Bram Stoker's HANNIBAL

Chapter 66: For the Cruelty of Your Tarrying

Will woke to Hannibal's lips on his forehead, then a tender press to his mouth, a hand treasuring the shape of his face for a long, sweet moment. Will smiled up at him sleepily, then closed his eyes again, drifting back toward the moonlit shore. Then the touch was gone without a sound; no rasp of thumb over Will's stubble, no footfall, no breath. Hannibal was there and then he was not, and his absence was palpable. The empty concussion of the sudden void left in the wake of his presence woke Will up entirely.

He stared up at the mural above the bed for a few minutes, finding new pairs of nymphs and satyrs and gods and goddesses philandering through the forest scene. Hannibal had suggested he view it in the full light of day, but as far as he could tell, there wouldn't be much sun today. The dawn was a dirty gray, the color of sea-worn wood bleached out by the elements, husk-like. The shade of what was once a tree that was chopped down, it's rings counted, and then made more dead by the repeated trauma of the weather and changing seasons.

Will got up and glanced out the window at the foul morning and sighed. He found his pocketwatch with his trousers and checked the time. If he left quickly, he could make the first train back to London and take over for Chilton so he could get a few hours of sleep after watching Alana all night.

Will dressed and slipped out into the shadowy hallway. The daylight was so grim he almost needed a candle or a lamp to see his way. Abigail's door was closed, but he encountered the housekeeper who offered him tea. Will had a fast cup, since it was already prepared, and set off for the station.

The station was bustling, workers headed into London for the day before commuting back home in the evening. Will bought his ticket and then lingered on the platform, leaning against a wooden beam. He sighed again, a longing sound, pulling his coat more tightly around himself, his breath sinking into the cold morning mist, letting his mind drift back to the night before to see if memories of making love would warm him up.

You look... magnificent from this angle, beloved.

And then he'd seen something change in Hannibal's mouth. The eyeteeth seemed, for a moment, to elongate, or his gums drew backward. Both of which were impossible.

The air was cold but humid. Will could only imagine how wild his curls were due to the excess moisture in the air. He would have attempted to tame them on the way out the door, but there were no mirrors. There were never any mirrors.

Fleetingly, he recalled Antony appearing behind him, despite the fact that he'd been looking directly in the mirror and shaving.

Take care how you cut yourself.

His mind, when left to its own devices, apparently, was only going to send thorns of anxiety through his veins. Will crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his head back on the wooden post with a sigh. He was anxious to get to Hillingham, to check in on Alana and Prudence. When he knew everything was all right – which it likely was – he would feel better. A bit of breakfast, play with the dogs–

"... heard of the Purfleet Hospital for the Criminally Insane? I happen to be the chief administrator."

Will glanced over to a bench where a pretty but bored-looking young woman was suffering through an interaction with Frederick Chilton whilst waiting for the train.

But if Chilton was here, then who was with Alana?

Will hurried over and interrupted without excusing himself, though he didn't need his empathy pulse to tell him that the woman was grateful for a chance to escape. "What are you doing here?" he demanded brusquely, the thorns of anxiety curling around his heart and lungs now as sweat broke out on his brow.