Le Remède Read online

  On my way home, I spot a young woman walking purposefully down the avenue alone. Unusual on West End Avenue in the early morning hours. She is likely assessing the risk I pose based on my gender, my clothes, my posture. She wisely pivots to cross the street, but I say, “Excuse me.” She stops at the curb, keeping her distance, but she’s close enough for my purposes. “Do you know if there’s a diner near here that’s open this time of night?” She takes a step back.

  She removes her gloved hand from her coat pocket and points in the direction of Broadway, “There’s one on the corner of 96th that’s open all night.”

  I look in that direction and quickly scan the area. No one.

  Convinced I pose no threat, she smiles at me. Eye contact is all I need. Her body relaxes and I put my arm around her shoulders and lead her into a dark corner, where she willingly exposes her neck. This constant craving harasses me, bullies me, threatens me with the consequences if I don’t bend to its will. If only I could be with Andie right now, in her passionate embrace. And this poor woman could continue her hurried trip to the warmth of her apartment. But my need is relentless

  I caress her as I would a sick child and, as gently as I can, take what I need, before releasing her. I follow her for another block, as she stumbles, dazed, until she safely enters her building. Self-contempt, an unwelcome, but familiar guest, is once again knocking on my door, demanding to pull up a chair.

  Andie is responsible for my intensified feelings. She’s changing me, making me desperate, making me remember, making me want something I never thought I could have again. Something Gus has offered. The irony is not lost on me that I must depend on a vile Kindred to fulfill my most fervent desire.

  I have reached out to contacts, called in countless favors to locate a supplier of the rare black orchid, but still, I hesitate. I wonder, is this the right thing to do for Andie, for Nicholas? Or am I cheating fate, initiating an irreversible sequence of events with unknown consequences?

  I tap the light switch as I enter my apartment and notice a spot of blood on my coat sleeve. I attempt to wipe if off with a dishtowel at the kitchen sink, almost rubbing a hole in the fabric. It won’t budge, so I drop the coat in the trash and glance around the room.

  The three remaining mementos from my other life—framed sheet music from our piano in Paris, a single silver spoon with the initial PD on the end table, and the oil painting of Danielle watching over me through the decades—these vestiges of long ago that have always offered me comfort, now taunt me. My sanctuary feels like a prison. A place to lock myself away so I won’t destroy the one thing that has brought me happiness in well over a century.

  Taken at face value, Gus’ offer is astonishing. But nothing with Gus is as it appears. I’m restless. I can’t just sit here for hours waiting for the sunrise, ruminating about the incredible opportunity for me if I agree, and the untenable ramifications for Andie if I decline. Not tonight. I need to speak with Nicholas; I need his counsel. I go up to his apartment and tap on his door before entering.

  John Coltrane is playing on his phonograph, one of the few possessions from the past he refuses to relinquish, and he’s sitting on the sofa, shirtless, his head back, staring at the ceiling. A young woman, naked, is sprawled across his lap.

  I begin to back out of the room, but then I detect the sweet scent of blood—and the stench of death. A puddle has formed between his bare feet on the floor, spreading as the crimson elixir drips from her neck.

  He slowly raises his eyes to look at me and wipes his mouth with his arm, painting a red streak across his cheek. I no longer see Nicholas, only a deadly Kindred. A reluctant satisfaction and the dull sheen of regret fill his eyes.

  “Nicholas…”

  He looks down at her, runs his palm gently over her forehead, then at me.

  “She’s beautiful. I shouldn’t have brought her home.”

  I force myself to be calm. Neither of us moves. I don’t know what to say, but I know what we must do.

  “Quick, before daylight, we need to remove her from here.”

  “Don’t you ever ask yourself why?”

  “Why?”

  “Why we’re fighting so hard against our most basic instinct. What’s in it for us? No chap is going to pat us on the back, give us a gold star for good behavior, give us that coveted hundred-year chip.”

  He looks down at her again. “She liked my accent.”

  “I need a drink.” I stride to the liquor cabinet, grab a bottle of scotch and take a long draw straight from the bottle.

  I return to the sofa and offer him the bottle. He declines. “Nicholas, you’re upset. We will discuss this later. Right now, we must remove her from the apartment.”

  “Upset? Why should I be upset?” His booming voice bounces off the walls. “Because I did something that I swore I would never do again? Pretty sure that makes me fucking mental—a lapsed serial killer.” He’s again stroking her hair. “She was actually quite nice, you know? It wasn’t a one off. I was thinking I’d like to have another go with her. But then…”

  “Nicholas, look at me.” His eyes are hollow, vacant. “Clean off the blood, dress her, we’ll get her downstairs, and…”

  My words slap him back to the very thing his mind is fleeing from. “And what? Drop her in the dumpster behind the building?”

  “That’s not what I was going to say. We should place her where she’ll be readily seen in the morning. The police and the coroner will be called and her body will be handled appropriately and treated with respect.”

  “Respect? What the bloody fuck is wrong with you? There’s no respect here. Not for her, not for me and not for you helping me dump her body.” He leans back and glares at the ceiling again. “I thought I was done with this shite.”

  I take another draw from the bottle. I’m thrown off balance by Nicholas’ fall from grace, and the past blends with the present. I remember when the hunger was stronger than me, forcing me to bend to its will.

  The scene before me is a visceral reminder of what I’m capable of if I don’t regulate and monitor my feeds. I still detest that word. It sounds like throwing raw meat to an animal in a zoo. Maybe that’s what we are, nothing more than wild animals desperately trying to be domesticated. And like a wild animal, if pushed too far, our natural instinct takes over. The instinct to take what we need without regard to consequences.

  Nicholas raises his head and looks at me again. “Vincent, that was a long time ago and you’re not me. You’re a different bloke altogether. Don’t try to put yourself in my place. You wouldn’t. You couldn’t.”

  Without another word, he gently repositions her body on the sofa, takes his shirt from the floor and begins to tenderly wipe the blood stains from her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. I bring him a damp cloth to remove the last of it. No words are exchanged as he stands and heads to the bathroom to clean up and dress. I hear the water running and Nicholas beating the shower wall, swearing.

  I walk over and cover her with the afghan hanging over the back of the sofa and I sit in the armchair, trying not to look at the silhouette of her body, trying not to imagine her bereft family, her grieving friends, the life that was snuffed out in an instant, the life she has been denied only to satisfy Nicholas’ uncontrollable craving.

  That it could be Andie under that makeshift shroud.

  He emerges from the bathroom, dressed. No sign of blood. I don’t need Nicholas’ ability to intuit thoughts and feelings to know he’s torturing himself. After this, I must help him renew his vow not to take a human life.

  “Would you rather I dress her?” I ask.

  He kneels on the floor beside her. “I undressed her, I should be the one to dress her.”

  He carries her limp body, now clothed, to the elevator. I hold the door for Nicholas to enter. We stand side by side in silence, the young woman in his arms, her head hanging over his arm.

  “Wait here,” I say as I step outside the front door, which faces Riverside Park. “It’
s quiet. There is no one.” As we cross an empty Riverside Drive—an unnatural sight—I hear nothing but our solitary footsteps when, out of the dark, a cab streaks by. His duty light is off and he runs a red light. He’s likely focused on only one thing—getting home. We enter the park and Nicholas gently lays her on a bench and tucks her hands under her chin as if she had simply decided to lie down and take a nap. He is standing over her, staring, running both hands through his hair. He looks at me and the fresh bloom of self-hatred spreads across his face.

  The same look I saw on his face so many years ago.

  “Her name was Maisie.”

  “Nicholas, we must go.”

  As the words leave my tongue, a coyote crawls out from the shrubbery, sniffs the air, and stops in its tracks, growling. Nicholas yells at it, “Bugger off!”

  I stand in front of the animal, crouch down and growl back. It backs off and circles toward me again. I growl, louder this time, and the animal whimpers, tucks its tail and runs away.

  “Vincent, I can’t leave her here. That hungry bugger’ll come back. I’ll stay nearby, out of sight, until daylight or until someone finds her.”

  It’s the last thing he can do for this girl, Maisie, whose life he has stolen, so I reluctantly agree. The park is still, the streets serene. Not a soul around, but just before daylight, the joggers, the nannies with their charges, and the dog walkers will come out.

  And one of them will find Maisie’s cold, dead body.

  “Okay, we’ll sort this out when you get back. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  I leave Nicholas standing vigil.

  When I return to Nicholas’s apartment, the overwhelming scent of fresh blood lingers. I rush to open a window, grab the bottle of Scotch from the counter and gulp what is left. I’m unsure what happens now. Will our longstanding league of two disband? Will Nicholas sink into despair over his uncontrollable cravings?

  I always believed that he depended on me, but now, the thought of him breaking the tie, moving on, makes me see that I’ve depended on him just as much, if not more.

  Chapter 20

  Andie

  I wake up and glance at the clock on my nightstand. Two a.m. My body remembers every touch, every breath, every sound. Our movements were orchestrated, perfectly timed as if we had made love countless times before. Though my body is tender, feverish I can’t help but wonder if I dreamed it.

  I reach over to feel his touch again. The other side of the bed is cold. Empty. I sit up, reach for my glasses, look around the room, and grab my robe. Still slipping my arms in the sleeves, I pad down the hall to the living room, whisper shouting so as not to wake Mack, in case she’s home.

  “Vincent?” I stand in the middle of the dark living room; strips of light from the street cast shapeless shadows on the tile floor, highlighting the emptiness creeping in. “Vincent?” I stick my head in the kitchen. It’s quiet, bare. He’s gone.

  I collapse on one of Mack’s leopard-skin barstools. My stomach churns and my head threatens to implode. He actually slipped out in the middle of the night without a word. Images of the two of us tangled in the sheets flash across my brain. It leaves me weak in the knees.

  It’s David’s departure all over again.

  He had called me up crying. Sobbing actually. I’d never heard David so distraught. “I’m so sorry, Andie. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know why I’m doing it.” As we ended the strange, stunted conversation and I tried to process what it meant, he texted me. “I’m coming over.” I hadn’t seen him since he’d announced his trip to Bhutan.

  I was hopeful, ready to give him another chance—he’d had a change of heart, he still loved me. He had suffered a sort of temporary insanity and it had passed. I switched out my ratty T-shirt for a pair of cute boxer shorts and a tank, something appropriate—but not desperate—for a reconciliation, brushed my teeth, and slapped on a bit of makeup. I was nervous.

  I buzzed him in and when I opened the door, he stood there for a moment, looking contrite, repentant. His hair was a little longer, he had the beginnings of a real beard, and there were dark circles under his eyes, but his jeans were just as worn and ripped as the last time I saw him. “Andie, baby, I’m sorry.” We fell into each other’s arms, into my bed and had frantic, needy sex—the best of our two-year relationship. I drifted off to a satisfied sleep in his arms.

  When I woke up, he was gone. It never entered my mind that he was gone, gone. I texted him, called him. No response. I started to wonder if he’d been in an accident. It was two o’clock in the afternoon when I finally got the text, ironic typos and all.

  Andie, babe, lasts night was great, but it was a mistake. I was just having cold feet, butt I have to do this. I hoped you can’t understand. xxoo

  He had used me to “fix” his doubts. I had trusted him with my love and he had thrown it and me away. Again. A hot flash of angry realization that it’s happening with Vincent, makes me dizzy. I slap both cheeks with my open palms.

  “So,” I say to myself under my breath, “he’s not the first guy to be a dick. Get over it.” No, this time I can’t allow myself to wrap my hopes and dreams around a guy who always has his eye on the exit sign, no matter how amazing he might seem.

  Why couldn’t I just stick with my original plan last night and take control of the situation, listen to that little voice telling me to walk away? Now, look what I’ve done. I’m left with nothing. No, not nothing, there is the memory of legs spilling over legs, warm words whispered in the dark, the smell of him. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  I feel the pressure building behind my eyes and my throat tightening; I wipe my salty tears with my robe tie, vowing that these are the first and last tears of humiliation I will shed for Vincent Dubois. I look up at the black-cat clock on the kitchen wall, its tail flicking away each painful second. Two-twenty. I have to get up and go to work tomorrow. Today, actually. I heave a sigh and stand up.

  I trudge back to my room. The incredible lightness I felt just hours before is gone, replaced with lead weights on my chest. I let the robe drop to the floor and stare at the bed, where his body writhed with mine just a short time ago. I run my hand over his imprint still on the pillow.

  My nakedness triggers a vivid muscle memory and I begin to shiver uncontrollably. I reach into my chest of drawers, pull out a flannel nightgown, put it on, and slip under the covers, avoiding his side of the bed, but his scent lingers. I’ll wash the sheets first thing in the morning and reclaim my territory. There is no “his side.” And I’ll find a way to heal this fresh wound, ban him from my thoughts.

  I toss and turn until I’m mummified in the sheets, which only makes it worse. I jump out of bed, frantically pull off the sheets and pillowcases, march into the laundry room next to the kitchen and, with a vengeance, press the “Ultra hot” setting on the machine.

  My heart pounds, skipping a beat, then doing double time. I lower myself onto the cold tile floor. I’ve got pull it together in—I glance at the tiny digital clock stuck on the wall above the dryer and squint—three and a half hours.

  I go back to my bedroom and plop down on my back on the bare mattress, and stare at the ceiling. Exhaustion eventually overtakes me and I drift into a fitful sleep.

  In what feels like seconds later, my alarm is blaring. I blink and rub my eyes.

  And I remember.

  My head is pummeled by the image, a vise tightening around my skull. Day two of my new job, my career, and day one of trying to figure out why I attract guys who can’t deal with commitment. Or maybe it’s me and I’m only attracted to guys who have a life-threatening allergy to commitment. The good news? The soothing aroma of freshly ground coffee beans wafts into my room.

  I put on my “Dorothy” slippers, which feel downright ridiculous right now—my yellow brick road is a dead end—and slip-slap my way into the living room, where Mack is in from her sleepover, dressed and sipping coffee on the sofa. She raises her eyebrows.

  “Please tell me that’s n
ot what you wore to bed last night.”

  I look down at the faded flowers on my Christmas-red flannel “negligee.”

  “What?”

  She nods in the direction of my blouse next to her on sofa and the bottle of vodka still on the coffee table and whispers, “Is he still asleep?”

  I shake my head. “He’s gone.”

  She sets her coffee mug on the table.

  “He got up in the middle of the night and left while I was sleeping.”

  “Are you freakin’ kidding me?”

  I know I’m in for it now, but who else am I going to share this humiliating turn of events with?

  “Nope.” I’m staring at the floor now, wishing I could dissolve into a puddle and Mack would wipe me up with a dishcloth and this shameful, sinking feeling would be washed away.

  “Not even a text?”

  I look her in the eye. We’re both remembering David’s disappearance, what it did to me. I shake my head and she gets up and comes over to hug me. I let her.

  “Oh, Andie. I’m so sorry. He’s an A-hole. A pretty face like that is nothing but trouble. You’re better off. Believe me.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  “Let me get you some coffee and we can talk it out.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble. She means well but talking it out is not going to help this time. What I really need is a skilled surgeon to perform open-heart surgery and remove the part that beats for Vincent. She heads to the kitchen and I return to my room to choose something black to match my mood. I thumb through my closet, pulling out a pilled black sweater—I’m so not into fashion today—and lay it on the bed.

  I feel naked without earrings, so I walk over to the jewelry box on my dresser. Sitting atop the box is a neatly folded piece of paper with my name handwritten on it. I’m doused with equal parts hope and despair. I grab it and hold it to my nose. It smells of Vincent.