Evie would see him sometimes after the dreams. Walter De Ville. A glimpse of his profile in the crowd on the platform of the subway station, a flash of his preposterously glossy hair as he got into a cab or walked out of a coffee shop she happened to be passing, a brief peek of his form ahead of her in a crosswalk while she hurried to the gallery to meet with Joanna, the director, about her upcoming show.

As if he would lower himself to take the subway or buy a cup of coffee in some random shop in New York City. If he even drank coffee, the beans probably had to be hand-picked by Vestal Virgins, roasted in small batches to precise specifications based on some ancient Sumatran recipe, and ground immediately before brewing in a high-end, Italian made espresso machine before the coffee was poured into an antique bone china cup (and he probably knew whose bones were in the china).

There were times she wasn't sure if Walt's biggest sin was being a murderous vampire or a rich asshole.

When she thought she saw him in those unlikely places, a double take was always enough to assure Evie she was mistaken, that she was seeing another man who only bore a passing resemblance to Walt and not the lord of New Carfax Abbey himself. That reassurance, however, was not enough to stop the pounding of her heart and the sharp prickles that danced down her neck and spine in the minutes afterwards.

It was never like that after a nightmare. After her nightmares, and the often wildly fruitful hours which followed, she was usually spent but happy. Fulfilled, even. Sated. But never anxious. Never apprehensive. And she never saw him.

Her settled demeanor after her nightmares made her think of a song she'd heard when she was a young girl. Mad World. There was a line in it that alluded to horrible nightmares being good. A beneficial thing. The idea had always resonated with her, and she'd thought about it quite a lot in the last year, after returning from her ill-fated stay in England. She'd looked into it and found the field of psychology had an entire school of thought based around the theory that nightmares were the way a person's psyche processed and purged stress.

What seemed terrible, what felt awful in the moment, actually served an important purpose.

"Could be something to it," Evie murmured to herself as she pushed through the door of a patisserie on her way to see Joanna. She was thinking about how she was mostly in control these days. No, better than simply in control. Her life was good, really good, even if she could stand to catch an hour or two more sleep per night. On the one hand, she was plagued by nightmares, but on the other, she was finally achieving the success she'd always craved while doing what she loved. Most days, if asked, she'd say she was in a great place.

And she'd gotten there without the therapist Grace still insisted she needed. It wasn't that Evie detested the notion of therapy, or doubted its value, but what was she supposed to say? "Hey doc, I really need to talk about the half-dozen or so servants who were murdered in this giant mansion I burned down in England. No, it wasn't the arson I committed that killed them. In fact, the only person who died in that fire was the vampire responsible for their deaths, as far as I know…"

It seemed like a great way to end up in Bellevue's locked ward.

She wondered if the nightmares were really their own form of therapy, anyway. She found herself welcoming them, no matter how bloody or violent, because of what came after (the relief, the passion for her work, and most especially, the not seeing Walt everywhere she went). What she dreaded were the languid dreams; the ones where she simply existed in Walt's presence, admiring him; absorbing him; loving him.

Love.

She startled herself with that thought.

Evie scoffed, giving a quiet snort as she considered the idea. Not quiet enough, apparently. She earned a curious look from the man standing to one side of her, waiting for his order of half a dozen pain au chocolat. She was ready to ask him if there was something she could help him with, but her inclination was interrupted by the pink-aproned counter attendant.

"Your usual?" the chipper girl asked Evie. She'd been coming here often enough over the past three or four months to have a 'usual.' The place was perfectly situated between the subway station and the gallery, the walk between the two allowing her just enough time to finish a small beverage and eat her treat before arriving on Joanna's doorstep.

"Yes, please." Evie smiled. The girl nodded, ringing her up then moving to the pastry case to pluck a single pistachio macaron from the display. She placed it in a petite paper bag before making a rose latte. Once her order was complete, Evie accepted her purchases, raising one skeptical eyebrow at the man who had already received his box of chocolate croissants but still lingered, watching her.

Perhaps he was waiting to see if she'd reveal what she'd been scoffing over when she entered the shop.

Mind your business, she thought, giving him a glare over her shoulder as she turned and walked to the door. Paper cup in one hand, small macaron bag in the other, she angled herself sideways and pushed the door with her shoulder, glancing toward the streetcorner where she would cross. Stopped for a red light at the intersection was a large, silver Jaguar, the sort you were driven in rather than the sort you drove. She might've paid it no notice but for the fact that the back window was down, and she could see the passenger there, head bent as though looking at something in his lap. A newspaper? His phone?

Evie's breath caught and the little bag with her cookie slipped from her fingers. She stood frozen in the doorway as the light changed and the car moved through the intersection and down the street, away from her. Still, she stared. She stared and stared.

"Miss?" she heard. Brows knitting together, she turned her head to see the man with his burden of pain au chocolat standing just inside the door, waiting to exit. She was blocking his way. "You dropped something." He was gesturing toward her feet.

Absently, she nodded, bending to pick up her bag. "Thanks," she muttered, finally stepping out onto the sidewalk, and drifting toward the corner. All the while, she was thinking, It wasn't him. It couldn't have been him.

Surely there were other men in the world with that jawline.

As she waited in the small crowd for the flashing white hand to okay her short trip across the street, she tried to shake off the strange feeling that had settled over her when she'd seen the man.

Your mind always plays this trick, she reminded herself. Every morning after a dream, you think you see him, but you know it's not possible.

This time was different, though. This time, staring harder at him hadn't convinced her he was someone besides Walter De Ville. In fact, the harder she stared at the man, the more it seemed like it was him. And, just when the light had turned green and the car began to move, the passenger in its backseat looked up from whatever he'd been studying in his lap and turned, gazing directly at her. He'd held her eye until he was out of her line of sight.

She swore that just before he'd disappeared from her view, his lips had curled into a small, lopsided smile, one with which she was all too familiar. At the sight of it, her mind had been flooded with a memory that was both achingly sweet and entirely infuriating.

"I've never mastered small talk," he'd told her as he lay beside her, elbow braced against her mattress so he could prop up his head with his hand. His very presence was an act of chivalry and care, an attempt to comfort and reassure her after she'd experienced a fright. (It was only later that she'd wonder if his agreement to stay with her was more about manipulation and less about his concern for her ease.)

"I've noticed," she'd replied, laughing tiredly. That was when he gave her the smile, so perfectly charming and impossibly delicious that it had to be practiced. Yet, it was delivered as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

He played his part well.

He'd asked her what she wanted out of life, and she'd told him. She could've given him a bullshit answer, one that was easy and expected. She'd even told him what she would say if she'd chosen the simple reply, but something in that moment demanded the truth of her, and she'd dug deep, unearthing it, and offering it to him. Walt. A man whose acquaintance with her could be measured in days, even hours. He was practically a stranger and she'd given him total raw honesty. Looking back, Evie had no defense for it. No explanation. She'd simply been drawn to him, and that allure had somehow coaxed a truth from her that she'd barely even acknowledged to herself.

"I want to live life fully, you know? Throw caution to the wind," she'd revealed. "That's what I really want."

They were words he would later use to trick and trap her, but that didn't make them any less true.

Now, crossing the street in the middle of the morning throng, Evie wondered if she was perhaps going crazy. Walt was dead. She'd pushed him into the fire, watching him burn. Her own strange abilities and the changes she'd endured after tasting his blood had faded at the same time as his angry, pained roars emanated from the flames. What further evidence was needed? Walter De Ville (or Wealdhere Umbrasange, or Vladislaus Draculea) was no more than ashes scattered amongst the rubble of New Carfax Abbey. He could not be smiling seductively at her from the backseat of a Jaguar XJL.

And if she didn't stop imagining him popping up everywhere she went, she really might end up in Bellevue.