The suitcase had been humming for an hour, and I'd decided that was tomorrow's problem.
Then a man walked up to my counter at eleven at night and his shadow didn't.
Rennick: You have something of mine.
Mabel: You'll have to be more specific. The lost property bin is a museum of other people's bad decisions.
Rennick: The brown leather case. The one making that noise.
Mabel: Not logged yet. So it's not yours yet. Those are the rules.
I checked the lino behind him. Fluorescent light, cracked tiles, my own shadow right where it should be.
Nothing behind his boots. Not even a smudge.
Mabel: Come back in the morning and fill in a form.
Rennick: I'm not filling in fuck all. Hand it over, you dumb little bitch.
I pressed the red buzzer under the counter three times. The one that's supposed to bring help.
Nobody came. Of course nobody came.
Rennick: Last chance, sweetheart.
His arm shot through the gap in the glass and his hand closed around my wrist. Not a grab. A clamp.
Something in my wrist made a sound I'd never heard my own body make.
I yanked back. He yanked harder, and my shoulder hit the glass so hard the whole counter rattled.
Then his nails dug in, and I felt blood, warm and slippery, running down my palm.
His mouth opened wider than a mouth should, and the teeth came down. Long, wet, wrong.
Mabel: Fuck.
Seemed like the moment for it.
Rennick: I'm going to open your throat right here. Pour you out like a bottle.
Rennick: You'll still be warm when I'm done drinking you, and not one single person upstairs will hear a fucking thing.
I smelled old pennies and wet wool. My brain went cold and loud, and all I could think was that Ned would find my last text, which was a photo of a lost umbrella.
Then a voice behind me, low and flat as a shut door.
Ambrose: Take your hand off my clerk.
Rennick: She's mine now. Go back to your bar.
Something hit the counter hard enough to crack it. His grip tore loose, and a big warm hand closed around my arm and hauled me over the top.
I landed behind the counter on my back, wrist burning, staring at ceiling tiles.
Above me were noises I couldn't match to anything. A wet snap. A scrape. Something like a chair dropped down stairs. Then nothing.
A face came over the edge of the counter. Dark eyes. Black hair. Sleeves rolled up like he'd been doing chores.
Ambrose: Show me your wrist.
He turned it over like it was something breakable he had to put back together. His thumb sat on my pulse, and it jumped, which was embarrassing given the circumstances.
Mabel: Is it bad? Tell me it's not bad. I have a very low threshold for bad.
Ambrose: It's a scratch. You'll live.
Mabel: Great. Fantastic. And the man who wanted to drink me?
Ambrose: Gone.
He didn't let go. He just knelt there on the grubby floor with my blood on his fingers and waited for me to stop shaking.
And here's the strange bit. I did. My body went quiet, like it had decided he was the safest thing in the building.
Mabel: What was he? And what are you?
Ambrose: Later. First, breathe.
So I breathed, because the most frightening man in the station told me to, and apparently I listen now.
Mabel: What do you want in return?
Ambrose: A cup of tea. And an answer.
Mabel: To what?
Ambrose: Why you didn't give him the case.