Page 8 of Night Shift

There’s something familiar about it, though I can’t immediately place why. Then again, this is Blackthorn Bay. I went to high school with twin brothers named Hades and Apollo Kowalski, and their father sold insurance.

“Calliope,” I say, tapping my name tag.

“I know.”

“Right. Advantage Erebus.”

“Calliope Craven.”

I pause. “Okay. How do you know my last name?”

His gaze shifts past my shoulder. “It is printed on the schedule behind you.”

I turn and find my name exactly where he said it would be.

“Good. For a second there, you got creepy.”

His brow furrows. “I would prefer not to be creepy.”

The sincerity in his voice makes me smile. “You’re doing fine.”

He takes another careful sip of his mocha while I lean against the counter, curiosity finally getting the better of me.

“So what do you do, Mr. Nowhere?”

He thinks about it, which is never reassuring when you ask someone how they make a living.

“I have done many things, but in recent times, I mostly observe. I try to understand whether the world is, as you might say, improving.”

“And?”

He sets his cup down. “There is less violence, but the flavor is blander.”

I crack a smile. “You want excitement? Might I suggest karaoke night at the Monger’s Den. The flavor will not disappoint.”

He considers this with far more seriousness than the suggestion deserves. “I will take your recommendation under advisement.”

“That’s all I ask.”

The late crowd never really materializes, which is typical for a Tuesday. A few third-shifters with haunted faces drift through, along with two students who buy a single coffee and occupy a table for an hour pretending to do homework. The lizardy customer from last night returns to his beanbag chair and falls asleep before I finish making his drink.

Through it all, Erebus keeps his place at the bar, nursing the mocha as though time is syrup and he’s parched for it. He doesn’t touch a phone, doesn’t read, and rarely speaks unless I start the conversation. Mostly, he watches me, the room, the street beyond the windows, as if by seeing everything he can somehow hold it steady.

After a while, I notice something else.

People seem calmer around him.

An EMT in bloodstained blues comes in wound tighter than piano wire, but by the time she leaves with her coffee, her shoulders have dropped and she’s smiling. Valeria, an elderly witch who normally complains about everything from foam temperature to municipal taxes, sits two stools away from Erebus for nearly twenty minutes without finding fault with a single thing.

Even the café itself feels quieter, though the music is playing at the same volume and the espresso grinder still screams every time I use it.

There’s something about Erebus’s silence that doesn’t demand to be filled.

Naturally, I spend most of the night filling it anyway.

By eleven forty-five, the students have gone, and the lizard has finally slithered out, leaving behind a couple of scales and an issue of New Cryptid Magazine with teeth marks in the cover.

“Every damn week,” I mutter as I toss it into the recycling.