The Cure for Dreaming(27)

“How is your ear?” I asked when the silence grew too fierce.

“Better.” He glanced my way. “I was only teasing about you owing me more than just a book, you know.”

My cheeks warmed. “I know.”

“You looked so frightened when I said that to you at school. What did you think I would make you do?”

“I don’t know.” I fussed with a loose pin in my hair and tried to persuade myself Frannie was mistaken about him. The word grabber loitered in my mind like an unwanted guest.

Percy steered Mandolin west, onto Irving. “I read all of it.”

“All of what?” I asked.

“Dracula, of course.”

“Oh.” I tightened my coat around my neck. “Did you like it?”

“Yes. But why do you like it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why do you like a horrific story involving so much blood and murder?”

“I don’t know. Why does anyone like any literature?” I shrugged as if responding to my own question. “I love that books allow us to experience other lives without us ever having to change where we live or who we are.”

He kept his eyes on the lamp-lit road ahead, which was disappearing into a gold-tinged mist that carried the scents of chimney smoke and rain. “You were right about there being certain . . . scenes.” His mouth turned up in a smile.

My neck sweltered beneath my coat. “Yes, um, well, I warned you.”

“And that Lucy character, with ‘eyes unclean and full of hell-fire’—holy Moses.” He shook his head. “Why would a girl like you want to read about someone like her?”

“The book was about far more than just Lucy.”

“Oh, sure, there were also Dracula’s lusty wives.”

I snorted. “Why are you dwelling on the lewd women in the book? Dracula is more Mina’s story than anything. Prim and saintly Mina. I’m sure you liked her all right.”

“Oh, Mina was just fine. In fact, I think I fell a little in love with her and wanted to save her.” He peeked my way. “She reminded me of you.”

I met his eyes, which gave off a strange yellow cast in the darkness, the way a prowling cat’s eyes appear when it’s stalking through my backyard after nightfall. I shuddered and told myself I’d only imagined the phenomenon, even though a sideways sort of feeling washed through me again.

“Mina Harker reminded you of me?” I asked.

He nodded. “She was a lot like you.”

“Oh.” I took hold of the side of the buggy. “And who are you most like? Jonathan Harker? Dracula?”

“Arthur,” he answered without hesitation. “Lucy’s fiancé.”

My blood chilled. Arthur was the character who had staked wild Lucy. Ferociously.

He looked like a figure of Thor as his untrembling arm rose and fell, driving deeper and deeper the mercy-bearing stake . . .


I wrinkled my brow. “Why would you want to be like him?”

“I didn’t say I wanted to be like him. But this past summer there was a girl . . .” He straightened his top hat with a clumsy movement of his hand and hardened his jaw. “What am I saying? You don’t want to hear about another girl.”

“No, tell me. Did someone hurt you?”

“She . . .” He gave a little cough, as though his throat had gone dry. “Her name was Nanette. I met her in Los Angeles when my family was summering down there. She liked to listen to ragtime music and rode around the city on a bicycle. She wore bloomers that made old ladies throw rocks at her in disgust, and she called her parents Lula and Pete instead of Mother and Father.”

“Oh?” My heart drummed with jealousy. Bloomers, no less. Beautiful bicycle bloomers.

Percy huffed a sigh. “I thought I could handle her, but she was a bit much. Her parents believed in free love. Her mother gave birth to her when she was living in some sort of utopian society that shunned marriage. Nanette’s father may not even be her father.”

He flicked the reins to bring Mandolin to a faster walk. The buggy swayed and bounced and thundered over the uneven road, and wind whistled across my ears.

“It turned out Nanette believed in free love, too,” he continued. “I found out she was with two other fellows while I was courting her.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” The buggy knocked me to the left, and my hand clutched his arm for support, my nails digging into wool. “And that’s why you hate the Lucy Westenra character so much?”

“Olivia . . .” He shook his head. “You’re supposed to hate Lucy, too. She drank the blood of children.”

“But”—I let go of him and righted myself—“if she didn’t have that bloodthirsty side, I’m guessing you still would have hated her. She was hardly a standard young lady with pure thoughts.”

“I’m just saying that’s why I feel like Arthur. I completely understand the burden of trying to love a devil woman.” He eased his grip on the reins. “And that’s why I’m more than ready to have an innocent girl in my life. Someone chaste and sweet and docile.” He scooted next to me until our arms and hips rocked against each other, while the buggy rolled onward toward the grand mansions of Irving Street that rose up ahead like incandescent palaces. “Olivia . . .”