Page 7 of Night Shift

The point is, by the time the tall man with the star-blind eyes glides into Ghoulish Grinds just after ten-thirty Tuesday night, I’ve already set a cup on the bar and started the espresso machine.

He’s in the same outfit, which is less I don’t care and more I haven’t bought new clothes since the Congress of Vienna. Even with the coat and too-pale skin, he looks less out of place than most of the regulars. Blackthorn Bay’s goths have always overextended themselves, but this guy manages to blend in by not trying at all.

His name still hasn’t been provided, and I’m not about to break the unofficial law that says you don’t ask a supernatural customer’s name until they offer it. I’m not sure who started the law, but all the old-timers know it, and the ones who ignore it don’t last long on bar.

I learned the hard way. A former regular I secretly named Celery insisted on being called nothing at all, and I made the mistake of asking once. She left a dead crow in the tip jar and never came back.

Tonight’s variable is the crease of purpose on his brow, a tiny furrow that makes him look as though he’s memorized what he means to say and only needs a prompt to deploy it. His hands rest on the counter, long fingers steepled with mathematical precision, while his eyes move briefly toward the cup waiting beside the espresso machine.

“Mocha?” I ask.

He nods, grave as a grave.

While I grind the beans, I slant a look at him. “You know, we do offer a loyalty card. Nine drinks and you get the tenth free. Although I have a feeling you’d be gifting the whole punch card to a stranger before you ever finished it.”

He takes this in like a puzzle he needs to solve. “It would be impolite to refuse your custom, but I do not anticipate needing ten mochas.”

“Let me guess. You’re going to move on. Drift through, sample a little of the local misery, then head out for greener pastures?”

I’m not sure why I prod him, only that his unflappability tempts me to break it. Maybe that’s the real barista game—not prepping drinks, but finding the chink in every customer’s armor.

He’s silent for a moment, watching the espresso drip. “I find myself uncertain.”

“About the greener pastures?”

“About leaving.” His gaze lifts to mine. “That is new for me.”

I’m unnerved by the way he says it, less for the content than the delivery. If he’s making a joke, it’s at a register not designed for human hearing. If he isn’t, there’s something strangely vulnerable about the admission that doesn’t fit the imposing package standing across from me.

I finish the mocha, add the perfect filigree of foam, and slide it across.

“I remember your warning,” he says as he lifts the cup. “I should not drink it too quickly. It is a hardship, but I will persevere.”

“It’s what separates us from the animals—the ability to wait until the beverage is below a thousand Kelvin.”

He looks at the cup and then at me, a glint in his shadow-drowned eyes. “And what separates you from me?”

The question lands like a stone in still water, and for a second I’m not sure whether he’s flirting with me or conducting some kind of existential survey.

“If I had to guess, the fact that you don’t blink unless you think nobody’s looking. That, and you’re the only person who’s ever compared my coffee to a minor earthquake.”

He blinks slowly, deliberately, and I laugh.

“Oh, now you’re just showing off.”

“It was not meant as an insult.”

“Wasn’t taken as one.” I busy myself wiping a perfectly clean section of counter before glancing at him again. “Since you’ve come back, I think you’ve officially earned the right to tell me your name.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something about him seems to settle, as though he has been waiting for me to ask.

“Erebus.”

I wait for the rest.

When none comes, I lift an eyebrow. “Just Erebus?”

“Yes.”