The four walls of Room 11 had begun to feel like a coffin. The nightmare's chill had seeped into the cheap drywall and floral carpet, and the silence was now a ringing echo of the past. He needed a different kind of quiet. The kind found in the low hum of a dive bar.
He left the pistol under the pillow but slipped a small, razor-sharp push dagger into his pocket. Paul Renshaw didn't carry a military-grade sidearm, but a man like him might have a blade for trouble.
The motel bar was called "The Nook," and it lived up to its name. It was a dim, wood-paneled cave at the end of the L-shaped building, smelling of decades of cigarette smoke, spilled beer, and lemon-scented disinfectant. A few solitary drinkers hunched over their glasses like statues. A country song about lost love twanged softly from a jukebox.
Karl—Paul—took a stool at the far end of the bar, his back to a wall that offered a clear view of both the entrance and the hallway to the rooms. Old habits.
"Whiskey. Neat. Whatever's open," he said to the bored-looking bartender. His voice was Paul's voice now: softer, with a faint, unplaceable accent that suggested a life of moving around.
The whiskey arrived, cheap and burning, but it did its job. It was a focal point, a heat in his gut to counter the cold sweat of the dream. He took a slow sip, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom.
That's when he saw her.
She was in a booth in the corner, half in shadow. A swirl of cigarette smoke rose from her table, catching the dim light of a neon beer sign before dissipating into the ceiling. She wasn't like the other patrons. There was an alertness to her stillness, a contained energy. She was reading a paperback, one hand holding the book, the other resting near a glass of red wine, a cigarette smoldering in an ashtray beside it.
As if feeling his gaze, she looked up.
Her eyes were a startling shade of hazel, sharp and intelligent. They didn't flick away shyly. They held his, just for a beat too long. A silent, unmistakable acknowledgment. Then a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips before she looked back down at her book.
Karl felt a familiar warning chime in the back of his mind. Coincidence? Probe? Bait? He took another drink, the whiskey tasting suddenly like fuel. He should go. Now. Back to the room. Back to the silence.
But the dream had left him raw. The memory of Nightingale's betrayal was a fresh wound. The isolation of the past few days was a weight. The human contact, even potentially dangerous, was a siren's call.
He watched her stub out her cigarette. She took a sip of wine, her eyes scanning the page, but he could tell she was no longer reading.
Foolish. Reckless. Stupid.
He picked up his glass and walked over. The floorboards creaked under his weight. She looked up again, her expression neutral, but those eyes were assessing, taking in everything about him.
"Mind if I join you?" Paul Renshaw asked, his voice carefully casual. "It's a lonely night for reading."
She closed her book, keeping a finger tucked inside to mark her page. The Brothers Karamazov. Not light reading.
"It's a lonely night for drinking alone, too," she said. Her voice was lower than he expected, slightly smoky. "Please."
He slid into the booth opposite her. The vinyl seat sighed.
"Paul," he said, offering a name that was a shield.
"Anya," she replied, equally offering nothing. She took another delicate sip of her wine. "Just passing through, Paul?"
"Could say that. You?"
"Could say that," she echoed, a playful glint in her eye. "What brings a man like you to a place like this on a Tuesday night?"
"A man like me?" he asked, mirroring her tone, a faint smile touching his own lips. It felt strange on his face.
"A man who looks like he has better places to be," she said, her gaze dropping to his hands for a fraction of a second—noting the scars, the knuckles that had been broken and healed—then back to his eyes. "And worse stories to tell."
"Maybe the stories are why I'm here and not there," Paul said, surprising himself with the flirtation, the easy back-and-forth. It was a dance, and part of him remembered the steps. "What's your story, Anya? Hiding from someone or something?"
She laughed, a soft, genuine sound that seemed out of place in the gloomy bar. "Isn't everyone? But let's not ruin the mystery. I prefer to think of it as... being between chapters."
She leaned forward slightly, the neckline of her sweater dipping just a little. The scent of her perfume reached him—something floral and dark, like night-blooming jasmine. It was nothing like the antiseptic motel room or the smell of gunpowder. It was dangerously, disarmingly human.
"Tell me, Paul," she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "What does a man between chapters do for excitement around here?"
For the first time in five days, Karl—not Paul, but a part of the man buried deep beneath the Ghost—felt something other than vigilance or rage. He felt a spark. And he had no idea if it was a lifeline or the fuse on a bomb.