Between Shadows (Prologue)

The stairs to the sub-basement weren't marked on the hotel's evacuation maps, but Evelyn had found them anyway, tucked behind an old service corridor, at the end of a hall that seemed to dead-end. The water-warped door to the stairwell was painted over, the remnant of a flood no living person would remember.

How it survived the remodel remained a mystery.

She descended alone, flashlight bobbing in her hand. Down, past the hum of modern systems and the last reach of fluorescent lighting, the floor transitioned from polished tiles to rough stone as if someone had abruptly decided anything below the first basement floor wasn't worth salvaging.

As she scanned the room, she caught something metal with her light: a set of brass doors to a lift, slightly cracked. It was the sort of thing she'd only ever seen in carefully preserved historic districts and pictures over a hundred years old. The call button was old-fashioned, a black Bakelite disc with a dull red center. She pressed it, and it clicked like the bite of a lock snapping shut.

Evelyn flinched, heart jumping as machinery whirred to life, accompanied by the clattering of metal. Her pulse quickened as the bars of a cage came into view and the doors fully opened. A man stood inside. Tall, pale, dressed in a pristine navy uniform too elegant to be a costume. He wore gloves, white and unstained, and his eyes--grey-blue like cold dawn--latched to hers with some kind of recognition.

"Going up, madam?" he asked.

Evelyn hesitated. Her mind was halfway between questioning when she'd fallen asleep and wondering where this dream was going. She got the impression that the man had been waiting not just minutes or hours, but years. At least a century.

"Sorry?" she asked, snapping out of her daze. If this was a dream, it was unlike anything she could recall. Too real. The lift smelled faintly of rosewater and something sharper beneath, like ozone. "To where?"

"The mezzanine," the man said. "Above the restaurant."

"There is no mezzanine."

He smiled, just slightly. "There is tonight."

The doors closed, and the lift jolted. When the doors opened again, her senses were overwhelmed. Warm air met her face, perfumed with tobacco and something floral, a contrast from the coolness of the musty basement from which they'd departed. Evelyn stepped out onto the mezzanine floor, and she could see the restaurant below her, all red velvet seating, golden chandeliers with crystal adornments, and soft jazz. People dined and danced, dressed in silken evening gowns, pastel chiffon, and crisp suits, shades of cream, pale gold, and blushing pink contrasting with black and navy.

She stood frozen for a moment as some of the crowd took notice, suddenly aware of how badly she clashed with the elegance around her. Her light jeans and worn sneakers looked almost cartoonish against the plush carpet of the mezzanine. A modern fleece jacket hugged her arms, out of place among fur stoles and silk gloves. Conversations dipped as eyes turned toward her, curious and amused, but not enough to abandon their conversations.

Despite feeling so foreign among the finery, there was something nostalgic and familiar, even though she'd never come across photos of the hotel's original restaurant. She'd only seen blueprints and conceptual floor plans of the remodel.

An uncomfortable sense of déjà vu settled in.

"Enjoy your evening," the operator said. The doors sealed shut behind her.

She walked slowly, taking in more of the scene: a dance floor, framed with tables and benches on the outskirts. At the top of the mezzanine stairs, beneath a grand arch hung with greenery, stood a man with merlot auburn hair swept back from a high forehead. He wore a three-piece suit of midnight blue, a silver cravat pin glinting in the light as he turned toward her.

Silas Linwood, she thought. She'd seen that same face in the black-and-white photos in the hotel's archive, in old newspapers and restored paintings salvaged from the flood. All doubt vanished: this was a bad dream, fueled by too many all-nighters in the archive.

He was watching her.

No, drinking her in.

"Miss Shaw," he said as she neared, though she'd given no name. "How unexpectedly delightful." His voice was warm, familiar. He stepped forward and took her hand without asking.

"Welcome back."

She pulled her hand away instinctively, though not as quickly as she meant to. "I think you have me confused with someone else."

"Oh, not at all." An amused smile. "I could never mistake that look in your eyes. I remember how you used to study me, like I was some creature in a cabinet, a thing you could label and understand." He leaned closer. "Ever an archivist at heart."

She blinked. "Who are you, exactly?"

"Do you not remember me, even now?" He touched his chest, mock-wounded. "No matter. We have time."

He circled her, looking her over, as if trying to figure out if she was truly there in the flesh.

"I've rebuilt it all, you know. Every tile, every carving. Your favorite table is just there, by the window. Though it's hardly the same without the sea. Tell me, did you dream of this place?"

"I think I should go," Evelyn said, voice thinner than she liked.

His eyes flashed. "Always trying to leave. Always thinking you can. But time is different here, darling. You're not the first to slip between the seams, but you... you were the hardest to let go."

He touched her cheek. She flinched at the cold of his hand. He looked her over again--curious, nostalgic, and darkly hungry.

"Why did you leave me?" he chided. "You said you loved me."

"I didn't say anything."

He grinned. "No. Not this time."

And then his hand moved, brushing down her neck, his breath against her ear. "You died before I could make you mine. Do you know what that does to a man?"

She stepped back. "You're not a man."

The smile sharpened. "No, I'm not."

Evelyn took another step back, but the restaurant seemed to swell around her like a tide, rich with velvet and smoke, pressing her forward instead of letting her retreat. The chandelier above them flickered, casting a momentary stutter of shadow across Silas's face, long enough to reveal something monstrous beneath the glamour. Unfiltered hunger. Human, almost. And all the more frightening for it.

"I think I've made a mistake," she said.

"I've never faulted you for that," he said. "You always did love to test the edges of a trap."

He offered his hand again, and this time, she didn't take it, but her fingers twitched. Her body responded with a strange hesitation, as though being pulled in.

She shook her head. "I'm not--"

"You don't have to pretend," he said gently. "Not here. Not with me."

He came closer, each step slow, indulgent. He didn't touch her this time--not yet--but stood close enough that she could smell faint sandalwood, something familiar.

"I remember how you looked at me when you danced," he said. "Like you were daring me to touch you. Like you wanted to be caught."

"That wasn't me." Fear crept into her voice. He wasn't hearing her. It was like he was talking to someone else entirely, and she was just a bystander, watching a scene unfold.

"Wasn't it?"

His breath stirred the fine hairs on the back of her neck. Silas tilted his head, watching the flicker of her pulse at her throat.

"You still resist. That's part of your charm. But here... things bend." His voice was rich and low, wrapping around her like dense fog. "Thought. Time. Even will."

She tried to speak, but her mouth felt slow, tongue heavy against her teeth. The words wouldn't come.

His hand hovered near her cheek, not touching. "If I asked you to kiss me," he murmured, "would you say no?"

Her eyes flicked to his. In them, she saw a promise: not of pleasure, but of permanence. Of being trapped in a memory that wasn't quite hers.

"Yes," she said.

But it didn't sound convincing, even to her.

"Still playing your games," Silas laughed softly. "Or have you truly forgotten? How you fought for my affection. And then chose drowning over living for an eternity."

"You're twisting things."

"I'm remembering."

The music had changed, slower now. A woman's sultry voice blended with soft music, but she couldn't see where the music came from.

Silas extended his hand again. "Come," he said. "One dance. That's all. You owe me that much."

Her heart stuttered.

One dance.

She didn't move, but her hand did. She could feel something at the edges of her consciousness, overtaking her.

They moved to the dance floor. The space felt empty, the walls impossibly far away.

Her hand moved toward his, as if compelled by something beneath thought, beneath fear. Her fingertips grazed his palm, and the moment they touched, a spark of something. A memory from another century.

Silas's gaze drifted slowly over her, eyes tracing every line of her form with quiet appreciation. A faint smile softened his expression, almost wistful.

"Stunning," he murmured, closing the distance. "You deserve to be seen."

He lifted his other hand, running it along her form. Warmth slid gently across Evelyn's skin as fabric reshaped around her. Denim became silk, fluid and deep as midnight, draping elegantly from bare shoulders to ankles. A strand of silver inlaid with sapphires settled gently around her neck, and she felt her dark curls lift slightly, pinned into place by a delicate silver comb studded with diamond stars. Beneath her feet, shoes formed, fine-heeled and perfectly fitted for dancing.

Silas inhaled sharply, regarding her with a gleam of satisfaction.

"Ah," he said. "There you are."