EVENINGS WERE the worst. Not mornings or afternoons, when some of the deaths had happened, because during the day, Bram could bury himself so deeply in equations and computer screens and beakers that he hardly thought about anything but work. But in the evenings, he couldn’t concentrate any longer, and he wandered restlessly around his house, listening to the empty echo of his footsteps.
Tonight was especially bad. Somehow the heat and humidity had only increased after the sun set, and the aging air conditioner was not keeping up. Bram had picked up a book and then a magazine, but the words swam meaninglessly in front of his eyes. He clicked on the TV, but the comedies weren’t funny, the dramas were stupid, and the reality shows made him want to punch someone. Even the sports weren’t sports—just a bunch of middle-aged has-beens sitting around in ill-fitting suits and terrible haircuts, spouting meaningless statistics. If the temperature had been more reasonable, he would have gone for a long run, forcing himself through mile after punishing mile until his muscles screamed and he was too exhausted to do anything but return home and collapse into bed. Instead, he stalked from living room to kitchen to bedroom to study, his skin tingling as if his nerve cells were multiplying too quickly, his gaze darting from place to place as if he were searching for something.
Thing was, what he was searching for was long gone.
When Bram’s circling brought him back to the kitchen, he pulled a bottle of beer from the fridge. Corona. He hadn’t realized he had any of the stuff left. He preferred darker ales, sometimes even stouts. He rolled the cold glass across his forehead and leaned back against the counter with his eyes shut.
He used to love the evenings, especially weeknights when there was no real pressure to go out. He would come home and strip out of his polo shirt and khakis, put on sweats if it was cold or boxer briefs during the summer. He and Jim would make dinner together. The kitchen wasn’t large enough for two men—they bumped into each other and did awkward dances with hands full of knives and spoons and vegetables as they complained about their workdays. It was wonderful. And after dinner they collapsed onto the couch with music playing or something inane on the TV, their legs entwined. Bram read journal articles or lab notes; Jim went over depositions and motions. They’d interrupt each other with random thoughts and observations, with silly jokes, with chatter about politics or whether they’d paid the electric bill.
“Get a fucking grip,” Bram growled. He rummaged in a drawer until he found the bottle opener, and he pried the beer open with an unnecessarily harsh jerk. The Corona tasted like cold piss, but he took a long swig anyway. Maybe there was enough beer in the fridge for him to get drunk. He hadn’t done that in a long time.
He finished off the bottle and was about to get another when the doorbell rang.
Tensing, he glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was nearly nine o’clock. Too late for salesmen or Jehovah’s Witnesses or the neighbor kids with their endless school fundraisers. None of Bram’s friends would drop by unannounced. Not that he had many friends nowadays. He’d managed to push most of them away after Jim’s death. They’d really been Jim’s friends anyway.
Feeling slightly ridiculous, Bram pulled a large blade from the knife block. On his way out of the kitchen, he picked up the phone lying next to the empty bottle on the counter. He wished he had a pocket, but all he wore was a pair of old running shorts.
He walked into the living room and flipped on the porch light. With the phone and knife clutched in his left hand, he unfastened the locks and opened the door.
“Abraham Tillman?” asked the man standing on his porch.
“Bram Tillman.”
The man nodded slightly. He looked nervous, which didn’t help settle Bram’s nerves, but he didn’t look scary. Somewhere in his twenties, slender, and a couple inches shorter than Bram’s six even, the man wore unremarkable tan trousers and a black tank top. He was, in fact, quite beautiful, with olive-toned skin, tightly curled brown hair, enormous blue eyes, and lips so impossibly lush as to make any starlet mad with envy. When the man chewed nervously on his lower lip, Bram had to look away.
“Can I help you?” Bram asked, staring beyond the visitor’s left ear.
“Yes. I mean… actually, I’m here to help you. If I can.” The man straightened his shoulders. “I’m Daniel Royer. I’m—”
But Bram hissed like an angry alligator and took a step back, quickly shifting the knife to his right hand. He raised the blade threateningly. “Go away. I’m going to call 911.” He wished he’d taken his boss’s advice and bought a gun. Not that he’d know how to use the damn thing, but at least he could point it.
Daniel shook his head and held up his hands. “Please! I didn’t come here to cause trouble.”
Bram hated the familiar feel of adrenaline rushing through his body, making his heart race and his breathing speed up. He managed to keep his voice and hand steady, though, and that was something.
“It was self-defense. I’d never seen him before in my life, and he came at me and I… it was just instinct. Luck. An accident, almost. If I hadn’t killed him, he would have killed me. The cops and the DA agreed. It was all caught on the security cameras.”
“I know,” Daniel said with a sigh. “And I’m not here to avenge my brother’s death, I promise.”
Brother. Daniel didn’t look anything like the man who’d tried to murder Bram three months earlier. But then, Daniel hadn’t gotten a good look at his assailant. Hadn’t even noticed him, in fact, until the guy came flying down the grocery aisle with a can of peas held tight in one fist. He’d swung the can against Bram’s skull with all his might, and when Bram fell, his attacker landed on top of him and kept whaling away with the fucking can. But Bram was bigger, stronger, and apparently had a well-developed sense of self-preservation. He was able to buck the man off. He would have run away, but the man grabbed Bram’s leg. And when Bram came crashing down on top of him, the man’s head had thudded against the bottom shelf with a sickening crack. He went still instantly. Broken neck, the cops told Bram later. And no traces of drugs in the guy’s system. Everyone concluded it must have been a sudden psychotic break.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Bram said to Daniel. He meant it. It wasn’t Daniel’s fault his brother was messed up. But Bram didn’t lower the knife either.
To Bram’s surprise, Daniel gave him a sad little smile. “Thank you. Darius was… he did some stupid things sometimes. But he was good, you know? He had a good heart.”
“Okay,” Bram replied noncommittally. “Look, I—”
“I know why he tried to kill you.”
Bram gave Daniel a long, hard look. “Because he was crazy.”
Daniel shook his head. “No. That wasn’t it. And I know… you’re probably going to think I’m crazy, but I’m not. Please, Mr. Tillman. If you don’t listen to me, you’re going to die.”
Bizarrely, Bram actually felt a little calmer with the threat. Maybe because death—an eventuality he’d never before given much thought—had been such a frequent visitor lately. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his upper arm.
“It’s late,” he said. It wasn’t exactly true, but he was tired.
“I’m sorry.” Daniel finally dropped his hands and then looked as if he didn’t know quite what to do with them. He shoved them in his front pockets and pulled them out again. “It’s urgent. My lwa has been trying to tell me for a while, and it wasn’t until today I finally understood her.”
“Your what?”
Daniel repeated the word slowly. “Lo-ah. My lwa. My mystère.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“She’s… a spirit. An intermediary between humans and Bondye.”
“Bondye?”
“The Creator.”
Bram waved the knife slightly. “Is this some weird religious thing? ’Cause I’m not going to convert.” He was permanently and comfortably secular.
“It’s vodou,” Daniel replied quietly.
Sweat made Bram’s grip on the knife precarious, and his hand was beginning to cramp. He wondered when his life had taken a turn from boring and ordinary to surreal. “You and your zombie apocalypse can go home now,” he said. “I’m calling the cops.”
“Please, Mr. Tillman. This isn’t… this is real. A spirit is trying to kill you. If you don’t stop him, it’ll keep trying until it succeeds.” Daniel looked as if he were going to cry.
Bram had a perverse desire to set down his knife and phone in order to comfort Daniel. He wanted to know what the other man would feel like wrapped in his embrace, and he speculated whether those plush lips felt as soft as they looked.
Jesus.
Now Bram was going crazy too.
“You need to leave now,” he said, the words coming out more gentle than threatening.
Daniel shook his head and pressed his lips together, and his shoulders slumped a little. As he reached for his back pocket, Bram steadied the blade. But all Daniel did was pull out a worn leather wallet. He opened it and withdrew a slip of paper.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t listen. This is my phone number. Please reconsider. I can help you.” When Bram made no motion to accept the paper, Daniel sighed and stooped to set it just inside the threshold. He stood again. “My lwa is selfish. She doesn’t usually concern herself with other humans, and I don’t know why she’s trying to protect you. You should listen to her, though. She’s never wrong.”
As Bram watched, Daniel turned and walked down the sidewalk to the street. He got into a nondescript Honda and drove away. Only when the car was gone did Bram put the knife and phone on a nearby shelf. He wiped his damp hands on his shorts. Before he closed the door, he picked up the paper and stared at it. It showed only Daniel’s name and number, written neatly in blue ink. Instead of crumpling the paper, Bram set it on the shelf. Evidence, he decided. In case the guy turns out to be a stalker.
Bram’s sleep was restless that night. He tossed in his tangled, sweat-soaked sheets and woke up repeatedly with his pulse racing, the dregs of nightmares draining from his consciousness. And every damn time he awakened, his dick was achingly hard. At some bleary predawn hour, he gave in—he wrapped his hand around his cock and began to tug. His movements were hard and jerky, his grip tight enough to hurt. And the images that flashed behind his closed eyelids were disturbing: open graves, naked men with featureless faces, a pair of sunglasses with one lens missing, Daniel Royer’s soft blue eyes. Bram came with a groan composed of pain as much as pleasure. He wiped his sticky hand on the sheets, rolled onto his side, and finally fell into a deep sleep.