Accepting Mark's offer was a question of survival more than it was a genuine effort to save him, because he dangled my freedom right over my head and he made me chose between two impossible outcomes. I hated him for that, and I feared him just the same. Just enough that I wanted to finish up with the job as quick as possible—if that was even possible.
Before my shift at the restaurant started at 2pm, I visited the library in the hopes that I could gather some information about him, but the truth was, I barely knew anything at all. His name was Mark, and he was cosmically screwed, and... And what? What did I know about him? I tried to look for his and Peter's name together, and the Facebook profile of a man named Mark Peter popped up. He was powerful and dealt dirty business, but it wasn't like criminals advertised themselves freely on the Internet.
As I entered the restaurant, my phone vibrated, and I opened the text message from the unknown number. It was an address, one that belonged to a pub. I knew immediately the text was from Mark. I hated how little he could say to make me understand, but he'd be damned if he thought he owned my free will. I slid the phone into the pocket and prepared for another stressing shift at work. As if accepting the deal messed my karmic balance, I accepted I was out of luck when Mr. Jen directed me to the garnish section.
The phone vibrated again. And three times more, at different intervals. It wasn't a call, but someone was texting me. I checked it wasn't Silas but the unknown number.
CONFIRM
YOU'RE GOING TO BE THERE?
WHERE ARE YOU?
I laughed though my nose, shaking my head. He can wait a couple of hours, I thought.
Another message: CONFIRM?
I texted back: WORKING. MEET U @10.30
The chef screamed at me a couple dozen times—it was one of the reasons why I abhorred the garnish station—, and by 9 pm I was absolutely ready to head home. My feet were screaming and my mind was getting sloppy from lack of sleep. The nightmares plagued my nights, and by day, the worry for the safety of my brother kept me from really resting. It was a vicious cycle that I couldn't break, no matter how many times I tried. When I remembered I had a compromise after work, I regretted answering the message. I could've feigned ignorance and gotten home, and at least I'd lay under the soft covers.
As suddenly as the flap of a crow's wings, I felt a stabbing pain in my finger. A black tar-like liquid was oozing out of a small cut. It should've been blood that spilled onto the counter and still... It was black. Black. I looked at it, paralyzed with fear—the ringing in my ears, the rush of my heart, something that called to me from far, far away—until a scream snapped me out of the haze.
"Cut! Bring the first aid kit. Sit down." Pamela ordered, pulling me down to settle on a wooden box. "Are you okay?"
I nodded. When I looked down, I realized it had been blood all along. It stained my clothes, my skin, the floor. "Jesus Christ."
"Do you feel dizzy?"
I shook my head. I was used to blood, I was a used to violence. "Isn't it bleeding a bit too much?"
"Are you sick? Under medication?"
"No."
Pamela's eyes narrowed. "Drugs?"
"No. No. I'm just—tired. I probably need to rest." I cradled my hand like a baby. The bleeding was slowing down, the blood clotting around in pearls of dark red. Almost black.
Not quite, though. Had I imagined it? It was equally possible to be a side effect of sleepiness as it was to be a side effect of being a seer. Which one it was would be a difficult question to answer. "I need to go home. Tell Mr. Jen I'm sick."
"But you are. You're sick, Mitchell. Who would want to help Mark? You're ill."
I jumped in my seat, my heart thrumming as my disoriented mind tried to make sense of where I was. The speaker was announcing the next bus stop, I had been leaning against the window a minute ago as my eyes heavily shut. I wasn't even aware that I had fallen asleep. The lady sitting next to me eyed me with an uncomfortable expression, and clutched her purse.
The city lights reflected on the puddles in broken bokeh lines. I like seeing the colors in the water, the rainbows in the oil. The sky was dark, clouded with rainclouds that threatened another storm. A slight drizzle forced bystanders to unfurl their umbrella and a collection of differently-colored circles decorated every street that we passed. The bus clumsily stumbled into a stop, and the lady quickly ran down the stairs. She looked back at me, and I looked at her, and maybe she was embarrassed because she broke eye contact first.
I took out my phone, Mark's text was front and center of the screen when I unlocked it. Silas had also texted me. BE CAREFUL, it said. There weren't many things I could hide from Silas because he knew me like the back of his hand, and he's seen right through me when I vaguely told him I was going out. The information about the new job spilled out of me as soon as my little brother put his book down and tilted his head. It was better that he knew what I was walking into, in case—
The speaker buzzed and the apathetic voice of a woman called my stop. The bus would leave me five minutes away from the club. I scrambled up, picking up my backpack. Jesus Christ. The cold punched me in the face right as I stepped on the street. I pulled the collar up and hid my hands in the pockets of my windbreaker.
The club was just opening up, and I timidly approached the security guard. He took a quick look at me, and seemed to be deciding whether he was sparing my life or not. I nervously looked at him, at the ghost of a woman that followed him and bit my lip. "I—"
"Mr. Cassidy is here," the guard interrupted, speaking into a mic attached to his lapel. My cheeks burned with embarrassment. Finally, the guard nodded at me, pointing to the inside.
The entrance looked like a dark subway tunnel, very fitting because the hairs on my arms stood on end and I felt like I was entering into a wolf's mouth. I walked slowly, the steps echoing in the still silence. At the end of the hallway, I found a door, I opened it. A gust of dank stale air invaded my nostrils. This is it. This is death. Something called to me, but I didn't want to listen. Something was going to happen here, it was like I was staring at the inside of a tomb. My lips curled upward in an involuntary movement as I scanned what would look like a normal bar to any normie.
"Mitchell." Mark was leaning against a doorframe to the back of the dance floor. The door was half opened, a red sign forbidding the access to anyone that wasn't part of the staff. His aura stirred, tendrils of abyss slithering on the floor. "Come in."
When I was eight years old, I had my first premonition. Luckily enough, I didn't foretell the death of a loved one—which was an uncommon but not entirely impossible first experience—, but the betrayal of my best friend. A week later, she told the teachers I had stolen her lunch and my sudden dislike of her finally made sense. Abuela was happy because being sensitive to prophecies was rare, and she thought it'd protect me. I silently stared at Mark. Who wouldn't have doubted walking into a confined space with a person whose evil could instantly kill you if you made the wrong move—premonition or not? I just wished I hadn't foretold my own death.
"Come on in?"
I approached, forcing my stare to never leave him. No matter how much it churned my insides. "Is the guard outside a widower?"
"You just hired him and he's already exorcising the club," someone said from inside the room.
I discovered a private booth with a velvety sofa and a flat screen mounted to the wall. Behind the seats, there was a small bar with no one attending it and an alcohol shelf that covered the whole wall. The lights were on, it looked like a smaller version of the pub outside.
Three people were already sitting. The door closed behind me.
"She disappeared. They're still looking for her." Mark answered, heading to the bar. I heard the clank of glass, but I was frozen at the door, looking at the strangers.
Well, not everyone was a stranger. Peter was there.
The other two, I didn't know. A blonde girl, not much more older than me. A blond guy that looked exactly like her. I didn't expect to have spectator, neither did I like people watching me work. I cleared my throat. "You're busy. I better come some other day."
"No. Stay. They know. What do you know about Doug?"
That made me uncomfortable. I turned my head, looking at the door. Then, at the three people expectantly waiting for my answer. The blond guy slurped from his drink. I crossed the distance between Mark as quick as possible. "Do you plan to show me off like a freaking dancing monkey?" I whispered.
Mark slid a glass with brown liquid towards me. I slid it back. "I don't drink."
"They're my friends. They're cool, they won't cause you any trouble." Mark crouched down, he pulled a can of soda that he popped. "Here. What about Doug?"
"There's a woman following him. She has a ring on her finger, and Doug's finger where his wedding band was is still discolored. She's... angry."
Although not as disruptive as Bad Omens, angry ghosts had their fair share of brute force. As I passed the woman, she looked at me. She recognized I was a seer, and she smiled. Her gaze was that of a crazy woman. But it was the fine line in her neck that took my attention. It was the way she gently placed a hand over her stomach that rubbed me the wrong way.
"A ghost?" Peter asked. "She's dead?"
"He murdered her."