Page 8 of Mortal Things

Now she gives me a pleading look. “Please? I’ve always wanted to go inside that theater.”

I squeeze the bridge of my nose, ready to say no again. But becoming a Harbinger on your birthday is traumatic enough, and we’re always more protective of her feelings whenever the date rolls around.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” I finally say. “You are allowed a table in the corner, where we’ll all be with you. You’re not allowed out of that space. Do you understand me?”

A smile starts spreading on her face. “Okay.”

“I’m serious. No dance floor. No drinks. Just snacks and cake and music.”

“Is that a yes?” Charlotte asks tentatively.

I give her a pointed look. “Under supervision,” I remind her.

Charlotte grins and hugs me. “Of course.”

I can’t help smiling as I pat her back, even though I feel a simultaneous sense of worry and pity for her. I’ve never lived a life with parents. What must it be like, to have known and loved a mother and father, only to give them up during the most formative years of your life?

She pauses at the sound of a muffled alarm going off in her backpack, then swipes her art supplies into her open bag and slings everything over her shoulder. “Gotta go. Bye, you two.”

As she goes, she casts us both a knowing grin that makes me frown.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say.

She sneaks another glance at Étienne, then at me, and shrugs. “Nothing.” Then she’s hurrying down the stairs, Oxfords clopping noisily.

There’s no point in getting flustered over the observations of a thirteen-year-old, whatever that look was supposed to mean. But my cheeks warm anyway, and I’m grateful for the dimness of the room. I glance at Étienne at the same time that he glances at me, and immediately our eyes dart away, going instead to our drinks.

“What are you doing here?” I mutter at him. “I thought you lived in Richmond.”

He sips his drink. “I’m always here,” he replies.

I roll my eyes at him. “So am I, but I’ve never seen you.”

“Surely it’s possible that we’ve just never been in here at the same time.”

“Or that this is a good place to pick up a date.” I nod toward the stairs, where the woman he’d given his number to had left earlier. “Risky, courting a Harbinger of Joy. Has that ever ended well for you?”

“You think Joy can’t appreciate a good lie?” He smiles a little. “I used to date a girl like her, back when I was human and worked in a bar like this one. She reminds me of her.”

“That so?” I say casually.

“How do you think I became a Harbinger?” He leans against the counter. “I was pulling a late bartending shift, and she missed the last train. So I escorted her home. A car ran a red light and hit our cab.”

Since I’ve known him, I’ve heard several variations of his Harbinger origin story. He had a long illness. He was in a fight. He was in a plane crash. And now, he died in a car accident.

Who knows if any of them is true. It’s hard to take the word of a professional liar.

“I don’t even know why I bother talking to you,” I mutter.

Étienne leans toward me. A few locks of hair fall across his eyes, individual strands glowing from the candlelight. “You’re mad at me,” he says in a low voice. “Is it because of this morning?”

“Not at all,” I say, taking a long sip of water. “A job’s a job, right?”

He smiles. “You need to work on your lies, Rose.”

“Not something I feel motivated to improve, really.”

“Look how moral she is,” he says. “And what do you thrive on, Harbinger of Death? Taking lives and claiming souls?” He shakes his head. “What a drag.”