He brings his lips down to my forehead to plant a claiming kiss. “You’re all mine now.”

My breathing goes rampant, the events catching up to me. My hands find purchase with my neck and my chest, rubbing and massaging, trying to get rid of the urge to scream, trying to find the steady breaths that are lost inside of me. Cold burns my skin when the ring touches me, but for some sick reason, I don’t want to take it off.

The weight of the letter sitting in my pocket drags me down to the floor and I curl my fingers behind my neck. Rocking back and forth, back and forth, staring at the invisible speck of dust on his perfectly pressed coat.

Letum is kneeling in front of me again, just like he did on the night that I was meant to die. He took Dahlia from me, now he’s taken Evan. Why didn’t he take me? Why does he still refuse to let me die?

“What did you do to him?” I gasp. I know what he did. It’s a stupid question to ask.

Letum smooths a hand down my leg, and the other hand gently tips my chin up. “My darling, everyone dies eventually. The only question is when. I decided that it would be today.”

“You killed him because of me!” I choke out before slapping my hand over my mouth so that Nate doesn’t hear.

Letum’s head tips to the side ever so slightly. “No, my love. I did not kill him. I reprieved his body of his soul.”

“That’s the same fucking thing,” I snap.

His touch is so tender compared to my tone as he tucks my hair behind my ear. “The afterlife would not have taken him if it was not his time.” Letum’s body tenses and I brace myself. “Such a painless death was a kindness, my thunderstorm. Because of you, I did not make him suffer.”

Seriously? “Is that meant to make me feel better?”

He sighs, though not impatiently. Letum’s forehead touches my own. I know I should back away, but I don’t, I can’t. “You will come alive, my night monster. I want to see you shine.”

“Bullshit.”

“What’s bullshit?” a voice says from behind me.

I snap my head up to see that it looks like Nate has aged ten years in a manner of ten minutes. Or maybe it has only been ten seconds. He, too, hasn’t shed a tear. Though, like me, his hand is trembling at his side, shaking his phone.

He forgets that I said anything at all, and slumps onto the ground next to me and leans his back against the green couch that Evan and I thrifted together for our old apartment. “The ambulance is on its way,” he says defeated.

Neither of us says a word to the other. Not when the ambulance arrives. Not once they take Evan’s body away.

The paramedics question us, and we both say the same thing: We found him like that. Only I left out the part where I found him with a letter from the Faceless Man that has been stalking me for the past year and a half. It all goes by in a monotonous blur.

I can’t feel anything. I’ve already spent months grieving him. My mind has already pulled me into its clutches, just leaving one foot out just so I hear enough to nod every few seconds.

I didn’t even flinch when I told his parents. How could I not flinch? I should be crying with them. I should be screaming as they are. I should be getting in my car and following them to the hospital because after all they think I’m his girlfriend. In reality, the girl with the blue cardigan is closer to him than I am.

Perhaps it’s cruel or petty, but I won’t be the one to tell her. She clearly sees Evan often enough she’ll find out on her own. She still has to come by and pick up her cardigan.

Everything crashes when I make it to my car. Like a livewire, everything in me ignites. The static in my lungs burns as I scream. Pounding fists and palms on the steering wheel, over and over and over until my throat is completely raw, my hands begin to bruise and my arms burn from the pain.

I’m bitter. I’m angry. I’m upset. What is wrong with me that death doesn’t want me? Why not me?

I hit the overhead light and ignore the shitty worn seats of my crappy old car, and dig through my bag until I find the familiar orange bottle. There’s no point in taking it when Letum is clearly real. But it gives me some peace of mind, a false semblance of calm.

The lid pops open and tumbles down the side of the seat. I curse under my breath but tip a single pill onto the palm of my hand. I never look at it before I take it. For some reason, I do this time.

My grip on the bottle loosens, and it drops onto the car floor, scattering white pills all around. I bring the single pill closer. There’s a symbol on it. Not his symbol, mine.

A crescent moon with a cross hanging down the bottom: The symbol of Lilith, the she-demon.

The pill drops with the rest of them. How long have they been like this? I only searched up Lilith’s symbol the other day. Have I been taking Dr. Mallory’s medication at all? No, I must have. I have all the symptoms she warned me about. Did he swap them out?

One by one, I pick up the pills checking to see if they all have the same symbol. No. I am not crazy. Letum is real. I’m being treated for—I don’t even know anymore.

“Letum,” I scream, looking out of the window expecting him to be standing under one of the streetlights. I can’t see him, but I know he can see me. He’s watching. He always is. “What are you doing to me? What the fuck do you want from me?”

I don’t know what I expected, but nothing about my surroundings changes.

I scream again before pressing my forehead to the steering wheel to try to regain my composure. Seconds go by, or maybe minutes. I can’t be sure how long goes by as I stare at the constellation of pills on the floor of my car.

But I am sure of one thing.

I still want Letum by my side.

I don’t recall driving home, but I did. The last thing I remember was twisting the gold ring around my finger. Now, I’m turning my ignition off, my car is parked on the street in front of my apartment. I know that I drove, I just don’t think I was conscious while doing it.

My footsteps echo against the groaning wooden staircase as I climb the two stories to my apartment. I fidget with the letter in my pocket. The only evidence of Letum staking claim over Evan’s death when my phone chimes again. Whoever it was, tried to call. Evan’s mother, Carol, probably. Maybe a doctor. Possibly Evan’s flatmates, though Nate can be the messenger. Evan’s friends won’t contact me, they don’t bother with me anymore.

There won’t be anything on there of any importance, only messages of pity or people for me to grieve with. I don’t want to deal with it. I can’t face his parents when I know why their son was taken from them. I can’t face them knowing they’ll look at me and see that I’ve evaded death once again.

My hand wraps around the cold metal handle of my apartment door and I angle the key just right to hear the satisfying click of the door unlocking. The hinges groan as I swing the door open, only to stop short of closing it again.

Please, no. Not today. I’m not in the mood.

Like a woman gone mad—and I could have truly lost it from everything that has happened—I check the number on my door: 2B.

The sound of my neighbor’s door unlocking forces me inside my own apartment, and I can’t help but think that this is my punishment for ignoring the calls and not following the ambulance to the hospital.

Candles decorate every corner of the apartment, pulling me back to my dream. This time they’re of all shapes and sizes, some on a candelabra, others planted firmly on the floor.

Every inch of the kitchen bench is covered in platters of fruits and crackers, pomegranates and apples, a roasted turkey, potatoes and vegetables, bruschetta and vinaigrette, bottles of red and white wine, all on top of a deep red tablecloth. Another set of fine china is set up for me. The table is straight out of a movie, like a dining room fit to serve a queen.