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 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?
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.
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 hail 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.
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.
The door opened onto a lobby, furnished in the Art Deco style. A bank of elevators was set into the wall on the right. A turnstile to the left of the receptionist’s desk blocked casual access to the rest of the first floor. The receptionist was a woman—tanned, thin, and blond. I caught her appraising glance, but wasn’t even remotely tempted. I didn’t go for the waifish look, for one thing. For another, Alexa owned me. The memory of her lips against my stomach made my throat burn.
“I’m Valentine Darrow, here to see Dr. Clavier,” I said.
She typed some kind of query into her computer, and the attached printer spat out a plastic card imprinted with a bar code.
“Room 317,” she said, her fingers, adorned with bright red nail polish, grazing mine as I took the card. “This will open it for you.”
Hi-tech. Impressive. “Thanks,” I said, turning toward the elevators.
The third-floor corridor felt like something out of a
Star Trek
episode. Light from fluorescent lamps glittered off the metallic walls and floor. The air smelled of disinfectant, and my palms began to sweat as I flashed back to the hospital. Unlike the hospital, though, this place was silent. Creepy. I rolled my shoulders in an effort to shake off the weird feeling and slid the card beneath the infrared scanner glowing redly on the wall. It was like swiping my savings card at the grocery store, only much less mundane. The door slid open.
This was like no physician’s waiting room I’d been in before. Yes, it held an examination table, a desk with a computer on it, and a rack on the wall containing a stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff. But there was also a small conference table surrounded by four chairs, and strangest of all, a lab bench, complete with pipetting equipment and what looked like a really nice microscope. I debated between sitting in a chair or perching on the examination table and decided for the latter. The trademark crepe paper crinkled beneath me, and I had to fight the urge to kick my dangling feet like I had when I was a child.
Instead, I leaned back on my elbows and started to daydream. Dr. Clavier would come in, draw some blood, run a few tests, and discover that I had some kind of minor chemical imbalance, like a mild thyroid problem. He would prescribe a pill. Within days, the weird thirst would go away and I would start feeling stronger. He’d direct me to a really good therapist—maybe even a psychiatrist, who could prescribe some meds that would help with my anxiety. If I could stop being so afraid, I’d be able to focus enough to get caught up on my schoolwork. The nightmares would disappear, and the thought of making love with Alexa wouldn’t frighten me at all.
The door opened. I sat up straight as Dr. Clavier entered, wearing a white lab coat, black slacks, and those same tinted glasses. “Hello, Valentine,” he said, setting what I assumed was my chart down on the desk. “How are you feeling today?”
So much for small talk. Clavier was a good lesson in how not to build rapport with my future patients. “Pretty much the same as Monday,” I said. “Except thirstier, if that’s even possible.”
“Mmm. I’d like to draw some blood in order to run a few tests.”
I rolled up my left sleeve without needing to be asked, surprised that he didn’t have a technician to do this kind of thing for him. He applied a tourniquet and unwrapped a needle and syringe before gently grasping my elbow with his left hand. His fingers were cool against my skin. I watched as he inserted the needle deftly into my vein. I expected him to try to distract me with a question, the way nurses usually did, but he remained silent.
“Let’s take a look,” he said, once two vials were full and a Band-Aid was covering the small puncture wound. He gestured toward the microscope. “I’ll just be a moment.”
I watched him remove a sterile eyedropper and slide from a drawer under the lab bench. He added a drop of my blood to the slide and affixed it to the microscope stage, then he peered into the lens and adjusted the focus. I gripped the examination table hard, watching for some kind of reaction. But he had none.
After a moment, he stood, withdrew a cell phone from his pocket, and pressed one button before replacing it. Then, he walked to his desk, leaned against it, and crossed his arms over his chest. My heart was pounding against my rib cage as I tried to decipher his lack of expression. What the hell was wrong with me? Why was he being so…abnormal? Usually, physicians frustrated me with their forced friendliness, but Clavier’s laconic style was brutal.
“You have been infected with a parasite,” he said finally. “A very rare parasite, called
Plasmodium sitis.
”
There was no truly effective preparation for hearing bad news about your health. Despite having known that something was wrong with me, I freaked out. My autonomic nervous system went crazy, dumping adrenaline into my system and making me want to run for the door. I dug my fingers even harder into the metal edge of the table, willing myself to calm the fuck down. Most of the parasites I’d ever heard of were treatable. I just needed to not panic, so that I could get all the details from Clavier.
“I’ve never heard of that one,” I said, willing my voice not to shake. He actually smiled a little. How the fuck could he be smiling?
“Most people haven’t.”
“What does it do and how do we treat it?” I asked, in as business-like a voice as I could muster, even though what I really wanted to do was punch that smiling mouth of his.
“
Plasmodium sitis
is a fascinating little creature.” His voice had dropped slightly, and had a musical quality to it. He wasn’t looking at me, but at the microscope—as though he could see my blood sample from his desk. “We’ve been studying it for decades and still don’t understand it fully. Put simply: it is a blood eater.”
My brain was in hyperdrive. The only way to keep myself from panicking was to fall back on rational thought processes. “It eats blood. Like…like the malaria parasite?” But even as the question left my mouth, I knew I was barking up the wrong tree; my symptoms were nothing like those of malaria.
Clavier shook his head. “It does consume hemoglobin, but the mechanism is completely different. And this particular parasite is very, very greedy—it not only feeds off red blood cells, but from elements in the plasma as well. Most disturbing of all is its viral behavior.”
“Viral behavior?” The fear was starting to win. Parasites are multi-celled organisms. Viruses are genes covered with protein. Apples and god damn oranges.
“
Plasmodium sitis
is so very thirsty,” Clavier explained softly. He sounded like he was talking about a lover, not a pathogen. “It has a use for almost every component in the bloodstream. It alters human DNA by injecting part of itself into T-cells and modifying the cytokines that they release. These new cytokines still act like the carrier pigeons of the cellular world, but instead of sending messages about an immune response to other cells, they pass along the same alterations made in the first. A domino effect, if you will.”