"I shall not wait for any opportunity," Quincey said fiercely. "When I see the box I shall open it and destroy the monster, though there were a thousand men looking on, and if I am to be wiped out for it the next moment!"
Almost before he had finished speaking, Harker stepped up to him and reached out to clasp his hand. His grip was strong, his eyes blazing, and in that moment a solemn promise was agreed upon between the two of them without a single word spoken. They were in agreement: neither of them would let any chance slip by. This Count would die at their hands, no matter the cost.
It was no longer any real surprise at this point, but Quincey still found himself thinking it again: there's the man who made it out of that castle.
After Van Helsing finished speaking, all the men turned to disperse. Quincey stood behind for a moment or two, lost in thought. He had less to arrange than the others. Watching over Art after his father and fiancee's death, he'd taken a notion - and then an afternoon - to update his own will. He hadn't known exactly why, then. The musing over where the blood had gone had reminded him of the Pampas, sure, but he hadn't truly expected anything like what was to come. He'd just seen all Arthur had to deal with, and thought to smooth the path back home should the unexpected come to pass.
For all that everything had changed in the past few days, not much about his affairs would stand any different now. The only exception, perhaps, was the man whose oath he now shared, and that excellent, kind lady to which he was married. Perhaps he should add a proviso for their sake as well.
Thinking of the couple got Quincey's feet moving, and he quickly moved down the hallway. He caught up just before Harker stepped back into his own room, calling out to him.
"Might I have a word before you go?"
"Of course, Mr. Morris. What can I do for you?" He turned away from the door, his hand slipping off the handle.
"Pardon me for this, but," Quincey said, reaching out to grasp that hand before it fell to the man's side, "it's more yourself."
"I... don't understand," Harker said, his tone mildly confused. He didn't pull his hand away, but Quincey noticed him sliding a foot back an inch, firming his back to the wall. He looked straight up into Quincey's eyes.
"I couldn't help but notice," Quincey said. He reached up to fold both his palms around Harker's hand, squeezing a little. Hopefully sharing a bit of warmth.
Harker's hand was ice-cold between his fingers. He knew he ran a little hotter than most, but still he'd noticed the chill the moment they'd touched. Harker's face was pale, his eyes fierce but tired, all color washed out of his hair. For the past three days, he'd been moving about as if there was lightning running down his spine; a deep well of crackling energy barely hidden within his body, and rising almost to the surface whenever talk turned to their foe. Quincey respected it like anything. And yet...
"I apologize if I'm poking my nose where it isn't wanted. But I'd like to suggest you take it easy, today. Join your wife in her rest." Quincey rubbed the hand between his a little, drawing Harker's gaze and attention down to the point of contact between them. "We'll need all our strength when the time comes."
There was a long pause before Harker spoke.
"Thank you," he said, very quietly, eyes still on Quincey's hands. He looked back up again before going on: "I will try to keep that in mind."
His eyes were cold, too. Not heartless, just the opposite - all the heart within him set so firmly on his goal that everything else froze over. A deadly storm, just waiting to break loose, an intention sharp as a knife. Quincey felt a little hint of that lightning slip between them, settling against his own spine.
He let go, confident that Harker understood. The man might need a reminder or two in the days to come, but he'd make it through without collapsing prematurely. He'd do what it took to be there at the end, and he'd be ready when it came.
"That was all," Quincey said, stepping back. He nodded with a smile, and Harker smiled back. It was a small enough one, but that it was there at all was probably enough.
He headed off further down the hall, but didn't go right to his own room. He'd add the Harkers in, sure enough, but the worst eventualities could wait a little longer. First, he'd like to do something to help them before that day. They'd be heading out in the morning; that gave him an afternoon to find what he needed.
After it was all over, Mrs. Harker would probably want to write up their stories again. He'd seen that typewriter of hers, and surely there was something in London better-suited to bring along. And her husband... well, perhaps he could use a pair of gloves.
.
5 November, evening.
Harker wasn't wearing his gloves. Quincey had seen him wearing them when he set out with Art, so he didn't know why not today. Maybe he, too, had gotten hot during the headlong chase.
He must have, Quincey decided, because his ungloved hands felt so warm. He could feel one behind his head, supporting him, and one was reaching down over his own hand, pressing hard into his side.
It hurt. It hurt like nothing he'd ever felt, but Quincey didn't mind. Because he was cold, and getting colder. It was funny how the blood against his hand felt so hot, when his hand itself was trembling from the cold. Maybe it wasn't that Harker's hand was warm, but just his own that was cold.
Mrs. Harker's hand was warm, too. So warm around his other hand, and her eyes were welling up with tears, but full of life as well, for the first time in so long. He smiled to comfort her before the end came.
But it was all right. Wracked with shivers as he was, he didn't mind. The cost was paid. They'd agreed on that, and if anyone had to pay it, better he than...
It was good Harker wasn't wearing his gloves. The fabric would be clean later, not stained with the blood leaking out around both their fingers no matter how hand they pressed on the wound. Clean like Mrs. Harker's forehead, smooth and unblemished. Thank God. Thank God, that was truly a gift to see!
"I am only too happy to have been of any service! Oh, God!" he cried, shoving himself upright, pulling his hand away from Harker's to point to her. The wind bit at his exposed fingers, and he felt so cold, but it was okay. It was worth it to show them, in his last moments, now that the end had truly come. "It was worth for this to die!"
