The Graveyard Convenience

Chapter One: The Witching Hour

The fluorescent lights of the Quick-Stop on 4th and Vine hummed in a key specifically designed to induce migraines.

Mara didn’t mind the lights. They were the only thing keeping her awake at 3:14 AM, a time of night when the city held its breath and the only people awake were the heartbroken, the hunted, and the graveyard shift workers.

Mara was none of those things, or maybe she was a little bit of all of them. At twenty-six, she wore her cynicism like armor, deflecting drunk college kids and meth-heads with the same flat, unimpressed stare.

The bell above the door chimed.

Mara didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The air in the store changed whenever he entered. The stale smell of mop water and ancient hot dogs vanished, replaced by something crisp and cold, like ozone before a thunderstorm or snow on a grave.

"Evening, Mara," the voice said. It was a baritone that vibrated in the hollow of her chest.

She looked up then. Elias.

He was tall, wearing a charcoal coat that cost more than her car. His skin was pale, not the sickly pallor of the junkies outside, but the pristine, marble whiteness of a statue. He had dark hair swept back from a severe, handsome face, and eyes that were so dark they swallowed the harsh overhead light.

"It’s morning, Elias," she corrected, her voice raspy from disuse. "Technically."

"Time is a flat circle in here," he murmured, approaching the counter. He moved with a fluid, predatory grace that unnerved her as much as it thrilled her. He didn't walk; he flowed.

He placed his usual items on the counter: a pack of cigarettes he never smoked and a newspaper he would read in the corner booth, motionless, for exactly one hour.

"Rough night?" he asked. He wasn't looking at the register. He was looking at the bruise on her wrist, a parting gift from a clumsy struggle with a heavy delivery crate earlier that evening.

"Just the usual," she said, scanning the items. "That comes to twelve-fifty."

He slid a twenty across the counter. His fingers brushed hers. His skin was ice cold.

The contact sent a jolt through her, a static shock that had nothing to do with the cheap carpet. She looked up, meeting his gaze. For a second, the darkness in his eyes swirled, revealing a flash of something red, something hungry.

Most people would have flinched. Mara leaned in.

"Keep the change," he said softly.

"You always say that."

"I always mean it."

He took his items and went to the back corner booth, sitting in the shadows where the fluorescent glare didn't quite reach. Mara watched him. She knew he wasn't normal. She knew the way the automatic doors didn't always register his presence, and how he never, ever blinked.

She should be terrified. But in the lonely, sterile ecosystem of the Quick-Stop, fear was just another way to feel alive.