Page 10 of Night Shift

“You say that as though survival is a small accomplishment.”

I glance at him and find no pity in his expression, only that same unwavering attention he gives everything I say. Somehow, that makes it easier to keep talking.

“It doesn’t always feel like much of one. I’d be lying if I said I love it here every second, but I like seeing the same faces every day, even the ones I can’t stand. I like knowing which dog belongs to which person and which witch is feuding with which neighbor. Blackthorn is just big enough to lose track of somebody for a while, but not so big you forget they exist.”

He considers that as we walk another block. “It must be a kind of peace.”

“Maybe it is.”

We reach my building, a dilapidated Victorian that is three months behind in paint and one hard spring away from collapse. I fish my keys from my bag, then hesitate with them in my hand.

“You want to come up for a drink?”

His eyebrows rise slightly, and I immediately hear what I’ve just said.

“I meant water. Or a La Croix. Not, you know...a drink drink.”

He surprises me by smiling. It changes his entire face, taking something ancient and severe and making him look, for one fleeting second, almost ordinary.

“I am, unfortunately, already over-caffeinated.”

“Still?”

“I suspect I will remain so for several days.”

I laugh again. “Maybe we stick with two shots tomorrow.”

His eyes settle on mine.

“Will you be there?”

The question is simple, but there’s something about the way he asks it that makes my fingers tighten around my keys.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll be there. Try the pastries next time. They’re better on Wednesdays.”

He inclines his head, a gesture so formal it borders on ritual. “I look forward to it.”

I watch him walk away, his figure disappearing gradually into the mist until I can no longer tell where the man ends and the darkness begins. A few windows glow in the buildings across the street, the town settling into another ordinary night, and I stand there longer than necessary before the cold finally drives me inside.

Upstairs, I wash my face, put on my ugliest pajamas, and collapse onto the lumpy futon while the sounds of the bay drift through the window. I think about Erebus and the strange way he talks, the way his presence seems to quiet an entire room, and the absolute certainty in his voice when he told me survival mattered.

Mostly, though, I think about the way he asked if I would be there tomorrow.

I hope he comes back, and the thought, which should probably embarrass me, only makes me grin at the ceiling before I close my eyes.

Maybe some things are inevitable after all.

CHAPTER 3

EREBUS

The world begins and ends, over and over, in Blackthorn Bay.

The difference now is that I have something akin to anticipation when I step into the little coffee shop nestled between a taxidermy storefront and a vape parlor called Hemlock Mist, two doors down from the dance studio where a minotaur teaches late-night salsa classes. Even when the winter fog crusts the sidewalks with salt and the electric glow above the window is half-eclipsed by a moth the size of a crabapple, I arrive early, position myself where I can see the counter, and watch for Calliope.

I am not supposed to have favorites. That is the first rule.

The second is that I am not to interfere in the progression of things, a stricture older even than I am, a bone-deep law that has shaped eons. Night comes, Night holds, Night yields. There is comfort in the simplicity of it, or at least there always has been.