Dracula the Un-Dead - By Dacre Stoker & Ian Holt Page 0,3
he wouldn’t dig too deeply.
“Morphine,” announced the conductor in a voice so loud that other passengers glanced over. He held up the brown bottle.
“I sometimes have to prescribe it as a sedative.”
“I will see your license, please.”
Seward searched his pockets. Over a month ago, the International Opium Convention had been signed, prohibiting persons from importing, selling, distributing, and exporting morphine without a medical license. It took him so long to find it that by the time Seward finally produced the license, the conductor was about to pull the cord to stop the train. The conductor examined the paper, frowning, then turned his steely eyes to the travel document. The United Kingdom was the first to use photo identification on their passports. Since that picture had been taken, Seward had lost a tremendous amount of weight. His hair was now much grayer, his beard wild and untrimmed. The man in the train bore little resemblance to the man in the photo.
“Why are you going to Marseilles, doctor?”
“I am treating a patient there.”
“What ails this patient?”
“He’s suffering from a Narcissistic Personality Disorder.”
“Qu’est-ce que c’est? ”
“It is a psychological instability causing the patient to inflict predatory, autoerotic, antisocial, and parasitic control on those around them. As well as—”
“Merci.” The conductor cut Seward off by handing him back his papers and ticket with a deft flick. He turned and addressed only the men at the next table. “Billets, s’ il vous plaît.”
Jack Seward sighed. Replacing his papers in his jacket, he checked the pocket watch again, a nervous habit. It seemed as if the interrogation had lasted hours, but only another five minutes had passed. He rolled down the fringed window shade to shield his eyes from the daylight and reclined into the plush, burgundy upholstered seat.
Oceans of Love, Lucy.
He held the beloved watch close to his heart and closed his eyes to dream.
It was a quarter century ago. Seward held the same watch up to the light the better to read the inscription: “Oceans of love, Lucy.”
She was there. Alive. “You don’t like it,” she said, and pouted.
He couldn’t break his stare away from her green eyes, soft as a summer meadow. Lucy had an odd idiosyncrasy of watching a speaker’s mouth as if trying to taste the next word before it passed by his lips. She had such a lust for life. Her smile could bring warmth to the coldest heart. As she sat on the bench in the garden that spring day, Seward marveled at how the sunlight illuminated the loose strands of red hair that danced in the breeze, haloing her face. The scent of fresh lilacs mixed with the salty sea air of Whitby Harbor. In the years since, whenever he smelled lilacs, he would remember this beautiful, bitter day.
“I can only conclude,” Seward said, clearing his throat before his voice had a chance to break, “since you wrote on the gift card ‘Dearest Friend’ rather than ‘Fiancé,’ that you have chosen not to accept my proposal of marriage.”
Lucy looked away, her eyes moistening. The silence spoke volumes.
“I thought it best that you hear it from me,” Lucy finally sighed. “I have consented to wed Arthur.”
Arthur had been Jack Seward’s friend since they were lads. Seward loved him like a brother, yet always envied how easily everything came to Arthur. He was handsome and rich, and had never in his life known worry or struggle. Or heartbreak.
“I see.” Seward’s voice sounded like a squeak in his ears.
“I do love you,” Lucy whispered. “But . . .”
“But not as much as much as you love Arthur.” Of course he could not compete with the wealthy Arthur Holmwood, nor was he as dashing as Lucy’s other suitor, the Texan Quincey P. Morris.
“Forgive me,” he went on in a softer tone, suddenly afraid he’d hurt her. “I forgot my place.”
Lucy reached out and patted his hand, as one would a beloved pet. “I will always be here.”
Back in the present, he stirred in his sleep. If he could just see the beauty in Lucy’s eyes . . . The last time he had gazed into them, that terrible night in the mausoleum, he had seen nothing but pain and torment. The memory of Lucy’s dying screams still seared Seward’s brain.
After leaving the train, Seward walked in a torrential downpour through Marseilles’s labyrinth of white buildings and cursed his timing. Of course, his quest brought him to the French Riviera in March, the only rainy month.