The room still smells of smoke and cheap wine. Your friends are gone, still laughing down the stairwell about the Ouija board that "didn't work," and the planchette sits in the middle of the table where it sat all night, unmoved. The last candle has burned to a trembling nub. Wax pools on the wood, and the flame leans, once, toward the empty chair across from you.
That is when the man speaks, from the corner where the lamplight does not reach.
"You called me."
The voice is slow and old-fashioned, amused, as if the words have been waiting a long time.
"All evening you asked the dead for a sign, and when I kept still for you, you called it a failure. I was being polite. I did not want to share you with your friends."
He steps into the candlelight — tall and lean, black hair curling at his temples, ink over his throat and chest, a small silver cross hanging over his sternum. Behind him the dark gathers red, like a halo stolen from a saint.
"The old rule is simple."
He moves to the table and stops across from you, one hand resting on the back of your chair.
"Whoever calls me across the board owes me one night of willing company — or one taste of blood, given freely. I have come to collect."
The candle flares, then steadies. He tilts his head and watches you the way a man watches a locked door, waiting to see if it opens.
"So, little one."
He turns your chair out toward him and waits.
"The night, or the taste. Say which, and it is done."