The music stopped, which was good, because the sight greeting me was so loud I wouldn’t have heard it anyway.
Color blazed so brightly that I staggered forward and blinked away tears, trying to adjust my sight.
Ruby red carpet cushioned my wrecked feet. Blazing gas lamps filled every corner and nook with soft light. Green wallpaper, embossed in stunning golden patterns, made the old foyer seem smaller and more comforting. The old pedestrian reception desk gleamed, polished to a high gloss.
This was… impossible.
Old room keys hung on their hooks behind the desk. I couldn’t remember ever seeing the keys there before or ever witnessing such decadent splendor inside the station. It had always been beautiful, but not like this. It looked new, as though it had just opened its doors for the first time. Nothing was faded or frayed or dulled with age.
Emotion clogged my throat. I reached out and set the gun down on the reception desk, and my hand came away trembling. The desk was so clean it showed my reflection in its panels. My filthy blood-splattered face, my wide and tearful eyes, and my filthy clothes. Here I stood, barefoot and alone, trembling and weak, but the station understood. It knew me, and it had done all this for me.
I was home.
Alone, but home.
I closed my eyes, afraid but stronger for seeing all this. “At least you haven’t abandoned me.”
“Welcome to the Night Station,” a smooth English-accented voice said.
The gun was in my hand and aimed at the bastard standing inside the grand, arched internal doorway.
Just Jack but…
I blinked again, ignoring the tears that fell. This wasn’t right. It was impossible. “No.” I stepped closer. “No!”
Jack leaned on his cane. His mouth slipped into a lopsided smile. He wore a perfectly tailored top hat and tuxedo jacket with tails, each line precise. Cufflinks glinted at his wrists. Kohl lined his eyes, adding a theatrical flair. He was the showman, the center of attention, and I’d seen him like this before, as a ghost haunting my hallways. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. He’d been a ghost then. Was he a ghost now? Was any of this real?
I stopped a few strides from him and flexed my fingers on the shotgun’s barrel, keeping my trigger finger firmly poised to blow all that smugness away.
“What is this?” I hissed. “I left you back there... rabid and...”
“Yes, well, as you can see,” a neat little gesture down himself, “I recover quickly.”
“Get out of my home!”
He removed the top hat and bowed. “My real name is Lassiter. You are a guest in my home, Miss Aris. I suggest you behave like one.”
I stepped closer, snarling. “I don’t care what you call yourself Jack. I never have. You need to leave, or I’ll shoot that smile right off your face.”
He stepped closer, pressing his chest against the shotgun muzzle. “You won’t shoot me. For one, the station won’t let you—” He snatched the gun from my grip so fast its sudden absence burned my fingers. Then, one-handed, he tossed the gun into the air, caught its handle, aimed it at me, then jabbed me in the chest with it, rocking me back. He did it in the space of two seconds while still leaning on his cane.
“This will be much easier if you don’t fight me.” Satisfied I’d backed up enough, he lowered the gun and adjusted his grip on his cane to accommodate its weight.
I backed away again, feeling the fantasy and my place in it crumble. He’d never been a ghost. I’d seen him in these hallways, dressed like he was, because the station had shown him to me over and over again. Not as a ghost, but as a message. A cry for help.
“Did you say that to the woman you killed? What happened? Did you strike a bargain with Lilith to let you go?” I heard myself ask the questions, but I already knew the answers.
His smirk was all vampire. “What other option did you leave me?”
“Not to kill anyone.”
“And have my soul trapped in a jar?” His smile thinned. “After I saved your life, you’re still hell-bent on condemning me. I told you once, attack me and I will retaliate. That woman’s death was the result of your cruel intentions. Be grateful I’m letting you live, Lynher. Those who cross me rarely get a second chance to do so again.”
I laughed, and it sounded as insane in my ears as it did in my head. “You don’t have a soul. We learned that. So whatever this is, it’s a lie, and the station won’t stand for it. Get out before it makes you.”
He sighed. “Look around you.” He swept a hand at the reception area. “Does it look like the station doesn’t want me here?” Moving to the welcome desk, he stroked a hand along its glossy wood, and on reaching the end, he set the gun down on the desktop and leaned against the desk, painting the perfect picture of a station host, right down to the accommodating smile and all-knowing eyes. “Before my return, tell me, Lynher, was the station behaving differently? Did it appear weaker, and now that I am back… Well, you can see the results with your own eyes. The ghouls are gone. You’re welcome.”
This reception, this newness, this everything… what if it hadn’t been for me? What if it was all for him? Did he stand there looking resplendent as a host because it was always where he’d been meant to be?
I couldn’t stay with him in this foyer a second longer; my chest had tightened too much, restricting my breathing, and the throbbing in my head was back. My feet burned, and my body ached, and I couldn’t do this a second longer. I walked past him toward the door. “The Night Station will have a vampire host over my dead body.”
“Careful what you wish for.”