Page 6 of Night Shift

Then the coffee.

The caffeine settles through me with the force of a minor earthquake. This, I suspect, is what the living mean by exhilaration.

The clock above the counter reads eleven fifty-eight.

"You closing?" I ask, although the answer is obvious.

"In two minutes."

I rise and carry the empty cup and plate back to the counter.

"Thank you."

"For the coffee or the emergency scone?"

"Both."

"Anytime."

The word catches somewhere inside me.

Anytime.

Calliope lifts a hand as I turn toward the door.

"Good night."

I stop.

Humans have said those words in my presence countless times, though never to me. Good night is a farewell, a wish for peaceful sleep, an acknowledgment of the darkness I have carried across their sky since long before they had language to name it.

Calliope knows none of that.

She is simply saying goodbye to a stranger.

I look back at her.

"I may return."

She smiles. "I'll try not to poison you next time."

I step outside.

The sidewalk is exactly as I left it: empty and wet, smelling of ocean and rain. Mist spills along the street beneath the glow of the lamps.

Nothing has changed.

Yet as I begin walking, Blackthorn Bay no longer feels like another transit point in the endless march of darkness.

For the first time in longer than I can remember, I find myself wondering about tomorrow.

And whether Calliope will be here when it comes.

CHAPTER 2

CALLIOPE

I’m not sure why I expect him—though maybe expect is misleading. It’s more that I accept his return as a kind of inevitability, the way the dying light slouches down the window glass each twilight, or how mildew resumes its symphonic takeover the second you let up on scrubbing the grout.