His presence was announced with the flicker of the dusty overhead light. The bulb sputtered in the ancient fixture as if it were fighting for its life. I watched my demon seep up through the floor as the light finally succumbed to the darkness.
He stood in the corner of the bathroom and stared at me, his face hidden as it always was in an endless hood of shadow. He ran his ink-black fingers up and down the pole of his scythe, stroking it gently as he stared. I watched as the demon’s cloak curled around him as if it were a living thing. He had no reflection in the double vintage mirrors that lined the wall over the cracked, flaking, mint-green countertops.
Instead of being afraid, I stared back and willed him to take me with him. Silently, I begged him to end my pain and free me from this lonely prison called life.
Of course, he didn’t take me. I could feel his hatred. My pain amused him. He enjoyed watching me suffer, and I wondered what I could have done to upset this demon so much that he wanted to watch me die but refused to grant me the peace of death.
So I lay there in a tub filled with my own blood until the water turned cold and the sun went down. When I finally stood up, I could feel his eyes on my sinfully naked body. I now had two perfectly healed pink scars on the insides of both wrists. It was the only proof that I had tried to end my life at all.
My shadowy stalker watched me closely for two weeks after that.
Every subsequent attempt to end my life was the same. Each time, he hung around longer and longer. So, I eventually gave up on suicide. At least when he came for the people around me, he didn’t stick around for longer than a night.
I hated him.
I hated the way he stared, and I hated the way he took everyone I cared about but refused to take me.
It didn’t matter.
There was no escape.
The older I got, the more suspicious people became. People started to notice as I collected a string of seemingly innocent accidents. Why did someone seem to meet their end in every home I moved to?
I was held for questioning for the first time shortly after my initial suicide attempt. A mentally ill homeless man pushed my most recent foster mother in front of a subway train. Was I somehow involved? Did I tell that man to push her? Where was I when she died?
By now, I knew there was no use pointing to the cloaked figure who watched with glee from the shadows of the interrogation room. I knew they couldn’t see him. He was only there for me.
As soon as I turned eighteen, I knew I needed to get out on my own. I couldn’t rely on anyone else if I wanted them to live and if I wanted to avoid ending up in prison. I knew the truth wouldn’t be enough to protect me if this went on much longer. I would eventually end up behind bars. So, when I could, I started looking for work that would pay well without much experience. I just needed enough to manage rent for one.
That was how I found myself working at Voodoo.
“Max likes your yabbos. In fact, he loves ‘em.”
— DANI DENNISON, HOCUS POCUS
Ihad applied to as many restaurants as I could in the entertainment district in the city of Gravestone. In an effort to be taken seriously, I wore the only collared shirt I owned and what I was sure were very outdated dress pants. I needed to land a job and make enough for first and last as quickly as possible. I heard that servers and bartenders made great tips on this strip, so I was willing to stomp concrete all day with my little stack of resumes until someone was willing to take a chance on me.
The first few restaurants had taken one look at my empty resume and shook their heads. I nearly walked right by Voodoo with its trendy black exterior and mellow mood lighting. IfYabboshadn’t been interested in hiring me, I doubted somewhere as swanky as Voodoo would bother giving me a shot.
I was staring at the towering, sleek glass doors when an attractive man came out with an arm full of menus to stack the stand guarding the entrance of the patio. It was almost October, but the patio was furnished with industry-leading heaters that kept the space cozy for guests who wanted to extend outdoor eating a little longer.
“Hey, sweetheart. We don’t open until six,” the man said smoothly as he brushed by. He had a dark mop of midnight hair and was wearing a pressed blackbutton-up shirt. He’d rolled up the sleeves, exposing lean but toned forearms. The inside of his left arm was tattooed with a block of tight, neat scripture. The writing was too small to read, but his nametag said‘Shem.’
“Oh, okay, nevermind,” I muttered, turning to leave. Shem frowned at me and eyed up my stack of resumes.
“You looking to apply?” he asked, giving me a friendly smile and flashing perfectly white teeth. I stared at him, marveling at how green his eyes were and how much they stood out against his flawless, bronze skin.
“Um, well…”
“Come on, I’ll introduce you to the bar manager. We’redesperatefor people right now, especially at the host stand. How old are you?”
“Eighteen…” I said, bracing myself for him to change his mind and send me away.
“Perfect,”he purred, draping an arm over my shoulders and leading me into the dark entryway. “That means you’re too young to serve or bartend. Rafael always steals the pretty ones for the bar.” He winked at me, and I swallowed, feeling extremely uncomfortable. Not just because Shem was devastatingly attractive but because he was touching me, and people who touched me had a tendency to die.
“Raf! I’ve got a live one!” Shem called out into the empty dining room. A tall man with a perfectly groomed beard glanced up from his clipboard. He was standing behind the long black lacquer bar, counting bottles of beer and making little marks on his inventory sheet. He wore thick black glasses and had the most impeccably coiffed hairstyle I’d ever seen on a man.
“Better alive than dead,” Rafael muttered distractedly as he resumed his work.
