Once An Eve Novel

of the photo I’d grown up with in School. His thin gray hair hung over his forehead. His skin was loose around his jowls and his beady eyes were always watching, following you wherever you went.
    Soldiers milled about the lobby, some talking, others pacing in front of a fountain. Stark took me through a set of gold doors into a small mirrored elevator and punched a code into a keypad inside. The doors slid shut and then we were moving, up, up, my stomach rocking as the floors flew past—fifty gone, then fifty more.
    “You’re going to regret this,” I said, straining against the plastic bands around my wrists. “I’ll tell him what you did. How your men threw me onto the ground in that parking lot. How you threatened to kill me.” I looked down at the gash in my arm, the crusted blood turned black.
    Stark shook his head. “Whatever it takes,” he said, his voice flat. “Those were my orders. Do whatever it takes to bring you here.” Then he turned to me, his eyes bloodshot. He clutched the collar of my shirt and pulled me toward him so my face was just inches from his. “Those men you killed were like brothers to me. They served with me every day for three years. The King will never punish you for what you did, but I will make sure you never forget what happened that day.”
    The doors opened before us with a terrifying bing! Stark’s nails dug into my arm as he led me to a room across the carpeted hall. “You’ll wait for him here.” Then he pulled a knife from his pocket and sliced the plastic restraints in two. My hands tingled from the sudden rush of blood to my fingers.
    The door closed. I leaped up and grabbed the handle, knowing before I even tried it that it would be locked. A long mahogany table sat in the center of the room, surrounded by a few heavy chairs. A massive window looked out onto the City, a two-foot ledge just a few inches below. I went to the glass, wedging my fingers beneath the pane, straining against it. “Please open,” I muttered under my breath, “please just open.” I had to get out of that room. It didn’t matter how.
    “They’re sealed shut,” a low voice said. My spine stiffened. I turned. Standing in the doorway was a man of about sixty, with gray hair and thin, papery skin.
    I stepped away from the window, my hands dropping to my sides. He wore a deep-blue suit and a silk tie, the New American crest embroidered on his lapel. He stalked forward, taking one slow lap around me, his eyes scanning my tangled auburn hair, the linen shirt soaked through with sweat, the scrapes around my wrists from where I’d been bound, and the wound on my arm. When he finally finished his survey, he stood before me, then reached out and stroked my cheek. “My beautiful girl,” he said, running his thumb over my brow.
    I smacked his hand away and staggered backward, trying to put as much space between us as possible. “Stay away from me,” I said. “I don’t care who you are.”
    He just stood there, staring. Then he took a step forward, and another, trying to get closer to me.
    “I know why I’m here,” I spat, circling the table, moving backward until I was pressed against the wall. “And I would rather die than bear your child. Do you hear me?” I raised my arm to strike him but he caught my wrist instead, his grip firm. His eyes were wet. He leaned down until his face was level with mine.
    When he finally spoke, each word was slow and measured.
    “You aren’t here to bear my child.” He let out a strange laugh. “You are my child.” He pulled me toward him, cradling my head in his hand, and kissed my forehead. “My Genevieve.”

eleven
     
    WE STOOD LIKE THAT FOR A SECOND, HIS HAND ON THE BACK of my head, until I broke free. I couldn’t speak. His words rushed in and corrupted everything—past and present—with their horrible implications.
    I felt light-headed. What had my mother told me? What had she said? It was always the two of us, for as long as I remembered. There were no pictures of my father on the wall above the staircase, no stories told about him at bedtime. When I was finally old enough to realize I was different from the children I played with, the plague had swept through, taking their fathers as well. He was gone, that was all I needed to know, she’d said. And she loved me enough for both of them.
    He produced a shiny piece of paper from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and held it out to me. A photograph. I took it, studying the