Page 18 of The Sin Eater (Carnival of Mysteries #27)

Ezra

T oxic isn’t your middle name, dumbass. Stupid is.” Geneva pushes back from the desk, a laugh underlining her sharp assessment.

“That’s what I get for oversharing.”

More laughter, with slightly less bite. “Since you don’t usually say much of anything, I guess I can cope.”

I’m straddling one of the office chairs, chin resting on my forearms, feeling like an idiot for opening my damn mouth.

Since Damon left Saturday night, I’ve been stewing, to the point where I couldn’t keep it to myself.

Which, to be honest, is so far out of character I could be somebody else.

Fuck, nothing about Damon is my normal. I don’t do dates, I don’t do carnivals, and I sure as hell don’t bring men home.

But with Damon, I did all of those things, and to make everything that much worse, now I’ve gone and told Geneva about it.

Well, most of it, anyway. I didn’t tell her about seeing the dead woman in the crystal ball.

I also glossed over the part where I freaked myself out and ran through the crowd until some guy with weird eyes told me I’d brought the darkness in with me or whatever.

I did get into more detail on the sexy parts.

“But wouldn’t you be bummed if you’d had sex with someone for the first time and they left without saying goodbye?”

She looks at me as if I’ve grown an extra head. “Not bummed enough to send a rando text saying I didn’t want to get into anything toxic.”

I drop my head to hide my eyes. “But toxic is my middle name.”

“You can say that again.” Her expression slides to the exasperation end of the spectrum. “Besides, you fell asleep on him. Like, you didn’t even wake up till six a.m.”

“Yeah, but—”

“And he responded like any rational adult would.”

“Yeah, but—” The whole thing makes me shudder. “I need some coffee.” He’d responded with confusion until I’d told him toxic was my middle name. Since then, silence.

“You should get some for Damon, too.”

That straightens my shoulders. “Why?”

She blinks a couple of times, giving me the kind of stern look she had to have learned in the military.

“Because you’re in a shitty mood and you need to apologize, stupid.

That’s your new name, by the way. Stupid.

For fuck’s sake, you actually like this guy and you went out of your way to fuck it up. ”

“I don’t like him.” The words sound more like a bleat. She doesn’t answer. Her eye roll is eloquent enough.

“I mean, I don’t like -like him.”

She raises a single eyebrow.

I get off the chair and pat my pocket to make sure I have my phone. “I don’t even know what he drinks.”

Her expression takes on an air of long-suffering patience. “Jett will.”

“I can’t ask Jett.”

Pointing at the door, she says simply, “Go.”

I don’t move. “I don’t even know if Damon’s working today.”

She’s got her hair pulled back in a super-tight ponytail, and she grabs hold of it and yanks, like she wants to cause herself more pain than I’m causing her. “You’re hopeless. You know that, right?”

I blink at her a couple times. She rolls back to the desk and picks up the phone, punching the zero. “Can you connect me to the security desk in the ER?” There’s a pause, and I come close to making a break for it.

“Hi, Rory, is Damon Clemens working today? He is? No, I don’t need to talk to him. Thanks so much.”

By the time she hangs up, I’m pretty sure my cheeks are the color of tomatoes.

She doesn’t look at me, simply flicking her hand toward the door.

“Go,” she says, her attention on the desktop.

“You’ve got half an hour before we have to start prepping for the next case, and you can bring me a tall London Fog as a thank you. ”

Could I be any more embarrassed? I don’t think so. I leave before I find new and unique ways to make an ass of myself.

If I stop for a smoke before I hit the Brew, I might actually be calm enough to order.

The weather’s not too shitty. Cold but not actively raining, and tucked in between two buildings, I’m out of the wind.

I hold my cigarette in cupped hands like that little cherry is going to warm my frozen fingers and ponder my life choices.

Doesn’t take me long to decide that the only thing that’d make today worse would be eating sin, and since I’ve done that fairly recently, I’m safe.

Unless they bring in a corpse who can talk to me.

That new wrinkle, the one I don’t yet understand.

As soon as that thought crosses my mind, I squash it.

Jesus Christ, I should know better than to tempt fate like that.

My nails could be cleaner. They’re not as dirty as James Smith’s nails, which reminds me that I still have bits of him in my apartment, which twists the tension in my gut that extra bit harder. I take a drag, willing the tar and nicotine to calm me down. It doesn’t work.

Face it, dumbass, you fucked up . I’ve been avoiding those words ever since Damon left my apartment, and now they settle in like they’re going to be here a while.

I did fuck up, and since my social skills are lacking, I should probably take Geneva’s advice.

“Coffee drinks for everybody,” I mutter, stubbing out my cigarette and picking up the butt.

Can’t leave trash around. Should probably throw out James Smith’s extras, too. I don’t need souvenirs.

The Brew is blissfully warm and relatively empty.

There’s a guy at the bar talking with Jett, and a pair of lesbians in the corner planning world domination or something, but otherwise it’s quiet.

I approach the counter, admiring the rainbow ribbons braided into Jett’s dreads, and wait for their conversation to pause.

“Have you met Micah?” Jett asks without missing a beat. “Ezra, this is Micah. Micah, Ezra. There. Now we all know each other.”

Micah’s cute, with a retro vibe and a nice, round ass. Sue me. I notice the important stuff . He raises his cup and nods at Jett. “I need to take off, so—”

“Sure, sure,” Jett says. “I was just going to ask Ezra what he thought of the Carnival.“

I freeze. “Yeah, it was a thing, I guess.”

Micah’s grin is several degrees warmer than it was at first. “It is a thing , for sure.”

“You went too?”

“Me and the Carnival of Mysteries go way back.” He must see something in me that intrigues him, because he gives me a closer look. “It can be a lot.”

“A lot.” I manage a weak laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

He shoots a glance at Jett and fixes me with a stare like he wants to memorize my face. “I do need to be somewhere, but maybe we’ll run into each other again. I’d like to hear about your experience.”

Micah’s obvious sincerity prompts me to say, “Thanks,” which is not a word I use very often. He takes off, leaving me with Jett. Despite, or maybe because of the emotional quagmire Micah’s offer stirs up, I manage to choke out an order that ends with, “... and whatever Damon usually drinks.”

“Depends,” Jett says. “He watches his carbs pretty closely, I think. Most often he just gets a latte, but sometimes he’ll go for a black coffee and a cookie.”

Without trying to figure out the relative nutritional value, I order him a latte. “And a cookie too, I guess. Shoot the moon.”

“He likes these.” Jett points to a tray of peanut butter cookies.

“Do it.”

Carrying a tray with my cappuccino, Geneva’s London Fog, and Damon’s surprise, I head for the ER. The security desk is right out front and thank fuck Damon’s not around. The guard is on the phone, so I set the bev and cookie on the counter and wait.

If I had a pen, I’d write Damon’s name on the bag and take off. The guard is giving me a funny look, which is another reason I want to run, but somewhere Geneva is scowling at me so I stay put. He finally ends the call and gives me a snotty grin. “What can I do for you?”

“These are for Damon.” I’m backing away before the words are out of my mouth.

“Hang on, now, he’s just around the corner flirting with the nurses.” He picks up the phone and hits a button.

I keep walking backward, hands up. “It’s okay, just tell him—”

“Tell him what?” Damon says, poking his head through the double doors that lead into the ER proper.

Pointing at the desk, I hesitate for a couple heartbeats. “I brought you... stuff.”

He narrows his gaze. “Stuff?”

I take another step away from the desk. My mouth is dry as sand. “Jett said you’d like it.”

Coming through the ER doors, he’s somehow bigger than I remember. Broader. Stronger. Thick dark chest hair hidden by polyester. And you could have him in your damn bed again if you weren’t a fucking loser .

“You asked Jett what I’d like? You did that?”

“Uh.” I clear my throat. “Geneva told me to.”

He presses his lips together like he’s trying not to laugh. “Thank you,” he says finally.

I haven’t stopped inching backward, moving slow so I don’t run into anything. “Anyway, I’ll see you later.”

“Sure.”

I pivot and all but run to the elevator before he can say anything else.

Several people are waiting, so I take the stairs instead.

I have to take them slower than I’d like or risk spilling the remaining drinks, but I appreciate the privacy.

I can’t say that I fixed everything between me and Damon, but I feel lighter than I have since I sent the toxic text.

That lightness lasts until I get to work on Friday and there’s a new body who’s all but wailing with the need to have her sins eaten.

“Fuck me running.”

“What?” Geneva pops out from the OR suite, wearing a hazmat suit, goggles, and gloves.

“You started early.”

“Yeah, last night medics brought in a woman who was found down at home. They admitted her to the ICU, but she expired this morning. Dr. Chen wants to do her post as soon as the medical examiner gets here.”

“Just the ME, or are we gonna have cops around, too?”

“As far as I know, just the ME.”

“Cool. I’ll join you in a minute.” Slamming my cappuccino—why not see if my heart rate can hit 200?

—I grab a bunny suit and get dressed. The thing comes with a hood, and with the googles, mask, and gloves on, there’s very little of me exposed.

Which is a good thing, really. My skin is crawling with this woman’s grief and I don’t need awkward questions like why my hands are shaking or why I’ve got permanent goosebumps.

The wailing doesn’t quit, either. It’s like the dead woman knows I’m present, and she’s begging me for help.

What the hell is happening to me? The spirits of the dead never used to get up in my face like this.

Once or twice a month, I’d do my trick so non-specified Bad Things wouldn’t happen.

I’d get some bread or a cracker or whatever, let it sit on the corpse for a while, say the prayers, chew and swallow, and be done with the whole thing.

I mean, except for the three days of penance.

Anyway, it crosses my mind that maybe I should kick this one upstairs and ask the Good Lord himself what the actual fuck is going on.

And I would, if I believed in him, her, or them.

But I don’t. Like I told Damon, there’s a difference between praying over a corpse because that’s what you were raised to do and actually believing the words.

I’m wrestling my gel-slicked hands into a pair of latex gloves when the ME arrives.

Dr. Montgomery is barely older than me, and arguably we’re both too young to spend all day around dead people.

His presence chases away thoughts of god and sin and what it all means, and after beating Geneva at a game of rock, paper, scissors, I log into the computer to record the findings while she assists with the procedure.

In situations like this, whatever I record becomes a legal document, and I’d hoped that by putting some distance between me and the corpse, I wouldn’t hear her cries.

No luck with that. By the time Dr. Chen is about finished and the ME has stepped out to finalize his own notes, sweat’s running like a river down my spine and my hands are shaking.

Geneva and Dr. Chen leave me alone with the corpse while I pretend to finish the charting I’d already done. Once I’m alone, I sneak a saltine onto the corpse’s chest. Her chest. She was a woman, and somewhere in this town, somebody is sad about her death.

No matter how fucking nervous I get, I know what I gotta do.

Zipping up the bag that covers the body, I remind myself that there are very few bacteria that stomach acid won’t kill and roll the gurney into the cooler. Now I have a decision to make. Should I ask Geneva to stay late, to supervise the prayers I’m going to have to say?

Or should I text Damon and ask him to meet me here after his shift is done? I mean, he brought me a cappuccino on Wednesday. That means we’re good, right?

Really, the decision is an easy one.