"Phillip, hi."

Evie gave an apologetic look to Joanna, cupping her hand over the end of her phone and holding up a finger, indicating she'd only be a minute. She walked further into the gallery to spare the director the details of her call with the man she'd come to regard almost as a benefactor. After all, it had been his faith in her, and his strategic introductions, that had launched her career. He was also something of a mentor to her, at least when it came to navigating the pitfalls in the complicated and odd marriage between art and business.

"Listen, I know you're very busy, getting ready for the show…"

"As it happens, I'm at the gallery right now. Joanna wanted to go over some last-minute details. But I always have time for a fellow artist."

"Bah. I haven't designed anything in more than a year, and even that was a hastily thrown-together trinket for our anniversary collection," the man protested.

He was being too modest. Evie let him know it. "As I recall that 'trinket' sold out across all your stores in less than fifteen minutes, not to mention that two Oscar winning actresses wore it on prominent magazine covers that season." The piece was a gorgeous diamond starburst brooch that Phillip had titled Supernova.

"Believe me, it wasn't groundbreaking design that sold it. Come up with something useless but pretty, market it as 'limited', stick an absurdly high price tag on it to let people know how exclusive it is, and they can't help but to fall all over themselves to have it."

"Is this you giving me marketing advice?"

He laughed. "You won't need such sly tricks. Your designs stand on their own."

She could hear the wistfulness in his tone and hurried to reassure him. "You'll get back to the creative side soon enough, and the world will look on in wonder at what you've made."

"Not anytime soon, I'm afraid," Phillip sighed. "Too busy poring over quarterly reports and shooting down garish promotional campaign ideas. Some fool at my ad agency actually tried to convince me that Pete Davidson would make a good brand ambassador. Pete Davidson, wearing my 130-carat canary and coffee diamond choker! Can you imagine? Take it from me, Ms. Alexander, there's a price to pay for any creative person becoming too successful."

Ms. Alexander.

It was almost like a pet name between them. From anyone else, it would've been insulting, a subtle suggestion that her accomplishments were only achieved through family connections (connections she'd only 'enjoyed' long enough for newly discovered cousins and uncles to offer her up as a sacrifice on the altar of their greed). From P. Norton Powell, however, it was a reminder of how he'd first become aware of her, and that he'd been impressed enough to seek her out and champion her talent.

"The horror," she chuckled.

"It is, Evie. It really is."

"Any chance you'd loan me the choker for my opening?"

"My dear, if I thought you were serious, I'd have it couriered to you today, but I know it's not your style."

"What's not my style? The necklace, or the two guards you'd have flanking me the entire time I wore it?" she joked.

"Either," he replied, causing her to snort. "You're not that ostentatious, and you're too rebellious to be hemmed or herded, even as a practical matter."

"How do you see my style, then?"

Phillip didn't hesitate. "Elegant chaos."

"Oh, wow. That's a great name for a collection. Better than Tooth and Nail by a mile."

"Feel free to use it when you start your next series. But I didn't call you to talk about work you've yet to dream up."

"What then? The show?"

"No. I imagine you'll sell out before even half the champagne Joanna bought for the opening is uncorked. Thankfully, I already have the pieces I need from Tasting Life. It's your current work I've called to ask you about."

When Evie had exhausted her inspiration for Tasting Life (or, rather, when her enthusiasm for adding to the collection had waned), she'd plunged straight into another series and had been feverishly shaping and firing the pieces that made it up. What came out of her creative fury surprised her, but she supposed it shouldn't have. The work was heavy with the influence of Eastern Orthodox iconography, fed by her obsessive research into Walter De Ville's past (or, rather, the past of Vladislaus Draculea). She'd spent countless hours studying texts on Wallachia, Moldova, and the Carpathian mountain region, as well as staring at images of tapestries, engravings, and paintings from the medieval period in what was now called Romania. It was only natural that it should all spill over.

"So, you finally need that anniversary gift," she teased.

The man hummed, saying, "You might say that. Not me, per se, but…" He paused, then asked, "Have you named it yet?"

When she'd last lunched with Phillip, she'd discussed the collection, excited about how it was coming together, though she was vague about her inspiration.

And of the man who had driven her to immerse herself in the research that sparked the inspiration, she had said nothing at all.

"I was thinking Sins of the Past," she revealed, but spoke it more like a question, as though eliciting his opinion.

He gave a delighted laugh. "Perfect. How soon can you have it ready?"

That drew Evie up short. "Why? I haven't even opened my current show. There's no plans in the works for the next one."

"A show is immaterial…"

"To you, maybe," she scoffed.

"…I'd like to market the series."

"What?"

"In the French Quarter showroom. We're revamping the regional Home lines."

"Oh." Her tone gave away her surprise at the revelation. Evie paused a beat, drawing in a breath before continuing. "Mass production, Phillip? I… don't think that's right for me."

"Not mass production. One-of-a-kind pieces, hand made by you, offered at the obscenely high prices only that sort of art can command."

"I… don't know what to say."

"Say yes. This is going to be very lucrative for you, and it's what I need for New Orleans."

"Phillip, how can you know that? You've only seen, what, three pieces? And only in pictures I snapped with my phone."

When he spoke, he sounded serious, and convinced. "I know because I know you. And because the little bit you showed me made me feel something very deeply. That's what art should do."

Evie's breath caught. Hearing people speak of her work in this way was still new enough to her that she couldn't help but be affected. She was flattered, grateful, and hungry for more. Still, she was wary. Life had taught her not to rely too much on hope, or to believe that what was expected or desired would necessarily come to pass. And her time at New Carfax had taught her that things which at first seem beautiful and joyous can be tainted by an undercurrent of the profane.

"Before we get too far into this discussion, I think you should see the pieces in person, Phillip."

"I agree. I have a meeting at three, but I'm free after that. I can drop by your apartment."

The offer struck her oddly, but she could not tell if the faint unease which slithered along the edges of her awareness was due to the rapidity with which Phillip wished to proceed with a deal she had not yet agreed to, her own nightmare-induced lack of sleep, or something altogether more sinister.

"That's no good. I'll be tied up here until closing, I imagine. Why don't I bring a few pieces with me to the show tomorrow? I'm sure Joanna would let us use her office for a preview."

Phillip cleared his throat. "I'd rather not run the risk of Joanna or some other buyer getting wind of this just yet. I was hoping to have this deal done quickly. Quite honestly, I don't have time for a bidding war."

"I would never encourage that…"

"Then you have a lot to learn about business, Evie."

"Be that as it may, you're the only person besides Grace who has even glimpsed the new collection and now, you've expressed an interest in marketing it. I wouldn't entertain other offers unless you changed your mind and decided to pass on it or if we failed to come to agreeable terms."

"Still, I'd rather keep this discreet. No reason to give competitors any insight into what the company's next move is. How about lunch Saturday?"

"What if some overzealous art collector is lurking at the table next to us?" she teased.

"There won't be a table next to us. We'll meet at my place," he informed her. "I have a chef…"

She couldn't suppress the smirk that shaped her lips. "Of course you do." In some ways, Phillip reminded her of Walt. At least in his more aristocratic tendencies.

"Should I not enjoy the fruits of my labors?" he scolded gently. "I'm a busy man, Evie, and I don't always have time for restaurants."

"God forbid you order a pizza like a mere mortal."

"Bite your tongue. Have you no care my health?"

She snorted. Phillip was in exceptionally good shape for a man of his age. For a man of any age, really. She'd heard Joanna refer to him as a 'silver fox' on more than one occasion. Evie couldn't say she disagreed. "I'm positive your personal trainer would be more than happy to help you maintain your physique after a slice." She'd practically rolled her eyes when she'd said personal trainer. The man on the other end of the call was quick to pick up on the judgment in her voice.

"Are you wealth-shaming me, young lady?"

Evie shook her head in self-admonishment, drawing a quizzical look from Joanna. "Sorry. I don't mean to. It's a bad habit I have."

"If it will make you feel more at ease, I can order pizza Saturday."

"I'm sure whatever you settle on will be fine, Phillip," she replied, her tone conciliatory.

They said their goodbyes and then Evie joined the gallery director with another apologetic look before walking around the space with her, discussing object placement and lighting details.


Evie tossed and turned that night until she was tangled in her sheets, too on edge about the show's opening to rest soundly. She'd been lying in bed for hours, existing in that strange twilight between slumber and wakefulness, unable to tell if she was truly alert or merely dreaming she was. That was when Walt appeared, standing at the foot of her bed. His sudden presence failed to startle her, and so she reasoned she must be asleep and dreaming. Otherwise, would she not have screamed to see a dead man gazing down at her?

"Lord De Ville," she said, pushing herself up on her elbows and raising one eyebrow, "to what do I owe this honor?"

Strange. She wasn't usually so sarcastic with him in her dreams.

"Must a man have a reason to want to see his wife?"

"A man? No. But you?" She sat up fully, scooting until her back met her headboard. Crossing her arms over her chest, she gave him a skeptical smirk that belied the way her heart felt as though it were caught in her throat. "And I'm not your wife."

Why was her pulse pounding in her wrists? He didn't normally make her feel so on-edge in her dreams. That usually happened after she awakened.

"I hate to quarrel with you, my darling, but you most certainly are."

Evie rolled her eyes, causing him to chuckle.

Her gaze traveled down his body, from the swoop of dark hair over his forehead, to his piercing eyes, to the barest hint of white teeth nipping at his bottom lip, to the apple of his throat, bobbing as he swallowed while staring at her. When her focus reached his chest and she marveled at the way the cloth of his shirt stretched out across it, she frowned, forcing her eyes back to his, lest she become too ridiculous.

He looked good, almost heart-stoppingly so. Even better than in previous dreams. He was dressed as though he'd just returned from a business meeting, and she even detected a hint of his familiar cologne (spice and heat, with something faintly floral, and something earthy). The glow of the streetlamps through her window cast his features in soft light and she could see the familiar tilt of his lips before he addressed her. He shook his head slightly, and there was such fondness in the gesture, she felt it in her chest.

"Your show is going to be splendid, you know. You have nothing to be nervous about," he assured her with such sweet conviction that she couldn't help but believe him. "Do try to settle, dearest. Tomorrow is a big day. You need your sleep."

She blew out a frustrated breath. "I know. I'm trying. I just have too much on my mind." Evie was vaguely aware it was ridiculous to be having this conversation, now, with Walt, rather than trying to force herself awake and out of the mire of her insupportable dream. It was wrong to bask in the warmth of his attention, she knew it, but it felt too good to give it up so easily. Her loneliness had pricked at her in the small hours, ever since she'd left Whitby, and it was nice to finally have someone care about her.

Even if it was just a dream.

Even if he was just a monster.

"What plagues your thoughts, my love? Is it the show?"

"Yes." The show. And other things. Like the vampire standing at the end of her bed, emanating doting concern for her that she shouldn't trust, though she longed to.

"If you like, I could stay with you until you fall asleep."

Evie gave a small gasp, pressing the back of her hand to mouth and feigning a yawn to cover it. His words were familiar, words from her past. From the past they shared. The words had been comforting then, and thrilling, in a way. Thrilling for what they stirred in her. For the hole in her they'd filled. That hole torn by loss.

And she'd had enough of loss, hadn't she? Enough to know the shape of it, the weight of it. Enough to know how it felt to carry it, unable to shed its burden. Enough to know something that was nothing could swallow you whole and become everything.

So many times, in the depths of her grief, she'd wondered how it was that emptiness could weigh more than the entire universe.

First, her father had died, then her mother, and she was left alone in the world, unprotected and uncherished. But then she'd gone to England.

Then she'd been frightened in the night.

Then Walter De Ville had offered to stay with her until she fell asleep.

With that one sentence, Walt had declared his willingness to stand between her and danger. He had made it known that he cherished her enough to protect her from her own fears, silly as they must've seemed to a man who had lived the life he had.

It didn't matter that her parents had instilled in her a fierce independence or that they'd taught her the importance of valuing herself. Evie was a strong woman, capable of great things, but her nature did not insulate her from loneliness or the want of connection. It did not quench her desire to be cared for and regarded as something precious. Walt had made her a simple offer which spoke to her needs so perfectly in that moment, it was almost as if fate were conspiring to draw them together.

It seemed very much that same way now. The setting had changed, but not the intention behind his words. Evie found herself recalling her reply from a year ago and repeating it. It was the only thing she could say that felt right.

"Yeah. That would be nice. Thank you."

He moved around the bed to the unoccupied side, working the buttons of his crisp poplin shirt as he did, first at the cuffs, then along the front. He shed it, draping it neatly over a chair already piled high with her own things, a blouse that could endure another wear before washing, a slip dress she'd sported with a black leather jacket to an open mic night Grace and Trey had dragged her to, her slouchy cardigan that reminded her of sipping cocoa on the sofa while she Facetimed with her mom before the diagnosis. Walt was left in his dark trousers and white undershirt as he toed off his shoes and removed his belt.

With a grace almost unseemly in a man (but he wasn't a man, she reminded herself), he slid beneath her sheets, settling his head against her extra pillows. She mirrored him, settling against her own. After a moment, He reached out one finger to draw a path from her forehead, down her nose, and to her lips.

"Talk to me," she whispered against the pad of his finger. "It'll help me fall asleep." This, too, was familiar, the words having been spoken in a different bed, in a different country, a year past. The familiarity was reassuring. She settled into it, the comfort of it, watching Walt as he watched her. She nipped at his fingertip, gripping it lightly between her teeth.

"There is actually something I am curious about," he began, staring in fascination as she flicked her tongue against the skin she'd trapped with her teeth.

Evie huffed a small laugh, releasing the digit. "But you don't know quite how to ask it?"

Walt laughed along with her. "What? Do you think you know what I'm going to say?"

"Something about wondering what I want with my life." She stated it with such confidence that he pushed up on his one elbow, leaning toward her with a grin.

"Wrong. I already know what you want with your life, even if you seem to have forgotten." He dipped his head, swiping gently at her nose with his own, once, then twice. The feel of his skin against hers, even with such brief contact, was electrifying. Almost involuntarily, Evie reached out one hand, her fingers finding the notch at the base of his throat and tracing it with a soft touch.

She licked her lips, then whispered, "Okay then, what has you curious?"

"I wonder how you find it tolerable to spend time with other men when you're so clearly in love with me."

She snorted. "What other men? I haven't had a real date since well before you tried to make me your concubine."

Walter tsked, rolling his eyes. "Don't do that." It was an admonishment, but delivered gently, more pleading than irritated.

"Do what?" Evie asked innocently.

"Don't cheapen what you meant to me. What you mean still…"

"Whatever. And I'm not in love with you." She flicked her gaze to his, trying very much to mean what she was saying.

"Oh, but you are. Madly. Which is why I can't understand you spending time with that mundane boy." The way his lip curled as he pronounced 'mundane boy' made him look as though he'd just tasted something unpleasant.

"Who? Yusuf?" She narrowed her eyes, her expression half confusion, half annoyance. "He's just a friend." And for now, that was true. They'd done nothing romantic. Not yet. It was all chats at the coffee shop and flirty texts and the occasional vague reference to making plans of a more formal nature soon, when she wasn't so busy with the show. Yusuf was pursuing her, that was undeniable, but less vigorously than he might've, as though he feared spooking her. And she wasn't doing very much to encourage him. Of course, she wasn't exactly discouraging him, either.

"A friend," Walt scoffed quietly. "And is your jeweler a friend as well?"

"My jewel… do you mean Phillip?" The look she gave him then was incredulous. "Are you serious? He's my mentor! And he's old enough to be my father."

"You may see him as a father figure, but he doesn't look at you the way a father looks at a daughter."

"How do you know how he looks at me?"

Walt ignored the question. "It's so vulgar, trying to buy a woman's affections."

"Trying to buy…" Evie drew back, the implication of Walt's words turning her mood dark. She sucked in a breath. "Phillip saw my work and wanted it before he ever laid eyes on me!"

"Mmm, but he knew your name." He said it softly, and with an air of regret, as though he did not wish to hurt her but could not avoid doing so.

"My name? What are you talking about, Walt? All he knew was what I scratched on the bottom of a fruit bowl, which wasn't even my real…" The retort died on her tongue and her brows knitted themselves together.

"E. Alexander." Walt stroked the pinched skin between Evie's eyes, smoothing the wrinkles made by her dawning realization. "How is your cousin, anyway? Have you spoken to him lately?"

"I… try not to."

"Perhaps you should. He might be able to shed light on some of your jeweler's more obscure business deals."

"Are you saying Phillip is in bed with the Alexanders?"

Walt chuckled. "What a delightful way you have of phrasing it. Yes, financially, the Powells and the Alexanders are intertwined. Quite closely, in fact. Even more so over the last year. It makes sense. Without my patronage and influence, the family were forced to seek their prosperity elsewhere."

Is this a dream, or a nightmare? Evie wondered, her breath quickening.

"Even if that's true…"

"It is," he assured her.

"Even so, Phillip knows me as a Jackson, not an Alexander, and I've never told him anything about my… extended family."

"You may not have said anything, but what of Oliver? Or his father? Or any one of his sniveling brothers?"

Evie pulled away from Walt, rolling onto her back and draping her arm across her forehead as she stared up at her ceiling. "What would be the point?" she murmured. "I'm not the one with millions in the bank or the real estate connections that might be useful to a wealthy businessman. What would the Alexander family gain by outing me as one of their own? And why would Phillip even care?"

"Well, that's the question, isn't it?"

She turned over on her side to face him. "My days as an unwitting pawn of the Alexanders are behind me. I won't allow myself to be used or manipulated again."

Walt reached out, pushing his fingers into the hair behind her ear and stroking at her cheekbone with his thumb. "You're worth more than the whole lot of them," he intoned. "Now be a good girl and close your eyes, my lamb. I'll stay with you until you're fast asleep."

Evie's eyelids felt as though they were instantly heavy, falling shut nearly as soon as Walt had suggested they should. The last thing she saw before she closed her eyes completely were the tips of his sharp teeth protruding slightly, barely pinching into his plush bottom lip.

When she woke up the next morning, Evie cursed herself for her dream. Not just for the ease she'd felt in Walt's presence, but for the fact that it meant she'd be seeing him at some point that day.

It always happened that way. First, the dream, then, the sighting.

She squinted her eyes shut tightly, pulling a pillow over her face as though it could hide her from the world and its reality. "Not on opening day of the show!" she groaned. Then, before she could voice further objection, she froze.

Mandarins. Rosewood. Jasmine. Amber.

Faint, but undeniable.

All notes of the obscenely expensive cologne Walter De Ville was known to wear.

Why did her pillow smell like Walt?