Sometimes, Evie's dreams of Walt were strangely lucid.
"We should get ready for the rehearsal dinner," he said, arm curled around her as he studied the contours of her face. Her eyes were closed but she could feel his gaze dragging over her skin, warming it. Evie groaned in protest.
She was aware the protest should be against him holding her this way, against touching her at all. The protest should be against a man— 'No, not a man,' she mentally corrected herself for the thousandth time—who held no greater regard for human life than he did for that of a beetle or an earthworm.
It should be, but it wasn't. No. Shamefully, the protest was against the thought of having to separate from him, even for the space of an hour, to ready herself for a dinner. The protest was against the very idea that the rehearsal dinner for two people she'd yet to lay eyes on somehow took precedence over luxuriating in the feel of Walt's closeness and heat. Of his ardor.
And she knew, she knew, the rehearsal dinner wasn't for Martin and Cecile (wasn't even sure if there was a Martin or a Cecile), that it was for her. For the two of them. Walter De Ville and Evelyn Alexander. She knew what was coming. There was no blissful ignorance in this dream. She understood that the arm wrapped around her belonged to a killer.
She just didn't care.
A gasp wrenched Evie from her sleep, heart pounding and breath hitching. She sat up, pushing her back against her headboard and drawing her knees close to her chest. She forced herself to take deep breaths, but they were too quick and too harsh to be calming. Wave after wave of emotion broke over her and she felt the panic of a drowning woman, kicking and clawing her way to the surface, all while the undertow threatened to pull her under, filling her lungs and robbing her of any hope for peace.
Loss. Walt was gone. She was alone.
Disgust. In the dream, she'd thought of the maid, of her neck being opened by Mr. Field's wicked dagger, and she'd dismissed the image in favor of Walt's embrace.
Fear. Did her callous selfishness in the dream hint at some underlying flaw in her character? Could she ever be so detached from the pain of others?
Lust. Even now, in her waking state, she felt the flush of desire. In her dream, she'd only just had Walt, but that did not curb her want of him, a want she'd somehow carried forward from the dream world into reality.
Confusion. Why was she dreaming of him still? Why did her animus for the life he lived, his choices, his wanton destruction of innocence, not seem to extend to the man himself?
Longing. Something as simple as the way he sounded when he spoke to her filled her with the most intense hunger to hear him speak again, and she could not account for the strength of the need, or the degree of her frustration that it was by her own doing that the need would never be met.
"It's strange the things that make an impression," she whispered into the dark, a trick meant to restore her sense of normal amid the swirling chaos of her emotions. As though indifferent analysis could dampen the force of her feelings just then. Still, she pressed on. "It's strange what slips beneath your skin and takes hold." She might've been talking to Grace about a movie they'd just watched instead of her own life.
But no attempt at aloof observation could erase Walt's tone from her mind.
There was a quality to Walt's voice that stuck with Evie, even a year after she'd last heard it. It wasn't exactly a rasp, it was more like gravel, a low jaggedness which seemed incongruous with his buttoned up English manners (well, as buttoned up as one's manners could be when one was the sort of person who terrorized servants before draining them of their blood). He didn't always sound that way, but it was the way he always sounded when he spoke to her.
As if he'd only just awakened from a doze and was delighted to see her but wasn't entirely sure if she was merely a remnant of his dream.
It annoyed her to think of it, especially in that way. For one, Evie wasn't even sure Walter De Ville had dozed a day in his life. She'd never seen him sleep, and if he had, he'd probably done it suspended from the ceiling, like some great, terrifying, cruelly beautiful bat. Aside from that, she knew he was only delighted to see her because of what her bloodline meant to his cabal of depraved, parasitic gentry.
Still, understanding that didn't stop the strange thrill that gripped her whenever she heard anyone speak with a similar sort of gravel in their tone. For as hard as she'd tried to leave New Carfax Abbey and everything that had happened there behind, one word could drag her right back, if spoken in that damnably provocative way.
"Excuse me," a man murmured to Evie, his voice heavy with that same sleep roughened quality that Walt's possessed, "do you mind if I take one of these chairs?" He was leaning down to speak softly to her so as not to disturb the other patrons of the library, his hand splayed on her table. Her spine stiffened but she forced herself to tamp down the nerves that jangled at the sound by running through a checklist of observations meant to center her, to remind her of why she should not fear (and why she could not hope).
Lots of people sounded like that, especially when they were trying to be quiet.
The accent was American, not British.
The hand on her table was darker than her own.
And, most importantly, Walt was dead.
She ticked through the facts at lightning speed, intensely conscious that an answer was expected, and she'd need to give it quickly to avoid looking like a crazy person.
"Um, yes. I mean no, I don't mind. Yes, you can take it."
The words weren't garbled, exactly, but they ran too close together to sound completely natural and when she looked up at the man's face (handsome, young. An undergrad, if she had to guess), he did not try to hide his amusement. He probably thought she was flustered by him. And, she was, but not for the reason he suspected.
"Thanks," he said with a half-smile and Evie could not suppress the small shiver that traveled from her scalp to her shoulders, extracting from her the slightest of shakes. The chair-borrower's smile broadened at that, and he kept his gaze locked on her two seconds longer than was strictly necessary as he dragged the chair to the table where he was meeting with his study group.
Evie narrowed her eyes, giving him a look she hoped said she wasn't interested (she could hear Grace's voice then, scolding her. 'And why the hell not? You better use it before you lose it, girl!'). Sighing, she turned back to her reading.
If anyone asked her, the dusty books on medieval European history were research for her work, an attempt to reach a deeper understanding of the era and region inspiring her next ceramics series. No one would question it. Most people didn't understand anything about the evolution of pottery or ceramics but if they did, they wouldn't bat an eye at her interest in Romania. After all, the country boasted a city that was world famous for their ceramics and continued to produce them using ancient techniques passed down for hundreds of years.
The volumes she studied today were old and seldom perused, but they did not contain the sort of esoteric knowledge she'd previously found in the rare book and manuscript room. She would've loved to spend hours poring over works whose publication dates rivaled the Gutenberg Bible again, but access required an appointment which was only granted with a minimum of seven days' notice (in writing), and she'd only discovered she had free time at the last minute, when Grace had been forced to cancel their lunch plans. Since she was already on campus, ready to meet her friend after her Political Economy class when the apologetic phone call came ('So sorry, Evie. My advisor bumped up my appointment to meet about my senior thesis to today. Something about leaving town in the morning for a family emergency. Rain check?'), she headed to the library.
Briefly, she considered battling Columbia's sour-faced tyrant of a head librarian for access to the special collection, but the frown the woman gave her through the glass wall of her office was enough to make Evie change course and head for the stacks instead.
She might've called in a favor from Cousin Oliver. He still owed her for stepping in when Grace had wanted nothing more than to bash his skull with a baseball bat last year, but she was trying to keep their contact to a minimum. He'd proven his value when he'd gotten her admitted to the rare book room the first time around—the Alexander name, it seemed, still had some pull despite the sudden severing of the relationship which had granted the family a large portion of their influence—and she had no doubt he could do it again, but for as much as she'd been ruminating on voices from the past today, she had no wish to hear his.
Evie contented herself with reading about the intricacies of the court at Târgoviște. She tried picturing Walt there, but she couldn't make the image fit. For as much of a luddite as he'd claimed to be, and as outmoded as his attitude and sensibilities sometimes were, he'd still struck her as a modern man.
With a huff, she leaned back in her seat, her eyes flicking up toward the high ceiling, staring into the fluorescent lights there. Not for the first time, she wondered why she was bothering with all this. She'd been telling herself it was important to know about Walt, to try to piece together his past to see if she could pinpoint the way in which he'd become what he was, not just for her own understanding and sense of closure, but also so that such an atrocity could be prevented from ever occurring again. Additionally, she'd told herself she needed to look for any evidence that there were others like him, because if there were, the world should not have to bear the calamity they would surely rain down upon the unsuspecting populace (and who was more uniquely qualified than her to face such creatures, and end them, for the good of all?)
But for all her pretense of noble intentions, deep down, she understood there was more to it, even if she resisted admitting it to herself.
She ached for him.
That was the truth of it.
She ached for Walter De Ville, and since she'd banished him from the world, the only way she could have him now was to trace his path through history, insomuch as she was able.
Evie's face pinched as though she'd been struck with a sudden pain. She shut her eyes and blew out a frustrated breath toward the ceiling as she slid down in her chair.
"You cannot be this stupid," she hissed under her breath.
"I guess I thought of it more as being polite," that rumbling voice from earlier said with a light chuckle. "I just wanted to return this."
Evie gasped and pushed straight up in her chair, posture as erect as a statue. "Oh," she said, meeting the young man's eyes as she bit her lip with embarrassment. He was standing at the end of her table, sides of the chair he'd borrowed grasped between his two large hands. He'd carried it, apparently, rather than dragging it, so she hadn't heard his approach. "I… didn't mean… I, um…" She cleared her throat and sniffed. "I wasn't talking to you."
His eyebrows rose as he glanced around. Smiling, he set the chair down in its place and leaned on her table, bracing himself with two hands. "I don't see anyone else around."
"I was talking to myself," she explained sheepishly.
"Ahhh," he responded, drawing out the word as though her faux pas now made perfect sense. "You know, in some circles, talking to yourself could be seen as a sign of mental instability." Before Evie could blurt out 'Those circles can go fuck themselves,' the chair-borrower continued. "Lucky for you, I recognize it as a sign of caffeine deficiency."
"Is that right?"
He grinned. "It is."
"What makes you such an expert?"
"Well, I'm graduating in a few months with honors in chemistry, and I've already been accepted to medical school, so I'm in a position to recognize this as the chemical and medical emergency it is."
Evie folded her arms over her chest, tilting her head and regarding the man. "If it's such a medical emergency, why aren't you calling 911?"
"Well, you can't be expected to know this since you're studying…" He glanced down at the books scattered around the table. "…medieval European history…" Squinting at her, he cocked his head to the side. "Really?"
"Really."
"Hmm. Interesting. But, as I was saying, the treatment of choice for your condition is coffee."
"Coffee?"
"Stat. And it just so happens I'm certified in coffee administration."
"Is that part of the chemistry curriculum here at Columbia?" At his answering grin, Evie couldn't help but to smile back. Her chair-borrower had a devastating dimple in his left cheek when he smiled, and it served to distract her from the unease she'd been experiencing moments before his return to her table.
"Not exactly, but it's a requirement if you're a part-time barista."
"An expert in chemical reactions, an aspiring physician, and a java-slinger? Now you have my attention."
"Good, because I was running out of ways to impress you." He pushed up from the table and stood tall, allowing Evie to admire his build. He looked like a well-conditioned tennis player. Broad enough, but still lithe.
"You were trying to impress me? Why?"
The young man slipped his hands into his pockets and hung his head in mock defeat. "I'm really not good at this, apparently," he said to his shoes. Then, looking up at her through his lashes, he asked, "Would you like to get a cup of coffee with me?"
Evie laughed, a little too loudly, judging by the censuring looks a table of students across from them gave her. She mouthed, "Sorry," then looked at the man. "I blame you for that," she whispered. "You could have just come out and asked me. No need for all the buildup."
He shrugged. "I said I wasn't good at this, didn't I?"
"Oh, you're good. A little too good," she replied, pursing her lips as she regarded him. "I'm Evie, by the way."
"It's nice to meet you, Evie. I'm Yusuf."
"Yusuf," she repeated, liking the way the name felt on her lips. "Well, Yusuf, since my neck is starting to ache from bending over these books all afternoon, I suppose a coffee break isn't the worst idea in the world."
"Not the worst idea in the world? If I had a nickel for every time a girl said that to me…" He grinned at her again, his dimple sinking into his cheek in a way that had her wondering what sort of mischief he could get up to between shifts at the coffee shop and study sessions in the library. She stood, gathering her books.
"I'll just drop these off at the return cart and we can go."
"I'll take them for you," he offered.
"Wow. Okay. Thanks."
Yusuf picked up the pile and began walking toward the return cart on the far side of the room. As he did, Evie felt the hairs on the back of her neck begin to prickle. Slowly, she turned to look behind her. There, leaning against the end of a distant stack, she saw a man, frowning at her just before he turned and slipped into a row, disappearing from her sight.
A man with ebony hair, pale skin, a chiseled jaw, and though she was too far away to see for certain, she'd bet a month's rent that he also had icy blue eyes.
"Ready?"
Evie jumped and had to muffle a scream. She jerked her head back to see Yusuf, looking at her with a bemused expression.
"God, sorry, I didn't mean to…" His voice trailed off and he took a step closer to her, his look morphing to one of concern. "Evie, are you okay? You're shaking."
She laughed, trying and failing to seem unbothered. "I'm fine. I… just thought I saw someone I knew."
"From the look on your face, I'd say someone you weren't happy to see."
That was true. And also, not.
"Um… an ex," she said.
"Ah, no wonder you look haunted," Yusuf said in a teasing tone while giving her a gentle nod. He was obviously trying to relieve some of her tension. "Well, now would be the perfect time to abscond and get some coffee."
"Abscond?" she laughed, drawing more glares from the students studying nearby. She bit back her laughter and leaned closer to her companion. "We'd better get out of here before they kick us out."
After leaving the library together, Evie and Yusuf made their way to the coffee shop where he worked and found a table in the corner furthest from the door. They passed a pleasant hour there, chatting and joking. She learned about him, about his ambitions, his family, his interests, while she passed on only the barest details about herself. By the time he had to start his shift, she'd only revealed that she was a freelance artist and hoped to complete her MFA in the next year or two.
"It was a pleasure, Evie," he said, rising from his seat.
"Yes," she agreed, giving him a genuine smile, "it was."
"I'd like to do it again sometime. Maybe by then, you'll trust me enough to be a little less mysterious."
"Oh, hmm." She dropped her eyes to the table while she warred with herself. It would be the simplest thing in the world, to give this man her number, to meet him again, to go on a date with him. He was obviously interested, and he was good-looking, and intelligent. Grace would tell her she was an idiot for thinking twice. But something gnawed at her, and it wasn't so much the gnawing feeling that stopped her, but her incredulity at what the feeling was.
Guilt.
She felt guilty, as though being here with Yusuf, as though considering seeing him again, was somehow wrong.
But it wasn't wrong! Of course, it wasn't. What had she to feel guilty about? This was stupid! It was perfectly normal for her to be interested in men, and to consider dating. It wasn't like she was married…
Not anymore.
"Or, if you don't want to…" Yusuf was saying.
In a fit of pique, Evie stood, reaching her hand out for his phone. "No, no, of course, yes. I think that would be nice." Grinning, he unlocked the device and handed it to her, watching as she typed her number in and then sent herself a text. "There," she said. "You can… you can text me sometime."
"Great," he said, taking his phone back and slipping it into his back pocket. "You'll be hearing from me."
"I look forward to it," was her determined reply as she slipped the strap of her messenger bag over her head so that it settled across her chest. "Goodbye, Yusuf."
"Goodbye, Evie."
As she left the shop and headed home, she wondered if she would start to think of Yusuf instead of Walt whenever she heard someone speak with that gravelly tone the men shared.
That night, Evie was visited not by a dream, but a nightmare. Only this one was different. Instead of New Carfax Abbey, she found herself in a coffee shop. Instead of tearing out a maid's throat with his teeth, Walt was attacking Yusuf. And instead of relief when she woke up shaking, Evie felt…
Remorse.
