The horror intensifies on Kaeltripton! Last time, Jonathan returned broken, and Lucy faded—now Van Helsing and Seward battle to save her with a daring transfusion as her strength ebbs away. Shadows deepen, and danger lurks closer. We’re serving this free slice of Dracula with a teaser excerpt below, followed by the full text from roughly pages 127 to 142—covering Lucy’s dire struggle and a grim turn. We’re rolling out Dracula in bites—keep checking back for more, or snag a $5subscription to unlock the whole tale now, plus my takes on its bloody twists. Ready for a desperate fight? Let’s plunge in!

Dr Seward’s Diary (Continued)
5 September.—Lucy worse again to-day. Van Helsing came early, his face set like stone. He examined her, and I saw the dread in his eyes. ‘She is dying, Jack,’ he said quietly. ‘Her blood is gone—look at her gums, pale as chalk, and her pulse is a thread. We must act now, or we lose her.’ I asked what he meant, and he replied: ‘A transfusion—blood from a living man into her veins. It is her only chance.’ I volunteered at once—my blood’s strong, and I’d give it all for her. Arthur’s away, and there’s no time to wait.
We set up in her room—Lucy half-conscious, her breathing shallow. Van Helsing brought instruments from his bag, and we worked fast. He tied off my arm, found a vein, and soon my blood was flowing into her. It was strange to watch her cheeks flush as life returned—her lips reddened, and her eyes flickered open. She smiled faintly, not knowing what we’d done. Van Helsing watched like a hawk, stopping me when I grew dizzy. ‘Enough for now,’ he said. ‘She will live a little longer.’ But his brow stayed furrowed.
6 September.—Lucy slept all day, and I stayed by her side. Arthur wired he’s coming—his father’s worse, but he’ll be here soon. Van Helsing went back to Amsterdam for books, leaving me strict orders to guard her. She woke at dusk, stronger, and thanked me with such sweetness I could hardly bear it. But those marks on her throat—two red punctures—look inflamed again, and a trickle of blood stained her pillow. I cleaned them, but they puzzle me. No infection, no cause I can see. What’s happening to her?
7 September.—Arthur arrived this morning, haggard but desperate to help. Lucy brightened at sight of him, though she’s still weak. Van Helsing returned too, and his face darkened when he saw her neck. ‘This is no chance wound,’ he muttered, but wouldn’t say more. Arthur begged to give his blood—she’d lost ground overnight—and Van Helsing agreed. We did it again, and Lucy rallied once more, clinging to Arthur’s hand. But Van Helsing pulled me aside after: ‘We buy time, Jack, nothing more. Something takes her blood—I have seen this before.’ I pressed him, but he shook his head. ‘Not yet. Watch her close—night is the danger.’ I’m writing this now, sleepless, as she rests. Renfield’s quiet—too quiet.
8 September.—Lucy seemed better all day—Arthur’s blood worked wonders. We dared to hope. But to-night, Van Helsing came back grim. ‘Look,’ he said, lifting her lip—her gums are white again, and those marks bleed afresh. ‘It happens still,’ he whispered. ‘We must fight it, or she is lost.’ I’m at my wit’s end—what drains her? Arthur’s exhausted; I’ll give more blood if I must.
9 September.—Another transfusion—my turn again. Lucy’s like a ghost now, slipping away despite our efforts. Van Helsing brought garlic flowers, of all things, and strung them round her neck and windows. ‘Old remedy,’ he said, seeing my stare. ‘Trust me.’ She laughed weakly, calling it nonsense, but let him do it. Arthur’s with her now, and I’m watching Renfield—he snarled at me to-day, then went mute. Something’s building—I feel it.
Lucy Westenra’s Diary
9 September.—I feel so happy to-night. I’ve been so ill, and yet to-day I’m stronger—Arthur’s here, and Dr Seward and that funny old Dutch doctor are so kind. The garlic smells horrid, but they say it’s for my good. I’m sleepy now—Arthur’s sitting by me, holding my hand. I’ll rest and dream of him.
Dr Seward’s Diary
10 September.—Lucy’s worse again—paler than ever, and the garlic didn’t stop it. Van Helsing’s face is a mask of fury and fear. ‘We are too late with some things,’ he said, ‘but we fight on.’ Arthur gave blood again—he’s a wreck, but won’t leave her. I checked Renfield—he’s muttering about ‘life’ and ‘the Master’ again, watching the window like a hawk. To-night feels heavy, ominous—I dread what comes next.