Peter was gone. Silas had finally surrendered to sleep in his room and I was trying to get rid of a very stubborn Mark—who would decline every attempt at telling him I was truly okay—to go sleep as well.
"That scared the shit away from me," he said, when we were alone.
He looked at me, I focused on the shiny tiles of the floor. "You knew it was a possibility I'd get hurt, right? You hired me. I'm not doing an easy peasy job here. When it's related to the Other World, there's always a possibility—"
"Is that why you don't do this work anymore?"
I nodded. "I'm almost the only relative Silas has. And people like me... They tend to die early."
"And I come and force you to continue that line of work," he laughed softly. A deprecating chuckle that he accompanied with the shake of his head. "I didn't realize I was behaving like my father. You must hate me."
"I don't hate you as much as I understand you." I stole a quick glance. "Well, maybe I hate you a little bit." I smiled, and he smiled back, and I didn't mind looking at him, despite the aura that always followed him. When he didn't grin but smile, I liked how his face brightened.
"Can you not hide what you know from me?" Mark leaned forward. The sofa creaked. "Can you not lie to me? All of them lied. They told my father the truth, but thought I was too weak to handle the truth."
I hesitated, biting my bottom lip. If I told him, how would he react to the news? I thought of the demons that stick to him, and the little distance between them and my brother. If he lost control of his emotions, he could be more dangerous than other Bad Omens.
"Can I have the truth?" Mark insisted. "I can handle it. What do you see that makes your skin crawl each time you look at me?"
"I see—" I pinched my nose, trying to look for words soft enough for him.
As if he read my mind, he said, "Don't sugarcoat it."
I dared another glance at him. This time, I forced myself to maintain eye contact. "In my world, we call people like you Bad Omens. We're told to stay away because you're as bad as luck gets in this universe, and mixing with bad luck can be quite... dangerous." The demons stirred. They knew I was about to talk about them. "They're usually beacons for demons."
Mark chuckled. "Demons? I attract demons."
A demonic claw pinched Mark's jaw, as if it were to kiss him. I swallowed my repulsion, but I found something closer to pity taking root in my mind. He scratched that spot.
I nodded. "Normally, Bad Omens have a few of them stuck to their existence. Six, seven, a dozen..."
"How many do I have?" He tilted his head. His eyes scanned my face, they lingered on the lower part of my face.
I was afraid he'd ask the question. I was afraid to answer. He'd turn mad, eventually, as his death came closer, and I didn't want to accelerate the process. But he deserved to know, right? My grandma would've laughed at my softness, she'd mock me with her voice thick with a Spanish accent. You're too kind, Mitchell. People are not your friends, They're your clients, or you enemies. You better stay away.
"A few hundred," I spat, before I had too much time to think of what to say.
You foolish child, Sabela would've said.
Mark looked taken aback. His eyes opened in surprise as his eyebrows rose up. He opened his mouths and closed it again, for the first time he was the one at a loss of words. I allowed him the time he needed to digest the truth I had dropped.
"But that... That's a lot, right? But you can fix me." He was hanging onto a burning nail in the hopes I'd be his savior.
"We don't have a lot of time. And yes, it a small army that you have within you." My fingers gripped a pillow until the knuckles in both my hands turned white.
Mark's lips formed a fine line, he blew out air through his nose. He patted his shirt as if he was looking for his packet of cigarettes. Then, he thought the better of it, and dropped his hand. "I should've listened to dad." He wasn't angry. He was a boy who had had every hope smothered too early in life. He was calm, and I thought about what Ray had said.
There were two things I was sure of in that very moment: the first was that Mark was going to die because more powerful people than me had tried to save him and failed. He was irrevocably doomed to die at 19th and there was nothing I could do to change that. The second thing, that Mark would drag me with him on his fall, even if he didn't yet realize. Stories with Bad Omens always ended the same.
I leaned forward, mimicking his earlier move. From this distance, I could smell his scent. "We can try," I said. "That's the most I can give you."
"I can work with that," Mark smiled weakly. And he was going to add something else, by the way he inhaled like he was preparing himself for another conversation. But then he changed his mind. "It's getting late," he added, looking at his wrist watch. "But I'll be here tomorrow morning to pick you up. Thank you."
I played with a loose thread on the pillow. "Don't thank me so fast," I murmured, the truths I hadn't told still lodged in my brain.
Abuela used to say that talking to people was like cutting a pattern on a piece of fabric. In Spain, she learned to sew when she was a little girl, and worked with a seamstress for a whole summer. She found the experience as revolting as she found it clarifying. When that summer ended, she was glad to return to her usual work with spirits and rituals, and Nature. But the labour somehow stuck to her, and she used that analogy often. People are like clothes, they're formed by the things they know, and the things they don't know. And she was a master at manipulating truth and lie to make each person fit her figure. You cut out the things that don't serve you, and you keep the important stuff that helps you, she used to say. But it wasn't as easy as she made it, and I felt the guilt deep in my guts.
The part of me that was aware how I'd ended up in this situation—Mark had forced my hand, he'd extorted my acceptance out of me using the debt I owed him— hated him. Maybe I wanted to watch him burn, maybe I had accepted so easily so I'd have a front seat into his decline.
The part of me that had loved Harry, however, that part hoped that I'd be able to make up for what I did to him if I tried changing Mark's path. If I tried hard enough, if the universe saw I was truly, truly trying, maybe I'd be able to finally forgive myself. Even if Mark's end wouldn't change much from Harry's.
Mark sighed, and he patted his jeans. "I'm leaving now," he announced.
"Okay."
Wasn't it too late to walk around town? I looked at the kitchen clock. I hadn't realized it was two in the morning already.
"And my thanks still holds. Thank you for this."
I nodded. "Okay."
"Goodnight," Mark said.
A beat passed.
"Goodnight."
"See you tomorrow."
"See ya, Mark. Or should I say 'boss'?"
Mark's mouth curved up in a half smile. He greeted me with a military salute as he walked out of the door. The silence descended upon me with a dizzying rush, and I felt the fatigue of the day finally catching up with me. The cuts hurt, and my body was as heavy as lead. Silas snored on the other room.
I walked over to the kitchen, and pulled out a packet of cigarettes that I hid from my little brother. He avoided cooking like he'd catch the black plague if he tried, so it was as safe as it could be among the pots. I pulled a cigarette out and opened the window. The smoke drew a curvy path in front of my eyes. It was a long time since I'd had my last one, but that day had been the kind of shitty day that makes you give in to your vices. Its sour taste calmed me almost immediately.
A lightning split the sky in half and illuminated the street for a quarter of a second. Just enough so I could see the lone figure in the shadows. I knew the figure knew I had discovered his hiding place. I knew he had followed me home. I knew he was in the bus when Mark and I had gone to Sabela's shop. I had my suspicion we were being watched, and I knew to always trust my guts. I showed him the middle finger as I took a last puff. The figure didn't react to the profane gesture. He stood completely still as if I'd forget about his existence.
I closed the window. I locked the door. I hung the talismans on every possible entrance, and poured salt over the windowsills, and below the main door. Even though he was clearly a human, I didn't want to leave anything to chance after that day's scares.
"I dare you to try," I whispered to the darkness. The burnt lady in the corner listened, but didn't respond. She didn't talk, she just stared. She was the only otherworldly creature that had sneaked past the shields.
The problems came to me like I attracted them. Luckily, some problems could be solved with violence. I was no stranger with violence. The knife I brought to hide under the bed was the sharpest one I had. A chef's knife I had saved up for. It sliced through tomatoes like paper.
It would slice through flesh just as easily. Like a knife cutting through butter.