As Allister feared, the roads bringing him to Bourbon Street were as quiet and desolate as his own. As he emerged onto the main thoroughfare, expecting the din of the never-ending Mardi Gras celebrations to drown out his own negative thoughts, what he saw instead had him halting mid-stride.

Nothing.

There was absolutely nothing.

No one dancing, singing, drinking, stumbling.

There wasn't a soul to be seen as far as he could see.

Carefully, he stepped onto the street as if his current position wasn't advantageous. Looking up and down the length of Bourbon Street, as with before, the trash and remnants of the party lingered, like carelessly discarded trash.

The feeling in his chest returned, along with the pounding within his skull. "Hello," he called out in a desperate attempt to prove himself wrong, but when the only answer was the wind pushing discarded cups down Bourbon Street, he knew his fears were legitimate.

Everyone was gone.

Allister was alone.

"No," he hissed as he began to walk down the street at a much faster pace than he'd taken to get there. There had to be someone within the city—there was no possible way the entirety of New Orleans could be empty, especially during Mardi Gras.

He found himself at the corner of Bourbon and St. Phillip's and glanced up and down the intersection before he turned around and ran another block, stopping at Orleans Street before trying to catch his breath.

He lost track of how many times he ran the stretch, but each time yielded the same results.

None of the bars were full, none of the museums open, none of the music playing. No laughing couples or fighting drunks. No street cleaners or maintenance workers of any kind.

Nothing.

Allister leaned against a wooden post holding up the second-story balcony of Café Lafitte in Exile and slowly lowered himself to the ground, hugging his knees to his chest.

"I must still be dreaming," he said out loud in an attempt to convince himself of a logical explanation for all of it. Even as he leaned his brow against his knees, however, he knew it was a fool's attempt to save him from the brink of insanity.

He closed his eyes to the desolation surrounding him and made himself think hard. He recounted as far back as he could to consider what could have caused this living hell.

He owed no debts—Allister made sure each and every one was paid in full before they were due. The only benefit of his family dying was the large estate left solely to him, and though he cursed the heavens for leaving him alive, he swore on his mother's casket he would not allow their deaths to be in vain. For that, he allowed himself to live as he did. For them, he celebrated each night with strangers and acquaintances, with his family's names and memories forever on his mind even when his body conveyed otherwise.

In that, he rarely had any enemies. And most certainly none who would even begin to consider anything like his current situation to personally torment him. For just as he had no enemies, neither did he keep many friends, if only for the fear they could leave just as easily as his family had, and the loss of another so dear to him would only spiral him deeper into his despair and loneliness.

So instead, he maintained his facade of contented perfection. He opened his inherited mansion for any who wanted to share in his wealth and in his bed, so long as someone was there, he didn't care who else came and went.

He rubbed at his eyes and blinked them open as the sun began to peek over the city. Could one of his neither-enemy-nor-friends have had enough of his casual generosity and wanted to repay him, for better or for worse? They would have had ample opportunity to drug him or poison him. And perhaps that's all this was—a horrible trip.

He didn't want to consider an alternative option for his folly, something far more sinister and darker few believed and even fewer practiced. Though no longer practicing, he was raised God-fearing. His parents were devout, but a lot of good that did for them in the end. Where was God when his sister was crying out for something to ease her pain? Or when his father was so weak, he had no choice but to soil himself where he lay? Or his mother as she bled, and bled, and bled...

Allister shook his head to clear it of the memories. All God got his family was a prime location for their mausoleum at the St. Louis Cemetery while they filled the pockets of the priests shouting in His name. No sooner had the tomb been sealed than they knocked on his mansion door, demanding the tithe his family had supplied for years. Still dressed in his mourning black, he denied them. Later, they came back demanding more, with the threat they'd exhume his family and bury them in his front lawn. A few noses were broken after that, and once Allister wrote the check for double what they were asking, they never returned again.

So instead, he focused on the faces he knew and recognized. Or the ones he tried to remember. The harder he focused, the more they escaped his mind. Even the names of those in his employ were beginning to fade from his memory. And soon enough they were nothing more than figments, breaths of a life that once may have been. All nothing more... except her.

The woman in red.

There was no doubt of her existence. He could recall every inch of her skin, every curl of her hair. The shade of her lips and the color of her dress. It had been only one night—one coupling—but of her, he felt as if he had known forever.

So, he focused on her. He recalled every moment he was with her, every movement she made. He tried not to focus on the sex, as the desire of the memory alone had him aching to be touched again. Instead, he recalled where she had been and how he'd found her.

He strained his recollection of whether or not he had ever met her prior to the previous night, and he knew he had not. He would have remembered something as astonishing as she. Which meant she came upon his mansion by happenstance, unless she was a guest of a party guest. But even so, she had lingered by herself outside of his study, and her attention was only for him. Did that mean she had already explored his house and knew what she wanted?

Allister wanted to believe it remained a chance encounter. That her luring him into his study, leaving him entranced while she ran her hand along his collection of antique books, was all merely a ploy to get him into bed. He'd been seduced by less elaborate plans, but in the way she talked to him, there was more to it. It was like she knew him better than he knew himself, and it unnerved him. He made a point to keep his personal life just that, and he never spoke of his demons to anyone. Ever.

But everything comes with a price...

Allister ran a hand over his face. Was this the price? Was he finally paying a debt for his lust? His need? His demand to not spend the remainder of his existence as if he was already a corpse in a tomb? For being unable to keep his hands off of her after she had led him into his study, and admired his books—

Allister stood faster than he should have, and the stars flecked behind his eyes as he braced the post to keep from stumbling.

She had focused on a book, removed it from his shelf, studied it.

Could there be something within that book that could lead Allister to an explanation about who she was and where everyone had gone?

He wasn't going to figure it out standing alone in the middle of Bourbon Street.

Even as his heart pounded and his brow sweated from the feeling of emptiness surrounding him, he gathered himself together and began the trek back to his mansion on Saint Charles Street.