was not a creature of darkness before him, but Lucy herself— her smile radiant, her arms outstretched. The night and the graveyard and his friends beside him dropped away like shadows. Impossibly, she was here, and she was alive!
"Leave these others and come to me," she said, her voice turning soft and sweet, her hands trembling as she reached for him. "My arms are hungry for you. Come, and we can rest together."
Arthur flung his arms wide, relief rolling over him in a joyous wave that wiped out all the grief of the past weeks. Lucy— his beloved, his bride— was alive, and they would be wed, and all would be well.
As he rushed toward her, visions danced before his eyes, as real as daylight. Riding together through the countryside, Lucy laughing and clutching her hat as the wind tried to blow it away. Curled up on the sofa before the fire, Lucy reading a novel aloud while they petted the dogs. Sitting arm in arm at the opera, whispering commentary on the performance, the smell of her violet perfume filling his nose each time she leaned in. Lying in bed, morning light painting their bare skin, her shoulder soft against his lips as he sleepily kissed her.
"Come, my husband, come!"
He could almost touch her. He was almost there—
Van Helsing stepped between them, the crucifix in his hand flashing golden in the lantern-light, and night crashed back in on him.
Lucy's body stopped as if it had hit a wall, and it hissed. Bloody fangs champed as the creature crouched, trembling like any great predator trapped in a corner.
Dazed, Arthur stared at the monster, and all the grief of Lucy's death buried him like an avalanche all over again.
Van Helsing's voice, low but stern, cut the silence. "Answer me, oh my friend! Am I to proceed in my work?"
For a moment, Arthur stared at the snarling creature before them, and seriously considered throwing himself into its arms. If he did not, he would be forced to live in a world without her. He had borne that grief when he had no choice in the matter— but now the choice was before him. When she tore his throat out, would he slip into the illusion again? Would he bathe in the golden light of her presence as he bled out on the ground?
He squeezed his eyes shut. He glimpsed sunlight shining on hair, the sound of a voice reading, the smell of violet perfume, the press of lips against soft skin.
With a sob, he threw himself on his knees, covering his face once more with his hands. "Do as you will, friend," he whispered. "Do as you will."
He felt Jack's hand on one shoulder, Quincey's hand on the other, but even their presence was not enough, not now.
The darkness became too great to bear, and numbness took its place.