By Nell Stark and Trinity Tam

SPREAD THE INFECTION...

This excerpt is from the first third of nevermore, the sequel to everafter, which will be released in October of 2010.

              I reached the Bloody Angle just as it began to rain. Earlier in the evening, dark clouds had rolled in from the west, smothering the sunset. But the storm had held off until I’d set foot on Doyers Street. Probably a bad omen.

              At the turn of the century, crooked Doyers had been infamous as a good place to get mugged by one of the gangs warring over the turf of Chinatown and Little Italy. Now, it was a tourist attraction. As the skies opened, I made a dash for the Wing Fat Arcade, stepping down into the tunnel only seconds before the first crack of thunder rent the night. In the moments it had taken me to get indoors, the rain had plastered my hair to my head and my shirt to my torso. Rivulets of water cascaded down my face to drip onto the stone steps leading into the bowels of the City.

              Shops, all closed for the day, lined the narrow underground street: acupuncturists, an apothecary, English schools. When I reached the first intersection, I looked right, then left. Both corridors ended in barred doors with signs in English proclaiming “Keep Out!” and signs in Chinese that probably said the same thing. The one on the left also featured a beautiful woman lurking in the shadows. The gatekeeper.

              She leaned in close as she handed me a raffle ticket. “Haven’t seen you in months,” she murmured. When she breathed in deeply, frown lines materialized on her forehead. “Hmm.”

              “What?”

              “The cat. Her scent has faded.” Her lips skated lightly across my neck. “She shouldn’t be so cavalier about her territory.”

              I stiffened and stepped away, tamping down a blistering surge of anger that made me want to sink my sharpened teeth into the tattoo just below her collar bone. Instead, I reached for the door handle. It didn’t budge. The gatekeeper smiled provocatively as she pulled her cell from the front pocket of her skinny jeans. When she punched three numbers into the keypad, I heard a click as the lock released.

              “Have fun,” she said as I stepped into the gloom beyond. As soon as the door slammed shut, I crumpled up my ticket and tossed it onto the floor. I wanted what it offered too much to trust myself.

              The corridor was sinuous, twisting every ten feet so that it was impossible to make out its destination. Naked light bulbs hung from the ceiling, their harsh light illuminating doors that were set into the uneven stone walls at regular intervals. The fifth door on the right had been propped open with a brick, and I slipped into a large, low-ceilinged room that might once have been a warehouse but now functioned as a club. Several folding tables had been lined up to form a bar along the near wall, and a makeshift plywood dais across the room served as a stage on which a blonde woman, wearing only stilettos, danced for the crowd.

              In another room nearby, I knew, would be the dogfights. I needed to find them and ask around about Vincent. But first I needed a drink. Being here reminded me of the last time I’d braved the Circuit—the night when my “mugger,” the Missionary, had made an appearance. The night I’d almost died at his hands a second time. If it hadn’t been for Alexa…

Suppressing a shudder, I worked my way to the bar and ordered a double of whiskey, neat. After a long sip, I took a look around, intending to head for the fights—but at that moment, the lights dimmed and a spotlight focused on the stage. When a woman, dressed head to toe in black leather and holding a cat ‘o’ nine tails, stepped into the bright circle, I sighed in relief. The Record was much easier for me to handle than the Raffle for some poor homeless soul’s lifeblood.

              As the dominatrix dramatically cracked her whip, two men, shirtless and barefoot, led a naked woman out onto the stage by a chain clipped to the collar around her neck. I sucked in a surprised breath when I recognized her.

“Gwendolyn was reborn in India, one hundred and eighteen years ago.” The disembodied voice ricocheted around the room, soft and sibilant. As though it were inside my head. “The last time she stood before us, she nearly broke the Record. Tonight, she wishes to try again. Will you welcome her?”

              Applause thundered beneath the low ceiling, and I felt my pulse increase to match the beat of the crowd. Gwendolyn’s skin shone under the spotlight, and for a moment, I thought she had used oil, until my keen vision caught a bead of sweat trickling slowly between her breasts. I frowned. These tunnels were cool. If she was nervous enough to be sweating profusely, she wasn’t going to last long.

The dominatrix’s crimson lips twitched slightly below the cruel beak of her falcon mask, and I wondered what she was feeling. Power? Lust? Perhaps even a little trepidation? The collar around Gwendolyn’s neck looked heavy and the chain strong. But only months ago, I had watched her transform into a Bengal tiger and snap those iron links in one powerful lunge. She had been beautiful in her ferocity. And I had no doubt that she would have killed her tormentor if given the chance.

              A hush fell over the room as the dominatrix moved into striking distance. In the pause before she raised her arm, I drank deeply from my whiskey. I didn’t want to feel anticipation for the spectacle, but the mood of the crowd had caught me up. I walked the streets above among mortals with the face of a woman and the appetites of a monster. Down here in the belly of the City where the veneer of civility had no place, we were all unmasked. It would have felt like a relief, had I not been so desperately thirsty.

              My throat pulsed greedily as a streak of red opened along Gwendolyn’s flank. Another followed it below her left shoulder blade. Another, and then another, until her flesh was weeping and it was all I could do not to vault onto the stage and kneel beneath her to catch the red drops as they fell upon unyielding wood.

              The crowd counted. Twenty-four. Thirty-seven. Forty-nine. The Record was fifty-seven lashes; I knew that from the last time Gwendolyn had attempted it. Her tiger had leapt free at fifty-one. Now, on the cusp of fifty-five, the energy in the room was nearly unbearable.  She was shaking, convulsing against the pillar, held up only by her chained hands as her feet skidded over the rough floor. How was she not shifting?

              The room went berserk at the fifty-eighth lash. It felt like Times Square on New Year’s Eve, and I clutched at my glass, struggling to keep my feet. Once I’d found my balance, I looked up at Gwendolyn again, wondering how long she would be able to hang on…only to realize that something was terribly, horribly wrong. She was jerking in her chains, and her eyes had rolled up in her head. Spittle foamed over red lips drawn back in a rictus of agony. And that’s when I knew: it wasn’t self-control that had allowed her to break the Record. Like Vincent, like Martine, she couldn’t shift.

              The dominatrix had lowered the whip. It trembled against the floor, an extension of her shaking hand. The crowd was starting to quiet now, their exultant shouts subsiding into confused murmuring. Cursing, I pushed forward, shouldering through the wall of people. I didn’t know what I could possibly do when I reached Gwendolyn, but I had to try something. When her body began to blur, I felt a surge of hope that she might transform after all…but she continued to spasm, human and helpless, the chain clanking hollowly against the pole as the seizures wracked her flayed body.

              And then, as though a switch had been flicked, the paroxysms stopped. Her chin lolled on her breastbone as she swung slowly from the bonds around her wrists. When blood seeped out of her mouth to join the crimson smears at her feet, I knew she was dead.

Back to Top