midnight train

Standing at five-four, Rebecca looked tiny next to the other woman's tall, regal presence.

“Thanks for the invite. I’ve never been on a train before,” Rebecca said, doing her best to keep up with the woman along the platform.

“I did not realize you needed that cane to walk.”

“Huh? Oh, oh, yeah. I was in a car accident when I was fifteen.” She lifted the cane slightly. “Hope it’s not an issue?”

“No, no. Not an issue at all. I must say, I admire your courage to travel in your condition.”

“Thanks. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting it to be this fuc…um, this cold.” She rubbed her hip. “Does a number on it. But seeing the northern lights and not freezing my ass off is definitely a plus.” Rebecca winced. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say ass.”

The woman let out a soft chuckle. “It is quite all right, dear. I can imagine how exciting this must be.”

Rebecca smiled. “I like the way you talk.”

Rebecca let out a long, slow whoa at the sight of the midnight-black steam engine. Behind it stretched several elegant Victorian coaches, their dark wood polished to a mirror shine. Each carriage was numbered one through ten in carefully turned gold leaf.

A young man stepped out of the first coach wearing a three- piece double-breasted charcoal gray suit.

“Fuck, he’s hot.” Rebecca caught herself. “Shit, sorry… sorry.”

The young man stopped short of them and examined Rebecca; she couldn’t help but fidget under his gaze.

“Cat eared trapper hat with a pom-pom, how quaint, a backpack twice her size and a walking cane that is too elegant for some like her. Mother?”

“You’re a fucking dick.” Rebecca muttered under her breath.

“Excuse me, did you say something?” the young man snapped.

“What? Um, no.”

“Could have sworn you just insulted me.”

“Nope, must be hearing things.”

“Luther, love, this one is my guest; treat her as such.”

“Yes, mother, my apologies,” he said as he bowed.

“You must forgive him; he’s not one for the outside world.”

“Ah, a homebody, got it,” Rebecca said.

“Yes… one way of putting it.”

“Have the other guests arrived?” the woman asked.

“Yes, Mother. They have all boarded. Yours is the last.”

“Good. Show Miss…” She turned to Rebecca. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your last name.”

“Huh? Oh, right. James. Rebecca James.”

“Yes, James,” the woman repeated. “Show Miss James to her stateroom.”

“Whoa, really a stateroom?”

“Yes, all our guests are entitled to one.”

“Sweet!”

Luther sighed again before bowing again and snapped his fingers. A moment later, a porter appeared at his side.

The porter stepped toward Rebecca and gestured to her backpack.

“Oh, yeah, sure. Here you go,” she said, handing it over.

“Follow me, ma’am.”

“Before you board our train, Miss James, you must surrender your .45,” Luther said, turning to look at her.

“Huh? What?”

“Yes. The .45 under your left arm must be turned over before boarding.”

Rebecca looked at the woman.

“Sorry, but those are the rules. It will be returned when you depart.”

Rebecca sighed. “I want it back when I leave. It was my grandfather’s.”

She reluctantly reached into her jacket, pulled out a World War II–era 1911, and handed it to the porter.

“Let me see that,” Luther ordered.

He inspected the pistol, pulled the slide back, then let it snap forward.

“Any ammunition?” he asked.

“No.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s for show. Just in case.”

“In case?” Luther pressed.

“I’m five-nothing, a hundred and five pounds, traveling alone… hello?”

He scoffed. “Fine.” He handed the pistol back to the porter. “Be on your way, then.”

Rebecca shook her head and followed the porter onto the train.

“Don’t take it personally,” the porter said as he guided her inside. “He’s like that with everyone who isn’t family.”

“None taken. Not my first rodeo, and it won’t be my last.”

“Hey,” the porter said, glancing back at her. “Has anyone ever told you—”

Rebecca cut him off. “Yeah, that I look like that actress.”

“You two could be twins, you know.”

Yeah, I know.” Rebecca said with mild annoyance.

The porter led her down the train to the fourth-to-last coach and stopped at the final stateroom.

He opened the door.

Rebecca took a deep breath. The smell of leather and fine oak filled her lungs. She let out a long sigh.

“Man, I fucking love that smell.”

“Huh?” the porter asked.

“Nothing.”

“Well, Miss James, we’ll be underway shortly. Unpack, relax. I’ll stop by in about an hour for dinner.” he said as he placed her backpack on the leather bench.

Rebecca nodded and closed the door.

She dropped onto the leather bench, sinking deep into it, and unlaced her boots before kicking them off. After a moment, she picked them up again, reached inside, and pulled out several fully loaded .45 magazines, slipping them into her pockets. Then she leaned back, closed her eyes, and twirled her grandfather’s cane.

Soon, my friend… soon we dance.

The train lurched forward, the cars clanking together as they began to move. Rebecca couldn’t help but smile.

She sat up and cracked her neck, then her knuckles, before dumping the contents of her backpack onto the stateroom floor. Carefully, she unwrapped her Singer .45, slid a magazine in, chambered a round, and placed it back in her backpack before sinking once more into the leather bench, falling asleep.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Ma’am? Ma’am, dinner is ready. They’re expecting you.”

Rebecca snorted awake and wiped the drool from her cheek. “Huh? What? Oh,oh, okay. Let them know I’ll be there in a minute.”

She sat up and quickly dug out a blouse, crumpled into a tight ball.

Fuck.

Fuck it. I’ll have a jacket on. They won’t notice. Or care… I hope.

She shook it out, slipped it on, and looked in the mirror.

Fuck.

She tried smoothing the wrinkles without success. With a sigh, she pulled on her boots, then a light jacket.

One last look in the mirror.

Good enough.

She grabbed her cane and made her way to the dining car.

The car swayed gently as she made her way down the narrow corridor toward the dining car.

She slid the door open and froze.

Twenty white-linen tables lined the coach, ten to a side. Every seat was taken.

The room fell silent as all eyes turned to her. The only sound was the steady clack, clack of the train on the tracks.

Rebecca swallowed hard as she stepped inside, clutching her cane a little tighter.

Mother stood up from the last table in the coach and gestured to the seat in front of her. “Miss James, please.”

Rebecca started down the length of the coach. Her pace was stiff, her eyes carefully avoiding the many watching her; time seemed to slow as she made her way to mother.

She stopped at the table and fidgeted with her cane, her gaze fixed on the floor.

“Please sit,” Mother said, her tone polite but commanding.

Rebecca sat. Her eyes shifted to the glass of water on the table,and stayed there.

She rested her cane against the table. The moment her hand left it, Luther snatched it up.

Rebecca flinched at the suddenness of it.

Luther examined the cane for a moment before handing it to his mother.

She smiled. “Van Helsing’s cane. It has been over a century since I last seen it.”

She pressed a small button on the handle and pulled, exposing just part of a hidden blade.

“Nice to see the silver plating is still intact.”

She leaned forward.

“It may be effective against the lesser of us. But against us royals… well.”

She ran her finger along the edge. A small trickle of blood slid down the blade, sizzling and smoking before disappearing back into the scabbard.

“Just a tickle.”

The porter stepped up behind Mother. “Ma’am, here are her guns,” he said, placing Rebecca’s .45s on the table in front of her.

Mother shook her head in amusement. “Now these… these.”

She picked up the Singer, pointed it at Luther, and pulled the trigger.

Luther’s body jerked as the bullets tore through him.

“Mother, please.”

“Sorry, love.” She waved the gun. “Just wanted to prove a point… to this.”

Her eyes traveled slowly up and down Rebecca.

“To this wannabe.”

She set the pistol down.

“So, Miss James, tell me… how did you acquire these magnificent artifacts?”

Rebecca swallowed hard. “Um… um… my—my… like I said. They were my grandfather’s.”

“Was he a vampire hunter?”

Rebecca managed a small, nervous nod.

“Huh. I see.”

Mother stood and lightly tapped a finger against the glass she was holding.

“Have any of you heard of a hunter whose last name was James?”

The other guests murmured among themselves, shaking their heads.

Mother sat back down.

“Why would you want to follow in such a failure’s footsteps?”

She turned toward Luther.

“Now, my son… what should we do with her?”

Luther stepped behind Rebecca and placed his hands on her shoulders, tapping his fingers lightly.

“We were planning on making her the main course.”

Rebecca tried to stand, but Luther pinned her to the seat. Her eyes went wide with fear.

“No, no! I just ate a lot of garlic! My, my blood is bitter. I’m anemic. It’s too spicy….it’s going to burn going down. Please, you don’t want to do this. Please… you don’t!”

“Shhh, child,” Mother said, pressing a finger to Rebecca’s lips.

She pulled it back almost immediately. Confusion crossed her face, then fear.

“Let’s see how spicy,” Luther said as he yanked Rebecca from her seat and pinned her to the wall.

“Luther!” Mother cried.

Rebecca glanced at her, smiled, and whispered,

“Too late.”

The moment her blood touched his fangs, his flesh began to sizzle and pop.

He tried desperately to pull away.

Rebecca grabbed the back of his head and forced his fangs deeper into her neck.

“Told you it was going to burn.”

She kicked him off. He crashed into one of the tables, dinnerware and glass shattering across the floor. A few vampires jumped to their feet; others remained seated, frozen in shock and fear.

Luther writhed in agony, his skin cracking and popping. The smell of burning flesh and iron filled the coach as his body began to boil away.

Rebecca leaned across the table and winked at Mother before grabbing her cane and unsheathing the blade. She drew it across the palm of her hand, letting her blood coat the silver edge.

"Now let's dance."

Her movements were incredibly graceful, a stunning mix of elegance and skill. Each step was calculated, each swing of the blade deliberate and practiced. There was no hesitation, no wasted motion.

The first vampire barely had time to rise from his seat before her blade sliced through him, clean and swift, leaving only ash in its wake.

The others scrambled to react, chairs clattering to the floor, but it was futile. She was relentless, graceful as a predator in its element. She spun, ducked, and struck with terrifying efficiency, laughing as she cut through them, the blade whispering through the air and leaving destruction behind.

A vampire lunged at her, fangs bared, but she sidestepped with ease, bringing the blade up in a single, graceful arc. His head hit the floor before his body dissolved into ash.

Another tried to flank her, but she anticipated the move, pivoting on her heel and driving the blade through his chest in one smooth motion. A few bolted for the door, but she was too fast, she cut their legs out from under them. Then finished them as they crawled.

It wasn’t just skill.

It was art.

Deadly, beautiful art.

By the time the last vampire fell, the dining coach had settled into an eerie silence. The only remnants of the creatures were swirling ashes drifting aimlessly in the dim light.

Rebecca stood at the center of it all, her blade gleaming, her breathing steady and controlled. With a practiced flick of her wrist, she sent the lingering blood spattering onto the floor before sliding the blade back into her cane with a sharp, final click.

She turned her attention to Mother.

Mother took a slow, shaky breath and sipped her wine.

A slightly winded Rebecca dropped into the chair across from Mother.

“So, Lady Carman,” Rebecca said. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Miss James… so you are the one. The Plague. The Last Night. I assume?”

“Yep. At your service.”

Carman scoffed and shook her head.

“You knew one of us would recognize your cane and invite you in. Didn’t you?”

Rebecca nodded. “Yep, you are very curious creators, especially you royal types.”

“Huh.” Carman shook her head. “Many of us believed you were a myth, a story meant to frighten vampires. The predator of predators. The unstoppable hunter sent from hell to collect the devil’s due.”

Rebecca smiled.

“Well… not from hell. And not a debt collector. Unstoppable, though?” She shrugged. “Yeah.”

“I never got an answer,” Carman said.

“Huh?”

“Yes, how did your grandfather come by Van Helsing’s cane?”

“Oh, right?” Rebecca leaned down and tightened the laces on one of her boots. “It was my Nay Maw’s. She was Abraham’s daughter. She gave it to him, he gave it to me.”

“I see. Thank you. And the .45—what are those for?”

“Oh yeah, those are for your familiars.”

Just then, a crash echoed from the front of the coach. The porter stood frozen in shock and fear, a tray of glasses slipping from his hands and shattering across the floor.

Rebecca turned and smiled.

“Hey, Sam. I’ll be getting to you here shortly.”

She turned back to Carmen and picked up the Singer.

“Excuse me.”

She turned and pointed it at Sam.

The gun fired.

The bullet tore into his leg.

Sam screamed as he collapsed to the floor.

Carman flinched at the shot.

“Sorry about that,” Rebecca said. “Can’t have him running off.”

Carman swallowed hard and took a sip of her wine, her hand visibly shaking. Her eyes drifted to Luther’s blackened skeleton.

“Will it be painful?”

Rebecca shook her head slightly.

“For you, ma’am… no.”

She took hold of the cane and, in one fluid motion, unsheathed the blade and removed Carman’s head from her body.

Carman’s head and body turned to ash before it hit the ground.

Rebecca re-sheathed the blade and let out a long sigh before grabbing her .45s. She tried slipping one of them into one pocket, too small. Another pocket—it fell right out.

She growled in frustration and slammed it onto the table.

“Fuck it.”

She turned toward Sam and started his way. As she walked, she dragged the tip of the Singer across the tabletops, then let it slam into a chair.

Scrape. Crash.

Scrape. Crash.

Scrape. Crash.

Each impact fell into rhythm with the train’s steady clack, clack of the wheels.

She stopped and knelt beside Sam.

He pulled away from her. “Please… please,” he begged.

“I have something for you,” she whispered. “So don’t go anywhere, okay?”

She stood, stepped over him and headed for her cabin, dragging the Singer’s tip along the wall, the harsh scraping sound cutting through the steady clack, clack… clack, clack of the train.

A moment later she returned with her sat phone and dialed a number.

A shy woman’s voice answered.

“Yes?”

“Hey, Crystal. Becca here. I’ve got him in front of me. Anything you want to say?”

She put the phone on speaker.

Sam’s eyes widened as the color drained from his face.

“I, I had no choice. They made me,” he stammered. “They made me.”

There was a long pause before Crystal’s voice exploded through the phone.

“Fucking bullshit! You fucking had a choice!”

Her voice broke as she sobbed.

“He was your son… he was our son.”

“I’m so...so sorry. So sorry. Please… please,” he whimpered.

Rebecca raised her gun and shot him once in the stomach.

Sam cried out in pain as he curled into a ball.

“It’s done,” Rebecca said.

A low, almost inaudible thank you came from the phone before the line went dead.

Rebecca knelt beside Sam as he writhed on the floor, moaning and gasping.

“Now, the last ten or fifteen minutes of your life are going to be the most painful minutes you’ve ever experienced,” she said with a small smile. “And hopefully, for your sake, you’ll be dead before the fire consumes you.”

“What?” he gasped. “What fire?”

“Oh, the one I’m about to set.”

She stood and gave him a polite little wave.

“Tootle-oo.”