The question wasn't unexpected, but it was definitely uninvited. Was he even asking? Diffusing the answer's ugliness would be an astonishing endeavor. It would have to begin as startling as a perverse prose by Ovid written in exile, and end as velvety smooth as the belly of Winnie the Pooh. Not surprisingly, it was a miserable few seconds she took to consider even explaining, where she also painstakingly plucked the harp strings of a very, very haunting memory. Lucy did not dream in black and white. She dreamed in vivid, creative, vibrant color. And was quite imaginative.
Meaningfully, she could answer him and he might understand more, but it was so sinister and funeral. Lucy was only a minor threat in the novel. She hoped that Van Helsing was able to see that she wasn't such a minor threat this time around.
"She doesn't want him dead at all." It upset her visibly to talk about it, but it was probably better for her to rather than bottle it all up inside, shaking it around every so often with anxiety, for it only to inevitably explode. "She wants to spend a lot time with him."
A pause.
"What if she's in here and she gets out? How would we do this?"