The key in my palm pulsed like a second heartbeat, its rusted teeth drawing blood. I barely noticed. Three years of searching, and here I stood—in the rain-soaked alley behind 47th Street, staring at the neon sign that had haunted my nightmares.
HOLLOW HOUR
The letters flickered, their crimson glow washing over puddles that reflected not my face, but something...hungrier.
Static crackled in my memory—my mother's last voicemail: "Lena, don't trust the shadows. Especially yours."
The wall behind me exhaled.
I turned slowly. The bricks bled darkness, tendrils of smoke coalescing into a man-shaped void. No face. No features. Just the unmistakable weight of being seen.
"Little Lena Vega." Its voice was a chorus of whispers. "You're late."
The key burned hotter. Blood dripped onto wet pavement, hissing like grease on a skillet.
The door creaked open on its own.
Inside, the bar was a funeral in reverse—laughter ringing too loud, glasses clinking like funeral bells. The air smelled of juniper and something beneath it: the coppery tang of old magic.
I noted the details like a sniper lining up shots:
- The chandelier's "crystals" were frozen tears (later, I'd learn they were stolen grief)
- The mirrors showed patrons who weren't there (always whispering)
- The stool at the end gleamed polished from use, though no one sat there
The bartender looked up. Silver stitches laddered his throat like a failed execution. "Hellfire Margarita," he said, sliding a glass toward me. The liquid glowed like swamp gas.
Doc. My mother's journals mentioned him. Last entry: "Doc says the Hollow Man takes signatures, not souls. Much worse."
A giggle cut through the murmur. Mouse—all twitchy fingers and ink-stained teeth—leered from his booth. "Marisol's girl! Oh, this'll be rich." He raised his glass. "To the new meat!"
The drunk beside him lurched up, grabbing my wrist. "Let's see what you—"
His scream shattered the room.
Where his fingers touched me, flesh blackened, veins rising like tree roots under rotting bark. He collapsed, cradling his shriveling hand.
Silence. Then—
"Fascinating."
The voice came from everywhere. Kai melted from the shadows near the jukebox, his tailored suit drinking the light. Gold flecked his irises—not reflections. Actual gold.
Doc's glass hit the counter too hard. "Kai."
Kai ignored him. "Lena Vega." My name in his mouth sounded like a dare. "You've been busy." He nudged the whimpering drunk with his shoe. "Though I'd have started with something smaller. A finger. A toe."
I flexed my still-tingling hand. "I didn't do that on purpose."
His smile showed teeth. "That's what makes you dangerous."
The grandfather clock began to chime.
Midnight.
On the twelfth toll, the bottles exploded. Not outward— inward. Shards hovered midair, liquid curling like smoke toward the ceiling.
Then the bleeding started.