everafter

by Nell Stark; Trinity Tam

  “Yes, I imagine so.” He sounded distracted, but pulled a business card out of his coat pocket and handed it to me. “It will be helpful to run some additional tests. Come and see me on Wednesday at this address. This is my second office, in Midtown. Not the hospital.”

  I took the card from him. “Do I need to call to make an appointment?”

  “Come at three thirty. Does that work for you?”

  “That’s fine. Thank you.”

  “And how about psychologically?” he asked. “Any memories resurfacing? Violent dreams?”

  My heart sped up again. Dreams. Why had he asked about violent dreams? I took a futile sip of water and pulled myself back under control. Maybe because violent dreams were normal after a violent attack. Jeez. I really needed to give my neuroses a break.

  “Memories, no. Dreams, yes. Actually…you offered me a list of recommended therapists. I’d like to take you up on that.”

  “Of course. I can give you several names on Wednesday.”

  “Thank you.”

  He got to his feet. Interview over, apparently. I started to rise, but he held out one hand to stop me. “Don’t tax yourself—I’m sure that your leg is still very sore. I can see myself out.”

  “Okay. Thank you for taking the time to make a house call.” I smiled, but he only nodded in return.

  “Good night, Valentine,” he said, halfway through the door. “See you soon.”

  When it clicked shut behind him, I got up and refastened the chain. So much for me not taxing myself. I went back to the couch and flipped open my textbook again, determined to at least finish this chapter before Alexa got home. But instead of seeing the words, all I saw was his expression after I had told him about my bizarre excessive thirst. His face hadn’t really betrayed emotion—it never did, as far as

  • 45 •

  Nell Stark and Trinity Tam

  I could tell—but for one split second, I could have sworn that his eyes sort of…gleamed. It was the way my cousin looked when he won a hand at poker; the way my father looked when he talked about his latest financial conquest.

  Triumphant.

  v

  I was going out of my mind.

  I had barely slept last night. Fear of my dreams and for Alexa’s safety had made me twitch awake every time I felt myself descending into a deep sleep. Once she had left for class, I collapsed back into bed and crashed for three hours, before being wakened by the burning ache in my throat.

  It was getting worse.

  Now I stared at myself in the mirror—at the dark bags under both eyes, at the gruesome stitches in my shoulder, at the fine tremor in my hands—and felt disgust. The fear was ruling me. It was taking me over and eating me up, because I kept feeding it. It was winning because I was letting it.

  No more.

  I went back into the bedroom and pulled a sports bra over my head, wincing as one of the straps caught on a stitch. My NYU sweatshirt was next, followed by a windbreaker. I limped to the front door and frowned at the cane propped against the wall nearby. I didn’t want to take it, but I was about to try walking a distance much farther than I had since being injured. Sighing through my teeth, I grabbed the cane, limped out the door, and made my slow, painful way down the stairs. I was afraid of two things: what might be causing this awful thirst, and the horrific memories that were waiting to resurface. I couldn’t do anything about the former until my appointment tomorrow. I could, however, do something about the latter. I could retrace what my steps might have been, willingly putting myself in the path of places likely to jog my memory. Willingly subjecting myself to the terrifying truth. But at least it would be my choice, my timing. At least I would be in control.

  I paused for a moment outside the red door of my building, leaning heavily on the cane. Stairs were a bitch. When I felt a little stronger, I

  • 46 •

  everafter

  took off limping down the sidewalk, past the familiar row of walk-ups. At the corner, I debated whether to turn left or right on Avenue D—there were stores that sold alcohol in both directions. Deciding on right, I hobbled past the 24/7 supermarket. Across the street, the projects rose into the sky like accusatory fingers. Hunching my shoulders against the dread that churned in my gut, I peered furtively down every new block, expecting at any moment to be bombarded by memories. I hated feeling this way. Alphabet City was my neighborhood. It was Bohemian still—wild and unkempt, queer and unapologetic. I loved it. Had loved it. Now, it frightened me.

  When I reached the first liquor store, I paused. No epiphanies, not yet. Would going inside help? Maybe. And we were out of Jameson anyway. I might as well make myself useful while out on this fool’s errand.

  The bell tinkled lightly as I stepped inside. The store smelled musty and a little dank, like an ill-maintained wine cave. I shuffled in the direction of the whiskey aisle, past the watchful eye of the manager on duty. His beer belly made me glad that I mostly stuck to the hard stuff.

  In the act of grabbing a bottle off the shelf, I looked around the store. It was familiar to me—I’d been coming here occasionally for almost a year now—but no dark memories stirred beneath the surface of my psyche. So much for taking back control of my life. Sighing, I limped up to the counter and awkwardly fished for my wallet. Maybe the Jameson would help my throat.

  “You’re back,” said the manager as he scanned the barcode on the bottle.

  I blinked at him. “Sorry?”

  “Did she say yes, or what?” He scoffed, taking in my battered appearance. “Or did she beat you up?”

  Realization struck. My God. This was the place. He had been working here when I had come in, two weeks ago. I could feel the blood draining from my face. How was it possible that this perfect stranger remembered a part of my life that was still barred to me? How many of the blanks could he fill in?

  “That night. Do you remember what I bought?”

  “Sure, yeah,” he said, looking at me as though I’d gone crazy.

  “Show me.”

  • 47 •

  Nell Stark and Trinity Tam

  Shrugging, he came out from behind the counter and led me halfway down the champagne aisle before pausing to extract a bottle two-thirds of the way up the shelf. “J Schram. 1999.”

  He held the bottle out to me. I didn’t take it—not this time. But I remembered the triumph I’d felt as my fingers had closed around the smooth, dark green glass. I remembered dumping the contents of my wallet onto the counter, and confessing to an uncaring Stan that I was on the verge of proposing to my girlfriend.

  The memories were coming back. God help me.

  “What the—”

  “Have to go,” I choked. “Sorry.” I staggered for the door, desperate to breathe the cool autumn air. Once outside, I lurched into the graffiticovered brick wall. Catching myself, I leaned hard against it, forcing it to bear my weight as I gulped fresh air into my burning throat. The veil had been torn away. Oh God. I had thought I could do this, but what if I couldn’t? What if the next thing I remembered was him, hurting me?

  Only a few minutes ago, I had been fighting to reclaim my memories. Now, I fought against them. My cheeks were tingling. I was hyperventilating. Calm down, I had to calm down. Deep, slow breaths. Foster—I had to call her. To show her where. Not Canal Street. Here. It took me three tries to navigate to her name on my new cell phone and hit the Call button, but I finally managed.

  “I’m flashing back,” was all I said.

  “Valentine. Where are you?” I could hear her snapping her fingers at someone.

  “Avenue D and Fourth. The liquor store.”

  “Don’t move.” Her voice was strong and steady. My head was spinning—I was still breathing too fast. “Stay exactly where you are. I’ll be there within minutes.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you want me to stay on the phone with you?”

  I considered it for a split second, before the memory of how she had looked at Alexa flashed over my
vision, tinged in red. Hell no. I hung up.

  In the ensuing minutes, I tried to make my mind blank, afraid that if I dwelled too long on what I had just remembered, I’d trigger an avalanche. My fingers twitched toward my phone. Alexa. Maybe if she were here, I wouldn’t feel so afraid. It was so tempting to hit speed

  • 48 •

  everafter

  dial—she wouldn’t blame me for pulling her out of class. But even as the thought crossed my mind, I clenched my hand into a fist. No. Alexa was my rock, not my crutch. She was already playing catch-up this semester because of me. I could be strong. I could. A dark car pulled up next to the curb, its tires screeching. Detective Foster jumped out, closely followed by her partner, who I hadn’t seen since that first day in the hospital. Wilson. I stopped leaning against the wall and drew myself up to my full height, ignoring the ache in my leg. “Are you all right?” Foster’s voice was crisp and professional, but her dark eyes were shining with a fierce excitement. I was the key to the fucking city as far as she was concerned—the only known survivor of this criminal’s spree. I was going to be indispensable to her quest to take him down.

  The knowledge was calming. It gave me strength. I wasn’t helpless—not totally. “I’m fine.”

  “Okay.” She turned to Wilson. “I’ll stay here. You question whoever’s working in there.”

  When he nodded and went inside, her attention returned to me.

  “Can you tell me what you’ve remembered?”

  “I came here on Tuesday night, shortly before Alexa got home,” I said. Foster whipped out her little black notebook.

  “What time?”

  I frowned in thought. “Must have been about quarter to eight. On my way in, I noticed a man hanging out…” I looked to the right and pointed. “Over there. He was smoking.”

  Foster paced over to the spot that I had indicated and crouched to examine the ground. Even from here, I could tell that at least a dozen cigarette butts littered the sidewalk. “Can you describe him to me?”

  I took a deep breath and focused in on that particular memory.

  “Pretty tall—at least six feet. Burly. Wearing a knit hat and a leather jacket.”

  Foster’s pen was a blur against the white page. “What happened after you noticed him?”

  This, at least, was the easy part. “I went into the store, chatted with the manager for a minute, and bought a bottle of champagne. Then I left.”

  “And then?”

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  Nell Stark and Trinity Tam

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You would have gone directly home?”

  I thought about it for a moment, before recalling that I had been in a hurry inside the store. “Yes.”

  Foster jerked her head toward the direction of my apartment.

  “Let’s retrace your steps. We’ll take it as slowly as you like.”

  When a fresh layer of sweat broke out on my palms, I told myself not to be a coward. I didn’t want to remember, but I needed to. Leaning heavily on my cane, I fell in beside the detective. I kept my head down as we walked, not wanting to look over and see sympathy—or worse, pity—on her face. We were paused at a cross street, waiting for the light to turn green, when I had the sudden urge to look over my shoulder. Foster started to cross, but turned back when I didn’t join her.

  “He followed me,” I said, fighting down panic.

  “The man loitering outside the liquor store?”

  “Yes.” The memory was growing clearer now, even as I shied away from it. I hunched over my cane, looking across the street at the blocks ahead. Remembering how I had increased my pace, first, but when he had done the same—

  “I started running,” I said, feeling an echo of the hard clench of my leg muscles, just before that initial burst of speed. “But he was too fast. He…he knocked me down. I think.”

  I was trying to keep my voice steady, but the brand-new memory of being knocked to the ground was making me tremble. I could remember the sharp pain as my body hit the ground, and the sound of glass shattering.

  “He knocked me down,” I repeated. “The bottle broke.”

  “You’re doing great,” Foster said. “Let’s keep going, to see whether we can find that spot.” She squeezed my elbow lightly. I trembled again, this time at the effort it took not to knock her hand away from me. The urge to hit her blazed down my right arm, sudden and fierce. What the hell?

  Fortunately, she moved off down the sidewalk. I followed a few feet behind her, glad that she couldn’t see my face. Where had that impulse come from? Was I finally becoming unhinged? Thirst pulsed in my throat, and weakness tugged at my limbs. I wanted to go home, and it felt so far away.

  “Valentine,” Foster called from halfway down the block. Her

  • 50 •

  everafter

  voice was low and tense. She stood in front of an alley between a dry cleaner’s and a deli. I swallowed hard. Was that it? The place where he’d caught me, beaten me, cut me…bitten me? I approached reluctantly, dreading the new memories about to be jarred loose. The alley was narrow and deep and smelled like urine. Shards of glass littered the asphalt, catching and reflecting the few rays of sunlight that managed to penetrate the gloom. Foster was crouched near the mouth of the alley, inspecting the ground. Where she pointed were dark stains.

  Bile filled the back of my mouth when I realized that the stains were blood. My blood. I swallowed hard, waiting for the memory to blindside me. One heartbeat. Two. Three. Nothing. I could feel Foster’s expectant stare on my face, but I kept staring at the spot where I had been bleeding out. I shuddered at the thought, but the memories remained at bay.

  Relieved, I turned away. “Nothing.”

  Foster stood straight. She looked disappointed. Seeing that unhappy little frown on her face made me want to hit her again, and I clutched my cane hard.

  “I’d like to go home now,” I said firmly. I still had a few hours before Alexa got back. Maybe I could sleep a little more. “I’ll call you if I have any more flashbacks.”

  She paused in the act of pulling out her phone and gave me a nod.

  “That’s fine. Thank you. I mean it. Thank you. This can’t have been comfortable for you.”

  I shrugged. Her pity was only stoking the bizarre rage that was still seething under my skin. I had always been short-tempered, but this kind of unwarranted aggression was totally unlike me. Tomorrow’s appointment with Dr. Clavier couldn’t come fast enough. I really needed to talk to someone professionally.

  “I’m going to call for a CSI unit,” Foster continued. “I’ll let you know what we find out.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  I hobbled away. A minute later, I was wishing I’d asked her for a ride back to my apartment. There were only a few blocks left to go, but despite having eaten only an hour before, it felt like my blood sugar was in the basement. What was going on with me? Why wasn’t I improving?

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  Nell Stark and Trinity Tam

  Any day now, I told myself, gritting my teeth at the effort it took just to put one foot in front of the other. Any day now, I would start feeling better. Healthier. Stronger.

  Yeah. Right.

  • 52 •

  everafter

  Chapter Five

  Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?”

  I paused in the act of pulling on my jacket, Alexa’s plaintive tone wrenching at me. I looked across the room to where she was sitting on the couch, books and notes spread out all around her. She wore a long-sleeved NYU shirt and black sweats, and her hair was up in a loose ponytail. She was stunning. And she looked unhappy. I couldn’t stand that.

  As quickly as I could manage it, I was standing in front of her. She wrapped her arms around my waist and rested her head against my stomach.

  “Babe,” I said quietly. “It’s not that I don’t want you to come with. But you have an exam in two days. All I’m going to do is step outside and hai
l a cab. I’ll be fine. Back before you know it.”

  She nodded, her face rubbing against my shirt. Her movements pulled the fabric up a bit, and before I could blink, her lips were tracing my navel. Oh God. Desire shot through me, sweet and piercing.

  “Alexa,” I groaned, cupping the back of her head and pulling her more tightly against me.

  “You feel so good, Val,” she murmured against my skin. My body had become molten under her touch. The ache between my thighs mirrored the burn in my throat. I needed her so badly—

  needed her to fill me up. I didn’t realize that I had spoken the words out loud until I felt her fumbling with my belt buckle.

  “Sweetheart,” I breathed, reaching down to still her hands. She swatted mine away. “Alexa…baby, look at me.” When she finally did, my resolve trembled.

  • 53 •

  Nell Stark and Trinity Tam

  Then I remembered the dream—how good it had felt to rip out her throat while thrusting into her with my hand. How hard I’d been throbbing, and how wet I’d gotten. I was so fucked up right now. If I surrendered to her seduction, God only knew what I’d end up doing to her. I took a shaky breath, resisting the urge to push her away. “I have to go.”

  Fortunately, she pulled back of her own volition. The distance between us was agony. “I know. I got carried away. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” I managed a smile and couldn’t resist trailing my fingers along her cheek to one corner of her mouth. “See you soon, okay?”

  She kissed my fingertips. “Be safe.”

  I limped down the stairs and out the door, then turned toward Avenue C. To distract myself from thinking about the dream, I thought about how good it would be to have this thirst issue under control, once Clavier figured out what was wrong. While most of me was apprehensive about what kind of condition—or pathogen—might be causing it, the med student part of me was morbidly curious. Fifteen minutes later, I was standing in front of a tall, concrete building bordering the East River. It wasn’t a very hospitable place. Its only noticeable windows were three stories up, and they looked more like medieval arrow slits. In fact, the whole structure felt like some kind of modern day fortress. But this was the address on Dr. Clavier’s card, so I took a deep breath and shuffled into the revolving door. I hated revolving doors. As a child, I had been afraid of them. Now, as an invalid, they were a pain in the ass.