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“Are you boarding?” the ticket taker asks again, as if Nandor is delaying him. As if Guillermo’s name is not still echoing down the platform, syllables sitting round and sharp on Nandor’s tongue. Guillermo de la Cruz. When Nandor had said his full name it had burned him, a sizzle of flesh so slight he might have missed it if not for the fact that in that moment his entire world had narrowed to a single man.
He rises to his toes as if height will help him see further, help him spot that curly mop of hair rushing up the steps, help him see those soft, brown eyes looking back for him. But Nandor sees nothing but shadow, and he is alone.
“Sir, we really need to—”
“Just a moment,” Nandor hisses. Where is he? “Guillermo!”
“Sir, I really can’t hold up the train for…this.”
“You will give me a moment!” he says again, this time making it a command. The human leans back against the door jamb, his eyes cloudy with hypnotic magic.
Nandor realizes he is clutching the suitcase very tightly. His claws dig into the black handles and collect fine shavings of plastic beneath his nails. The suitcase is light as a feather and Nandor has the sudden, unbearable thought that it might be empty. It had been so easy to drag behind him, made such a soft sound as it clunked against the stairs. Many centuries have passed since Nandor carried a burden that was truly heavy. Not since he died and was reborn with a different type of burden, one which will never leave him. And here, now, he imagines that the suitcase is empty. That Guillermo gave it to him as a distraction, to make Nandor feel like he was helping while Guillermo slipped away into the night. Left him once more. Guillermo never intended to meet him at the platform. Never intended to travel the world with Nandor, to be with him once and for all. For eternity.
He falls to his knees and the concrete platform is cold and wet even through his cloak. Guillermo will clean it later, he thinks, and then, No. I will clean it later. He doesn’t know what to with the thought, whether it should make him feel proud or hollow, or whether he should scream that he is confident. That he is strong. That he needs no one. He pushes the thought away so that it can become another feeling to run from.
Nandor unzips the suitcase. Clothes tumble forth and land in a rumpled heap of brown, black, and blue at Nandor’s feet. Guillermo’s laptop slides out on top of them.
Not empty, then. But now that the thought of Guillermo tricking him, playing him for a fool, has gripped him he cannot shake it so easily. Perhaps Guillermo had meant to join him, but has now thought better of it. As he saw Laszlo and Nadja off to the Old World, did he imagine Nandor standing here awkwardly? Did the image fill his Guillermo with distaste? Or perhaps he had gotten a better offer. Nadja whispering in his ear. Come with me, little slayer, and I will turn you immediately. No need to wait for that big, stupid man.
With a growl he begins shoving everything back into the suitcase. The laptop cracks as he grips it and splinters of metal and glass cut his palm. He piles the clothing haphazardly on top, all of it unfolded and bulky, and as he reaches for the bottom of the pile his hand curls around a doll.
He lifts it up. Gazes into black button eyes. He is gripping it so tightly, his claws still extended, that he has left five little holes in the doll’s striped sweater. There is a smear of his blood on the doll's small hand, the only evidence of a wound that has already healed. The place where Nandor’s heart sits, dark and still as obsidian, clenches painfully. He looks at the doll of Guillermo and then down at the ground, where the doll of himself lies still on the concrete.
His heart jerks once more and he gasps, bringing his fist to his chest. He remembers, fleetingly, Guillermo trying to give him these dolls those weeks ago. Of the smile on his round, brown face. I made these for you, Master. Nandor holds the doll of Guillermo to his chest and gazes at this lonely mirror of himself. Here they are. Guillermo’s last gift to him. He wanted to make sure Nandor had them before he—before he left. For good.
His vision blurs. He zips up the suitcase without seeing it. Leaves it standing alone on the platform, a slash of red against gray. Shoves the dolls into his Jansport and throws it over his shoulder. He’s inside the train car somehow, and the ticket taker is moving away from the door. But Nandor is losing snatches of time to the dull roar in his head. Out the window the night flashes as the train rolls away from the sunrise. Staten Island is left behind.
Nandor is alone.
He is alone.
Nandor takes a deep, shuddering breath, fills his dead lungs with stale air. The train rocks around a curve in the track and the city lights fade to nothing, plunging him in darkness. He opens his Jansport and looks at the dolls lying in his ancestral soil. They are already covered by a fine layer of soil, dusty and misused, one of them bloodied. He bares his teeth at himself. He is so clumsy. So vile. No wonder Guillermo has left, as do all the others. Nandor cannot even do this right.
Nandor lifts the doll of Guillermo from the bag and brushes him off. He leaves himself in the dirt, and the rocking of the train car vibrates the doll, slowly burying it. Fitting, he thinks. He closes the bag and holds the doll of Guillermo tight to his chest. Curls his bulky body over the doll. Rolls over to face the interior of the train, unwilling to witness the world pass by him outside.
There is still enough of his ancestral soil clinging to the doll of Guillermo that he is comforted by the holding of him. Still enough that Guillermo feels like home. He places a hand on the empty seat next to him and closes his eyes.
Nandor is alone.