I know where I’m going the instant I leave my house. The autumn air is crisp, making my skin pucker with goosebumps. Dark clouds hang over the stone city I call home, and I pull my wool coat tighter as my sneakers slam against the pavement. I know where I’m going, because I’m finally desperate enough to put my life in danger. Finally numb enough to yearn for something dangerous, something to make me feel again.

When your life implodes, you stop caring about the things that once gave you nightmares.

Edinburgh is busy tonight. The tourists are out in full swing, their phones out at every corner, taking pictures of the winding, cobblestone streets and famous cafés. I don’t mind it. The hordes of people make me feel a little less alone. Still, the ache of what happened sears through my heart again when I think about it—and the people who betrayed me.

And the betrayal happened just a week after losing my job.

It’s like the world conspired to make me feel as miserable as possible, ensuring I had no respite, no time to catch my breath before one tragedy turned into three.

My phone chimes, and when I look down, I see Shepherd’s name flash across the screen. After hitting the ignore button, I hold the power button down and wait for my phone to go black. The only two people who would ever need to get a hold of me just decided to stab me in the back, so there’s no need to keep it powered on. If a bus were to hit me now, no one would know, because they wouldn’t realize that I’m missing. That thought depresses me even more, and I swallow the lump in my throat as I nearly collide with someone, deep in thought. I swallow and rub my neck, shaking my head.

It’s fine. I am better off alone.

I turn down Princes Street, walking past the shops and restaurants I know like the back of my hand. Making a sharp left, I head down a narrow, unnamed alleyway. It’s one of the secret veins of the city—a passage between the human territory and the other territory. Growing up, I was told not to venture east, not to enter this passage. But tonight, I can’t seem to find the energy to care. I just need a space away from my memories, somewhere new.

Somewhere Shepherd and Rachel won’t find me.

A few minutes later, I emerge on the other side. I don’t know what I expected. My mother told me horror stories my entire childhood, warned me of the beasts that roamed freely here, thanks to an old, Scottish law. This was the one section of Edinburgh that belonged to them. Two streets—that’s it. As I look around, all I see are… humans. Bars, restaurants, shops, people walking and talking… It’s exactly like every other part of the city. There are fewer tourists, sure, but there are no winged faeries or fanged vampires roaming around unchecked.

I pick the first bar I see. Dante’s Inferno.

Ha, ha, ha.

My lips quirk at the irony, but my smile drops off my face the second I enter the disheveled bar. A group of frumpy, older women sit in one corner, and a few couples are scattered around the bar. Why was my mother so adamant that I stay away from this area? It doesn’t seem any different, and as far as I can tell, everyone is purely human. Disappointed, I take a seat at the bar and get the bartender’s attention. He’s tall and thin with blue eyes; older, perhaps mid-forties. His silver hair is shiny and neat. I study his face for any clues, but to me, he looks just like every other human.

“Hello, what can I get you?” he chirps, sauntering over to me.

“Your strongest drink?” I ask. I’m usually a wine or beer girl, but tonight, I need something stronger. Shrugging off my coat, I take a seat at the bar.

“Rough day?”

“Something like that,” I respond.

His eyebrows knit together, and he pouts. “Do you like whiskey?”

I wrinkle my nose. “Not usually.”

“Even quadruple distilled whiskey? It’s 96 proof, made in-house. The recipe is from the sixteenth century,” he adds, his voice high and excited. “One drink of the stuff and you won’t remember whoever is making you so sad.”

I grin. “That sounds perfect.”

He smiles as he reaches for an old bottle with a wax cap. Pouring me a finger in a crystal glass, he sets it down in front of me.

“Best drunk straight,” he adds, his Scottish accent thick.

I’m used to the accents now. I moved back and forth between Edinburgh and New York my entire childhood, so I’m an expert at picking up mumbled Scottish terms and phrases.

Taking a sip of the amber liquid, I blink a few times to disguise the fact that the strength burns my throat and makes my eyes water. The bartender chuckles, and I set the glass down.

“Careful with that one,” he continues, polishing a glass a few feet away. “One glass and you won’t remember tonight.”

I tilt my head and lift the glass, giving him a little smile as I shoot the rest of the drink.

Holy gods, it burns.

I cough a couple of times, hitting my chest and squeezing my eyes shut. “Fuck,” I whisper, shaking my head.

“Told you.” The bartender chuckles.

“Another one,” I manage to get out, sliding the glass over to him.

“Who hurt you?” he jokes, pulling the bottle down from the shelf again and refilling my glass.

“Is that question rhetorical?”

He slides the glass back. “It doesn’t have to be.”

I hum in response. My mouth and throat are numb, and I lift the second glass to my lips, shooting that one back as well.

“Well, my dad left my mom when I was a baby. That’s probably where my issues started, when I think about it.” I move my hand in circles next to my head. “Major daddy issues. Anyway, my mom was my best friend, and I had to watch her die slowly from early onset Alzheimer’s five years ago. My boyfriend at the time was my only bright spot. Soon after, I met my best friend, Rachel. And about two hours ago, I caught them cheating on me. With each other.” My lower lip wobbles, and I sniff as I take a deep breath. “Shepherd and I were together for six years.”

The bartender lowers himself so that he’s at eye-level with me, his elbows resting on the bar. “Your ex sounds like a fucking twat,” he says softly.

I look up at him through wet lashes. His face is so sincere. My eyes prick with tears because of it. Swooping a gaze over his face, I see that his nails are hot pink, and he’s wearing a rainbow lanyard around his neck. I give him a small smile before pushing my empty glass back. Feeling dizzy, I shake my head.

“To make matters worse, I got fired from my job earlier this week. So, I’m truly and utterly alone,” I explain, throat stinging. “Hence the whiskey. I think I’ll take another glass,” I add, gripping the edge of the bar.

“You can get another job,” he answers, his voice resolved. “There are plenty of jobs out there. And fuck your ex and your friend. You don’t need them.” He sighs. “This is going to sound harsh, but I promise you need to hear it. If they truly cared about you, they would’ve put you first. Instead, two awful people found each other. Think about it that way.”

I shrug. “I just wish it wasn’t the two people I cared about the most.”

The bartender smirks. “How big was his cock?”

I huff a laugh. “It was… average?”

He shakes his head. “No. You and me? We need big dick energy, you hear me?”

I laugh, and he slides another drink over to me. I shoot it back easier this time because my throat has lost all feeling.

“I just wish I could forget about them, you know?” I admit, feeling vulnerable.

The bartender nods, and I swear his eyes flash a brighter blue for a second. “Trust me. My ex takes up way too much space in my mind. His cock wasn’t even that big,” he adds. “Big dick energy was lacking, aye.” I laugh, feeling a tiny bit better. “What’s your name?” he asks, setting down a glass of water.

“Elizabeth, but everyone calls me Liz.”

He twists his lips. “Okay, Liz. Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to drink that water, eat a proper meal, and get some sleep. Tomorrow, when you’re sober, you’re going to come back here and ask my manager for a job. Tell him Rory sent you.”

Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s just the events of the day catching up with me, but I blurt out the first thought that pops into my mind. I mean it to sound funny, like a joke—and if this place is truly paranormal, perhaps this is the way to put feelers out.

“Even though I’m human?”

Rory’s eyes flash again, and his eyebrows rise just a fraction. “Pardon?”

I giggle, feeling rubbery and loose. “My mom told me this part of Edinburgh was inhabited with demons, faeries, and werewolves,” I explain, my voice a little too loud. The bar quiets, and Rory looks around before bending forward.

“I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink, Liz,” he whispers. “The drinks are on me. Why don’t you go home and come back tomorrow?”

His brush-off stings a bit, but I’m too tipsy to care. “Sure. Can I use the restroom?”

He points behind me. “It’s downstairs, to the right.”

Nodding, I hop off the stool and stumble, catching myself on a nearby chair before I fall on my ass. I hear Rory curse under his breath, so I straighten and brush myself off. The room spins around me. He wasn’t lying when he said the whiskey would do me in. Heading in the direction Rory pointed to, I see a stone staircase leading down to the basement. I take the steps one at a time, holding onto the railing for dear life. Despite feeling drunk, I also feel… happy. Numb. Maybe this is why people drink whiskey. The staircase winds down and down, and my thighs are burning just before my feet find solid ground.

It’s like a dungeon in here, not unlike the vaults I frequented for my job. I look around, turning right and facing a door with a toilet sign. But to my left is a dark passageway, and perhaps my only clue to what the hell my mother was so scared of. I trudge on, slowly walking into the darkness. It’s cold down here, and the skin on my bare arms prickles with goosebumps. I pull my phone out of my back pocket and clumsily turn on the flashlight, holding it out in front of me. The only sound I hear is my own breathing, so I continue for another minute, until I reach a dead end. Looking around, my eyes dart around the stone chamber, but there’s nothing down here.

This place is no different from any other old bar I’ve been to. What the hell was my mom talking about when she warned me of this place as a child?

I turn around and head to the toilet. It’s a large bathroom, with a curved, stone ceiling and gothic furniture. I lock the door and use the toilet. When I’m done, I walk up to the ornate, wooden vanity, and wash my hands. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My long, red hair is up in a bun, though it’s messier now than it was a few hours ago. And my light brown eyes are glossed over, the whiskey making it so that I can barely focus on my own reflection. I’m about to turn around when my eyes catch a small piece of paper next to the mirror—scrawled handwriting on an old piece of parchment, framed behind a pane of glass. I lean forward to read it.

In the mirror, his soul now rests,

Speak your wish, name your test,

To pass the time, he opens this gate,

Bloody Marius is cursed to wait.

A sacrifice is all he asks,

For even the most disagreeable tasks,

Look through the mirror and speak into,

Just be warned, he might choose you.

I rear my head back and repeat the poem out loud. As I finish reciting it, the lights in the bathroom flicker, and the hair stands up on the back of my neck as the bathroom goes dark. I should run, but the whiskey running through my veins gives me faux courage. A wish? I can speak my wish to whatever the hell is behind this mirror. Fuck it.

I huff a laugh and lean forward on the vanity so that my nose is touching the mirror. I expect to bite out a snarky wish, but the events of the day catch up with me, and my chest begins to ache when I think of what happened.

Shepherd screwing Rachel in our flat.

Having to face them in the future—watch them together.

Not having my mom or dad or anyone I can confide in.

Not going to university so that I could stay near Shepherd.

After my mom died, he was all I had after all.

And here I am, in the bathroom of a bar on the other side of town.

The one place my mother asked me to stay away from.

But why did she want me to stay away so badly? She left so many questions unanswered, because her mind was all over the place at the end.

And now, tonight, I am all alone.

Tonight, I have a death wish, because there is no one left to care about what happens to me.

The weight of that loneliness settles deep in my bones, and my head drops as I stare at the black marble sink.

“I wish I had someone to worry about me,” I whisper, tears falling from my eyes.

My vision is blurry when I look up at myself in the mirror.

Except… it’s not my reflection staring back.

It’s a man—and his eyes are just as wide as mine. His face is young yet weathered—not old, but somehow wise. Powerful. His eyes glow red, and his hair is black and combed back, like he’s from another era. His stiff collar has gold buttons, and his red coat matches the color of his eyes.

Dread fills every crevice, every molecule of my body. I’m dreaming. I passed out somewhere, and I’m dreaming. I must be. Before I can fully register what’s happening, like an apparition, he steps through the mirror. I stumble backward as he appears in front of me—a fully-fledged person, flesh and bone and skin. He’s wearing black trousers and a red overcoat. Not a reflection—a man. A very tall, very menacing-looking man. With horns. My eyes widen at the black horns sticking out of the top of his head, and when my eyes find his red ones again, I open my mouth to scream.

He rushes forward with otherworldly speed and cups my mouth with his hand. His skin is cold, too cold. He’s a solid foot taller than me, and he overpowers me easily. Bending down, his hot breath tickles my ear, sending shivers down my body and something else, some sort of power that relaxes me instantly.

“I’ve been waiting a long, long time for you, Elizabeth,” he growls.

My vision tilts a bit before everything goes black.