Page 17 of Night Shift

CALLIOPE

Istill haven’t worked out what, exactly, is supposed to happen next in a situation like this, when you and a guy are regularly sharing segments of sidewalk and scones and far too much personal space for something that’s not a date, but also not not a date.

We never talk about it. After enough time spent with me, most men either want to escalate to a full-blown thing or they’re already bored, gone before I notice the vacancy. Erebus—who, in the paperwork of my head, is still sometimes The Night Guy—does neither, which feels both promising and ominous.

It’s full dark on Saturday, a Blackthorn kind of dark, wet and thick, with streetlamps painting little cones of sodium orange and everything outside them dissolving into ink. I’m at the espresso machine, steaming milk, when in walks my favorite regular who won’t admit he’s a regular.

This time, he looks almost rattled, his normally undisturbed hair askew as if he’s been running his hands through it all night. He takes his usual seat while I finish the drink in progress, peeking up through his lashes when I call over, “The usual?”

He nods. He never specifies. I make him an Americano, extra hot, with a scone because we have them. When I bring the mug and plate over, he thanks me but doesn’t say more, staring at the swirl on the surface the way people stare at fires they want to confess something to.

I lean on the counter, elbows propped in a way my old manager threatened to fine me for. “Long night?”

He looks up, blinking as if he’s come back from somewhere far away. “Not especially.”

I squint at him. “You’re not a morning person, are you?”

He almost smiles. “I am only myself at night.”

I want to say, Well, aren’t we all, but it feels too easy. Instead, I cut him a little slack because something about him tonight is sharper than before. Haunted, maybe, in the way the word used to mean before it got kitsched up by Halloween décor.

The bell over the door chimes. Before I can turn, Petra’s surly voice carries across the café.

“Hey, Calliope, can I get a dirty chai and—oh my God.”

I glance over.

Normally, Petra is unflappable, partly because she’s lived in Blackthorn Bay long enough to consider most supernatural catastrophes a nuisance and partly because when you are literally made of rock, it takes a lot to rattle you. Tonight, though, she’s bug-eyed and frozen a step past the threshold, her gaze fixed on Erebus, who has now realized he’s being watched.

I set down the steaming pitcher. “Uh, Petra, can I get you started with⁠—”

She sidesteps toward the counter, putting a deliberate amount of distance between herself and Erebus, as if he were a statue whose pedestal has been freshly roped off. She does not whisper. Petra has never possessed that particular skill.

“Is that him? Are you—is he—” She cuts herself off, recalibrating.

Erebus tilts his head, assessing Petra the way a curator might regard an unexpectedly relevant artifact. “I do not believe we have met.”

Petra’s expression doesn’t waver. “You’re Erebus.”

It isn’t a question.

Erebus doesn’t flinch. “That is one of my names.”

He says it with the resignation of someone who has been through this more times than it’s worth counting.

Petra turns to me, her gaze steady. “The real one. You know what that means.”

I’m tired, which makes me reckless. “Yeah, Petra, it means he’s named after a Greek god. Maybe his parents had a thing for the classics.” I glance at Erebus to see if he gets the joke, but if he does, he’s hiding it beneath two inches of deadpan. “What did your parents name you after, Petra?”

Her eyes narrow. “Calliope. He is the Greek god. The primordial—” She flicks a look at Erebus, not wincing, but measuring. “He’s Night. There are online forums about this.”

Erebus remains perfectly still. “It is considered impolite to talk about someone as if they are not present.”

Petra gives a single, slow nod. “Understood.”

She pulls out her phone, her movements suddenly economical. “I’ll take a dirty chai. To go.”

I make the drink with hands that are only shaking a little. I don’t know if I’m more thrown by Petra’s conviction or Erebus’s complete lack of correction. As I steam the milk, I try to remember what I learned from my very expensive, very incomplete college education.