4. Calliope #2
It’s not until things slow down after four that I hear the first sign something might actually be strange.
Three regulars are sitting by the window, phones out, when one says, “Did you see sunrise was late this morning? Like five minutes late. My weather app freaked out.”
I snort as I wipe down the counter. “Maybe the sun had a hangover.”
“Or maybe your boyfriend held it hostage, goth style.”
I play it cool, but something in my chest bristles.
I glance outside. The day looks perfectly normal, the sun already retreating behind clouds, and five minutes is nothing. Weather apps glitch. People online panic because a squirrel sneezes somewhere in Nebraska.
Still, I think about Erebus.
Night comes, Night holds, Night yields.
Then I tell myself I’m being ridiculous and get back to work.
By the time my shift ends, I’ve almost forgotten about it.
Almost.
I stay late cleaning, letting the hum and clang of the machines substitute for company, when a soft tap sounds against the window.
Erebus stands beneath the purple halo of the neon sign, holding a paper bag.
I unlock the door and pull it open. “You know we have an entrance.”
“I did not know whether you were closed.”
“You’ve been here every night for a week. You know exactly when we close.”
“That is true.”
His gaze drops to the bag in his hand.
Naturally, mine follows.
“What’s in the bag?”
“A gift.”
“For me?”
“Yes.”
I wait for more, but this is Erebus, so naturally, more does not come.
“Well, now you have to come in.”
He follows me inside while I lock the door again. Without customers, music, or the constant scream of the espresso machine, Ghoulish Grinds feels almost intimate.
Erebus sets the bag on the counter.
Inside is a small white box tied with black string. I lift the lid and find two pastries nestled in tissue paper, both covered in dark chocolate and something glittery enough that I suspect magic was involved.
“Hex and Honey?”
“Yes.”
“You brought me pastries?”
“You frequently give them to me.”
“Because they’re going stale.”
“I am aware.”
I glance up. “These aren’t going stale.”
“No.”
“So you bought me fresh pastries because I’ve been feeding you the old ones?”
“I was informed that reciprocity is important during courtship.”
My hand stops halfway into the box.
“During what?”
“Courtship.”
I stare at him.
Erebus stares back, with absolutely no indication that he understands why this might require further explanation.
“Are you courting me?”
He considers the question long enough that I begin wondering if there’s some ancient definition of the word involving livestock.
“I believe so.”
A laugh escapes me. “You believe so?”
“I have never done it before.”
That wipes the amusement from my face. “Never?”
“No.”
“You’ve been around since the beginning of time, and you’ve never dated anyone?”
“I have known many people.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“I am aware.”
His gaze shifts toward the pastry box, as though regretting everything that has led him to this moment.
“I have never wanted to.”
Something inside my chest goes unexpectedly soft.
“Well,” I say, before this gets dangerously sincere, “most people start by asking someone on a date.”
“I see.”
“Then they bring the pastries.”
“I have done this incorrectly.”
“Not necessarily. I actually prefer your order.”
His shoulders ease.
I take one of the pastries and bite into it. Chocolate and raspberry burst across my tongue with something warm and spicy underneath.
“Oh my God.”
Erebus’s expression changes instantly. “Is something wrong?”
“No. That’s what humans say when something is really good.”
“You invoke your deity over pastry?”
“Constantly.”
He seems to file this information away.
I tear the pastry in half and offer him some.
“So,” I say, “are you going to ask?”
His brow creases.
“The date, Erebus.”
“Ah.”
He sets his half of the pastry carefully on the tissue paper and straightens, making the whole thing feel like I’m about to receive a royal summons.
“Calliope Craven, would you accompany me somewhere?”
“That’s technically an invitation.”
“Is it insufficient?”
“No, it’s adorable.”
His mouth tightens.
“In a good way.”
“I am beginning to distrust that word.”
Laughing, I reach for my coat. “Where are we going?”
I should probably be more concerned about following the primordial embodiment of Night into the fog after midnight.
Instead, I’m eating the second pastry.
Erebus leads me toward the bay, where the buildings thin and the smell of salt overwhelms the city’s usual combination of exhaust, wet pavement, and fried food.
The fog is lighter near the water, unraveling in silver threads above the shore, while the lighthouse farther up the coast sends its beam through the darkness at steady intervals.
I glance at him. “So when Petra said you’re Night, she meant that literally.”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
His gaze lifts toward the sky. “Enough of it.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is the most accurate one.”
I smile. “What does being Night actually entail?”
He seems surprised by the question.
“You have never wondered what happens after sunset?”
“I assumed physics.”
“Physics is involved.”
“Glad to hear it.”
A faint smile touches his mouth.
“I do not create darkness. It existed before almost everything. I usher it, hold it, and maintain its boundaries until it is time to relinquish the sky.”
“To Dawn.”
“Yes.”
“So every morning, you just...give the sky back?”
“I do.”
“And you’ve been doing that forever?”
“Not forever.”
I glance at him.
“Close enough?”
This time, the smile reaches his eyes.
“Close enough.”
I shake my head. “And I thought closing a coffee shop every night was repetitive.”
“You complain considerably more than I do.”
I stop walking.
Erebus gets another few feet before realizing I’m no longer beside him.
“Was that a joke?”
He turns. “I am capable of humor.”
“Oh my God. The scones are changing you.”
“I find that unlikely.”
“It’s happening. Soon you’ll be using emojis.”
“I do not know what those are.”
“You’re not ready.”
He waits until I catch up before continuing toward the water.
Eventually, we reach a stretch of rocky shoreline beyond the last row of houses, where a weathered bench overlooks the bay. Blackthorn glows behind us, softened by fog, while the dark water ahead reflects the scattered lights along the coast.
Erebus doesn’t sit.
I do, then pat the bench beside me.
“You’re allowed.”
“I know.”
“Then sit down. You’re making this feel like a parole hearing.”
He sits.
For a while, neither of us speaks.
Normally, silence makes me nervous. I fill it automatically with weather, customers, or whatever minor catastrophe has overtaken Blackthorn that day, because silence usually means somebody expects something from me.
With Erebus, it doesn’t.
The quiet feels like something he’s sharing.
I look out across the water. “This is beautiful.”
His attention shifts from the bay to me. “You have lived here your entire life.”
“Doesn’t mean I remember to look at it.”
“You should.”
“Maybe.”