Bram Stoker's HANNIBAL

Chapter 62: Art Laughing, My Bride, or Weeping?

The flickering candlelight melded with the muted sun that streamed through the stained glass, saturating the chapel with a holy rosiness. Will walked down the aisle with his arm through his uncle's, steps slow and measured as if they moved through water, a bouquet of flowers clutched in his hands. Their gentle sweetness wafted up to his nose, heady and sensual. The hushed words murmured behind the hands of the congregation seemed like blissful compliments accompanying shining eyes and smiles. At first, whispers of, "Isn't he a vision?" "If only his parents were alive to see this glorious day," and "I've never seen him so happy." But these phrases, not heard so much through his ears but translated in his heart, began to change, darkening with each step he took toward the altar where Count Hannibal Lecter waited for him, beaming a proud, besotted smile.

"He must know the count's true nature."

"He's willingly betrothed to the grave itself."

"Down, down, down into the tomb; die away in the night, die away in the gloom."

"Sacrifice everything for a kiss..."

Will was more uneasy with each passing step; he felt his body tremble and the skin on the back of his neck prickle and crawl, swarming with invisible insects. He turned to say something to his guardian, but found Abel Gideon grinning in his place, pale and glassy-eyed, his fine suit shot full of holes and splattered with dried blood. "Such a shame I have to give you away," he said in his lilting, almost sing-song way. "You cut your teeth on me, Inspector, got a taste for it. Now you see. See." And with that, he lifted Will's hand and placed it in Hannibal's, and they stood together to face the priest and the altar.

But instead of Father Davies and his bible, Alana stood before them, wavering weakly on her feet, draped in her half-finished wedding dress. She wasn't wearing the stiff collar, and Will could easily see the scabbed white wounds on her throat. She was so pale her skin and the dress were indistinguishable. "Dearly beloved," she said, her voice a scraping, lifeless whisper. "We are gathered here today to witness the union between Count Hannibal Lecter and William James Graham..."

Drip... drip... drip...

As Alana spoke the words of the ceremony, Will at last connected the sound of dripping to the little red spots that appeared on Alana's white dress. Looking up, he found the cause. Devon Sylvestri, autopsied alive, vivisected, still moaning and keening, was suspended above her on the cross instead of the Messiah, splayed open, heart exposed and pumping, lungs visible and struggling to fill and release.

"Will."

A blink, and it was gone. It was all gone, the vision course-corrected. Hannibal took Will's hand in his own and said, "Let this ring be a sign of my love and fidelity."

Will's eyes filled with tears that he smiled through. He took the other ring and slid it over Hannibal's finger. "With this ring, I thee wed, and with it, I bestow upon thee all the treasures of my mind, heart, and hands."

The kiss was indescribably sweet, a kind of mesmerism all its own. Will sensed the melting-ice feeling in his mind, just for a moment, a feather's touch, but he embraced it, welcomed it. Make the pain and the horror go away. There was only Hannibal's embrace and his lips and his dulcet touch, the musical way he said his bridegroom's name.

"Will..."

"Will. Will. Wake up, my boy."

Will clawed his way to consciousness as he felt a hand touch his forehead, the fingers thick and masculine, unfamiliar. His entire body gave a teeth-chattering jerk and his eyes flew open to behold the gap-toothed grin of Dr. Van Crawford.