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six

T here were only a few times when I’d fled in the night over the years. Yet with every move, I fell into a groove of change. A new identity—name, background, license, passport, job history…

You name it. When I’d been bold enough, I even dyed my hair, but the black was a pain to get rid of so I’d opted to cut it all off when I moved to Seattle.

Even though it went against everything he stood for, Death was the one who helped me when I needed to change identities, and he had connected me with Nemo.

We’d never met in person, but Nemo became my keeper of sorts. Finding information I needed, forging my documents, and even managing my fortune. Nemo was a ghost. Keen on keeping his identity a secret, he would send an errand boy to exchange my forged goods.

I’d grown used to meeting strangers in busy places with suspicion and short words.

I sat on the paisley-patterned chair, tapping my fingers against the armrest, fighting the urge to check my phone for the tenth time.

It would be no different from the old clock above the receptionist's desk. Nemo’s lackey was late, and I couldn’t stop a bead of sweat from making its slow descent down my back.

A man coughed across the foyer, catching my attention as a posh-looking woman made a fuss at the reception desk and a man held a leashed dog beside her.

People came and went through the spinning doors, and I wondered if the bald man who walked through a few moments ago was the person I waited for.

He looked hurried as he made his way to the elevator.

My mind began to reel as I continued my tapping, waiting for the mystery person to show themselves.

Why couldn’t he have just delivered it to my apartment?

A little boy ran through the foyer, breezing right by me as he dropped a piece of paper.

It landed beside my foot and before I could snatch it up and call him back, he was rounding reception, taking off down the hall again.

Picking it up, I pulled my bag up over my shoulder as the words at the top drew my attention.

I crumpled the note in my hand and made my way toward the elevators.

The hotel was busy, and I waited patiently as guests filtered out.

Once inside, I searched for the button for the fifth floor, but found nothing.

That number was conspicuously missing—only buttons for four and six remained.

Frowning, I examined the panel more closely.

Suddenly, the doors slid shut, the overhead light flickered, and the lift began its ascent without any prompt, causing me to stumble backward and grip the railing.

My stomach churned as the rapid ride came to a sudden halt, my knees buckling beneath me.

The doors opened with a cheerful chime to reveal a hallway that looked nothing like the Fairmont.

I peered down the empty corridor, grimacing as shadows shifted along darkened walls, the faded paint and stained carpet giving the place a dilapidated feel.

At the end of the hall stood a massive wooden door, golden numbers painted across it, filling the entire door from top to bottom. 515.

I clenched the strap of my bag a little tighter and took my first step into the eerie space, glancing around.

My pale skin glowed green under the harsh fluorescent lights, matching the way my stomach churned.

The walk to the end of the hall could have lasted hours or mere seconds, but by the time I reached the door, my fingers trembled as I reached for the bell.

Before I could even press it, the door swung open, revealing a young boy.

No older than sixteen, his brown hair was greasy, swept back behind his ears.

Red stains marred his shirt, dragged down in finger marks as if he'd eaten something red and carelessly wiped his hands across his front. Ketchup, maybe?

“Um—I’m sorry, I think I have the wrong room,” I muttered, unfolding the paper with my name and room number.

“Astoria?” he asked, stepping back and motioning for me to come inside.

I paused, taking him in with disbelief. There was no way… “Nemo?”

“In the flesh.” He flashed a mischievous smile, his eyes sparkling with an eerie, unsettling flame. A warning bell went off in my mind—he felt otherworldly…

Like Death.

“You want your stuff or what?” he barked, suddenly fisting my shirt and pulling me inside, slamming the door behind me.

“Yeah…” I mumbled, still trying to collect my jaw from the floor as I stepped into his weird space packed with monitors and tech I’d never seen before.

He ignored me, pointing to a chair in the corner of the cramped room. Pizza boxes were stacked on it, with a half-eaten slice of pepperoni just sitting on the open lid.

“You can move that wherever. Have a slice if you want. Do you like pineapple? They forgot to add it.”

I gave him a look as I grabbed the box and shifted it to the cluttered table in front of me. With a snap of his fingers, pineapple magically appeared on the pizza.

“It’s better if you didn’t know,” Nemo said, flopping onto the worn futon and pulling a slice from the box. “So…”

“So—”

“D speaks highly of you.”

I snorted, he had to be lying. Hearing anyone talk about Death as if he was more than some ghostly acquaintance felt strange.

Nemo straightened up, narrowing his eyes with a shit-eating grin. “You’re right, he only says that when he’s drunk.”

“Drunk?”

“So, your new crap is there, in that bag. But that’s not why you’re here,” he said, ignoring my comment.

In the few minutes I’d been here, Nemo had given me mental whiplash.

His thoughts shifted constantly, slipping through my grasp like sand through a sieve.

He was impossible to follow, yet strangely deliberate.

His appearance was peculiar in the way most teenage boys are: all awkward limbs, sharp elbows, and confidence he hadn’t yet earned.

And yet, he spoke like a disgruntled man three times his age, his tone brash and impatient.

“I’m sorry,” I said evenly, folding my hands in front of me, “but I must be mistaken. Who exactly are you?”

He lifted a brow. “Me…”

I motioned to him, expression unreadable. “You’re the one I’ve corresponded with for the last forty-three years?”

He grinned, amused. “Forty-three, yep. Harbor Springs—phew.” He let out a dramatic breath, eyes gleaming with mischief. “That one was a doozy.”

I hadn’t thought of Harbor Springs in decades.

“Anyway, I figured it was time we met—” He paused to make an awful slurping sound as he sucked stringy cheese from his pizza, grease dribbling down his fingers.

I resisted the urge to recoil.

Unzipping the bag, I rifled through the documents he’d prepared. My new name. My new life. “Why now?” I asked, quiet but firm.

He didn’t answer at first, simply leaned back against the sagging futon with an exhale. “Things change. Maybe it’s nothing. Or maybe I’m finally cracking. You can call it curiosity.”

“Curiosity,” I echoed, more to myself than to him.

He pulled a manila folder from a teetering stack beside him and tossed it my way, leaving smears of marinara across the front. I caught it with a practiced hand, suppressing the reflexive grimace.

“What am I looking at?” I asked.

“What you asked for. Information about your… issue.”

I began to open it, but Nemo let out a sharp sound, lunging forward to press his greasy hands against mine. “Not here. You’re going to have questions, and I don’t have answers. So—later.”

“You said it wasn’t possible.”

He leaned back again, hands raised in mock surrender. “I know what I told you, Astoria. But I changed my mind and this is the best I can do. Take it or leave it.”

“Okay…”

He nodded once, already halfway through another slice of pizza, barely acknowledging me as the television blared in the background.

I flipped through the rest of the documents, inspecting the details—my new identification, credentials, fake address, resume—until I found a small envelope tucked into my passport. I opened it, pausing when I saw the license bearing my true name.

“What is this?” I snapped. “Astoria Devlin Tempest doesn’t exist anymore.”

“Precaution, that’s all,” he replied with a shrug, his eyes not leaving the TV. “If things go sideways, you might need it.”

Alongside the ID was an additional passport, birth certificate, and everything else I’d need to reclaim the identity I’d spent centuries trying to erase.

“If it all looks fine, you can go,” he added, gesturing lazily toward the now-open door and the flickering, unwelcoming hallway beyond.

My temper stirred—less from anger than from the absurdity of it all. “You could have had someone deliver this to my residence. Or arranged the usual exchange. Instead, you summon me to this… place.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” he replied flippantly, grabbing a laptop from the floor. “Doesn’t matter how.”

I inhaled through my nose. “What is this place?”

“Nowhere,” he said curtly.

I stared at him. “I’ve been here scarcely five minutes, and now you’re dismissing me?”

“Yeah, please.” He made a shooing gesture, not even looking at me. “I have a call with the Pentagon in five.”

“…The Pentagon?” I asked, arching a brow.

“I don’t remember stuttering. Please, Astoria—the door.”

I couldn’t decide if Nemo was inarguably rude or simply strange. Perhaps both. He didn’t spare me another glance as I gathered my things and stepped out, the door yawning closed behind me echoing a careless farewell.

I muttered beneath my breath, the backpack heavier than it had any right to be, biting into my shoulder as I made my way down the hallway. When the elevator arrived, something was… off.

Gone was the plush red carpet from earlier, replaced by cold, sterile tile. The walls, once adorned in warm tones and ornate fixtures, were now a uniform, lifeless white.

I stepped inside, turning in a slow circle. Nemo’s door—shut. The hallway behind me—already unfamiliar. The air shimmered, just for a moment, like heat rising from pavement. My vision bent at the edges, the scene shifting. Magic.

Or whatever name we gave the things that refuse to be explained.

Slamming my thumb against the buttons, I willed the doors to close.

As they shut, I backed up against the mirrored wall.

My reflection surrounded me, too many versions of the same lie.

The woman in the glass was not an accurate reflection of my body, aching from nights without sleep.

Nor did she show the bruises blooming across my heart.

She looked the same as always. Unchanging. Unfading.

No wrinkles timestamped the years I’d endured. No smile lines marked the joy I’d once known. These days, people paid good money to erase time from their skin, sculpting their features into younger versions of themselves. Maybe if I blamed my face on surgery, no one would ask questions.

Was it madness to crave sunspots? To ache for gray in my hair? Maybe. But the woman in the mirror didn’t belong to me. Her face hadn’t known grief. She hadn't buried friends. She hadn't clawed her way out of nightmares.

How could no one else see through her farce?

I pulled the bag closer to my chest, the weight of it grounding me. I itched to open it, to discover what Nemo had managed to unearth. Could this be the thing that broke the nightmare’s hold?

The elevator chimed.

But when the doors opened, it wasn’t to the lobby of the hotel. Instead, I stepped out into the familiar hallway that led to my apartment—though my building didn’t have an elevator.

Still, there was my door. Bright red. A deep scratch down the center where the neighbor’s unruly dog had marked its territory. How Nemo did it, I doubted he’d ever say. And I’d long since stopped trying to untangle the invisible forces that kept the magical world stitched together.

I did what I always did, and let it go.

Unlocking the door, I let the bag slide from my shoulder to the floor, dropping it beside the duffels I had packed.

I shut the door behind me. Locked it.

Then turned and walked toward the street below, already forgetting the hitch in my heartbeat. Already pretending the burn behind my eyes was nothing at all.

“I don’t understand how you always win,” Piper whined, knocking my queen over for the fun of it.

I’d already won—for the two hundred and twelfth time, by my count. Piper had always been fiercely competitive, and since I’d taught her chess last year, it had become a near-daily ritual. She’d bested me four times, and only because I’d allowed it.

“Care for another round?” I asked, setting the piece upright and resetting the board with calm efficiency.

She flopped back against the sofa. “Not if you’re just going to crush my soul again.”

She was competitive and a sore loser. A charming combination.

“You’d be just as irritated if I let you win.”

“Of course I would!” she snapped, flinging her arms up. “I want to beat you because I earned it. Not because you gave it to me out of pity.”

“You’ll need lessons, then, babe,” Sanjay said with a yawn, rubbing at his eyes as he strolled in.

“Stay out of this, Jay!” Piper clutched her wine glass with theatrical indignation, refusing to scoot over to make space for him.

Unfazed, he dropped down beside her, eyes scanning the table strewn with takeout containers. “Hey, did either of you meet the new nurse?”

“I’ve only talked to Regina and Hannah this week,” Piper said, distracted. “What did she look like?”

“He,” Sanjay corrected. “Tall. Dark hair. Kinda quiet. Didn’t catch his name. That’s why I was asking.”

A shiver crept up my spine, curling its fingers around the base of my neck.

“He was sitting with Ishani yesterday morning. I stepped out for a phone call for just a minute and when I came back, he was gone.”

My heart lodged itself in my throat.

“What?” Jay blinked at me. “He was wearing scrubs. Ishani knew him. Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost? Elizabeth?”

I forced myself to breathe, tried to soften the tension winding through my shoulders. “It’s nothing,” I said, too quickly. “I haven’t met him yet. Regina would know.”

Piper launched into a dramatic scolding, berating Jay for not getting a name, but I stopped listening. My mind was already spiraling. I rose to pace the room, trying to untangle Death’s latest move.

Ishani stirred in her sleep, her body restless beneath the thin blanket. I moved to her side, brushing sweat-damp hair from her brow.

The whiteboard in the corner caught my eye—her room number, her doctor, the nurses assigned to her care.

Regina. Hannah. Grim, written in elegant, deliberate strokes.

My blood turned to ice.

I crossed the room in two strides, wiping the name away with the back of my sleeve, the ink smearing like spilled secrets.