I excused myself and locked the bathroom door behind me, desperate to get away from the booth before Greg and Christ caught on.
My thumb hovered over Clara’s message card. The guilt hit me almost too strongly. Pulling her into a dive bar to settle a petty drinking bet was pathetic, and I knew it.
But then I remembered the whole reason I was in this mess: her curse dragged me into a blood-soaked medieval world where I almost died twice. A little favor was fair compensation.
I typed out a quick lie, telling her I had found a potential clue about the unbinding ritual, and hit send before I could talk myself out of it.
20 minutes later, a black sedan pulled up outside the fogged-up windows of the bar.
The door opened, and Clara stepped out onto the pavement with her red hair falling loosely around her shoulders. She wore an emerald-green dress beneath a worn black leather jacket, the hem brushing the tops of her knee-high boots.
She looked entirely out of place in our rundown neighborhood, yet at ease with her own presence.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I scrambled out of the booth, ignoring the bewildered looks Greg and Christ threw my way, and pushed through the door.
The night air was cold, but my chest felt burning.
"You said you found a lead on breaking the bond?" she asked without preamble, her purple eyes searching mine.
"I... look, I lied to you," I blurted out. I was a terrible liar to her face. "I just needed a pretext to get you here because I made a stupid bet with my buddies inside."
Clara raised an eyebrow. "You could have simply asked. I have nothing to do in your world, and sleep eludes me once the sun goes down here."
"Maybe you're still awake in your world?" I suggested.
"Perhaps," she said. "Either way, I was actually considering messaging you to pass the time."
The heat surged straight to my face. "Please don't tease me like that. Why do you even trust me? For all you know, I could be a terrible person."
"Our souls are bound across realms," she said quietly. "I do not believe such a tether forms by accident."
Or maybe whoever cursed you deliberately picked a villain guy on Earth to drag you down, I thought, keeping the bitter truth to myself.
"So, what is this wager about?" Clara asked, glancing past my shoulder through the window. Inside, Greg and Christ sat frozen, their eyes bulging like cartoon characters.
"They didn't believe you hired me as your bodyguard," I explained, running a hand through my hair. "I figured if we showed up together, it would spread the word. That way, when we have to stay in the same place, people won't ask dangerous questions."
"Very well," she said with an easy nod. "How shall we play this?"
Hearing her offer to play along made my ears burn. I felt like I was walking through a dream.
"Does your religion allow alcohol?" I asked.
"If it is brewed grain, Ceresha, the Lady of Harvest, considers it an offering of joy."
"Great. Our mission tonight is to drink beer and then go to sleep together."
She paused. "What?"
"Separately together! ... That’s what I meant."
"I have no objection to staying at your dwelling, or you may come to mine," she replied casually.
"Stop, please, just stop talking," I whispered frantically, my legs suddenly turning stiff as a board. If she kept dropping casual lines like that, I was going to forget how to walk. I half-suspected she was doing it on purpose just to see me squirm.
I forced my shoulders back and fell in behind her, putting on my best stern, vigilant face as I held the bar door open.
"Dude..." Greg breathed as we approached the booth.
"Good evening. I am Clara," she said, offering a polite nod.
Both of them scrambled to sit upright, fumbling through awkward greetings like schoolboys called to the principal's office.
I tapped the table in front of Greg. "Cough it up."
"I don't have that kind of cash on me," Greg stammered, his face pale. "We'll transfer it."
"We?" Christ snapped, throwing his hands up. "I never agreed to that bet!"
"You're backing out in front of a lady?" Greg shot back.
"I'm not backing out of anything! You made the bet on your own, man."
Before they could start a fistfight over my rent money, the waitress arrived. Christ jumped at the chance to change the subject, hurriedly ordering a lager for Clara and another round for the table.
"I take direct deposit, PayPal, or Venmo," I told Greg. "Five business days."
"Jesus Christ, Lee," Christ leaned across the table, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "How on earth did you meet her?"
Clara caught my eye, and a faint smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. That silent shared secret felt so, so intoxicating.
"Told you already. Supermarket aisle," I said.
"Why would you ever pick this guy for security?" Greg asked Clara, genuinely bewildered. "It makes no sense."
"Because he is dependable," Clara said smoothly. "And he came recommended through a mutual acquaintance."
"Recommend me next time," Greg muttered. "What does he even have on his resume?"
"Hey, I served," I snapped, the annoyance cutting through the alcohol. "I did my time in Afghanistan too, remember?"
It always bothered me how quickly people wiped that slate clean, treating me like some uneducated bum who had never seen the hard edge of the world.
"Easy, soldier," Christ said, holding up his hands. "He's just bitter."
"Besides," Greg added with a smirk, "you’d never kill anyone."
“Shut up, Greg.” Christ snapped. “You’ve drunk too much.”
The words hung in the air. Clara turned her head and looked at me, her expression shifting. The teasing lightness was gone, replaced by a subtle guilt. She knew what I had done just a few hours ago, even if my friends didn't.
I looked away just as the waitress set down a fresh glass of beer.
The amber liquid caught the dim overhead light, but in the curved glass of the mug, a warped reflection made my stomach drop.
A man in a heavy coat was moving toward our booth. His gait was wrong: way too stiff and jerky. His right hand was buried deep inside his jacket pocket, wrapping around the distinct silhouette of a firearm.
"Get down!" I roared.
I grabbed Clara by the shoulder and shoved her hard beneath the table. In the same breath, I launched myself over the tabletop, crashing into the man before he could clear his holster.
We hit the sticky floor in a tangle of limbs. I pinned his wrist, wrenching the cold steel out of his grip. The guy didn't know what he was doing; he had walked within arm's reach to draw, his fingers even shivering nervously.
"Call the cops! Now!" I shouted.
Greg and Christ snapped out of their shock, piling on top of the shooter alongside two burly guys from the bar. With five grown men pinning him down, the struggle was over in seconds. In the scuffle, the man's temple cracked hard against the wooden floorboards, knocking him cold.
A scuffed black semi-automatic slid across the floor, coming to rest near the edge of the booth.
Clara crawled out from under the table, her face drained of color as she stared at the gun, then up at me.
The nightmare hadn't stayed on the other side. Whoever was hunting her had crossed the threshold into my world.
Within ten minutes, the bar was bathed in flashing red and blue lights. Uniformed officers took our statements while an EMT checked the unconscious suspect. When the man finally opened his eyes, he blinked blankly at the ceiling, looking disoriented.
"What happened?" he muttered, looking around the room. "Where am I?"
“Can you hear?”
“Huh?”
"Why were you carrying a piece into a crowded bar?" the officer barked, hauling him up by his cuffed arms.
"I... I don't know," the man slurred, his face pale with confusion. "I don't remember. I didn’t do anything! I was sleeping!"
Clara and I locked eyes. The chill in the room went far beyond the draft from the open door.
"Security cameras caught the whole thing, pal," the officer said, pushing the suspect toward the exit. Another cop turned to us, giving a short nod. "Quick reflexes, man. You stopped something ugly tonight."
Once the police cleared the scene, Clara and I slipped out through the side door.
"Where are we going?" I asked, scanning the empty street.
"My place," she said softly.
All the awkward banter and bashful hesitation from earlier had vanished. The reality of a shared death sentence had stripped away the trivial embarrassment.
In the back of the Uber, neither of us said a word. I kept my eyes fixed on the rearview mirror, tracking the driver's every glance, while Clara stared out the window into the dark. I couldn't tell who was a normal person and who might be a hollow shell holding a gun anymore.
Her apartment was a high-rise one-bedroom in Jackson Heights. It was spacious and clean, but stripped bare of personal touches. She had no pictures on the walls, barely any groceries in the fridge. She had set it up solely as a hideout.
"I need to wash my face," she murmured, walking straight into the bathroom and clicking the lock.
I sat on the edge of the sofa, the silence of the room pressing down on me. Five minutes passed. Then ten.
Not a sound came from inside.
I stood up, walked to the door, and tapped on the wood. "Clara?"
Nothing.
I slid my house keys between my knuckles, turning them into a weapon, gripped the handle, and twisted it. The latch gave way easily.
Clara was sitting on the cold tile floor, her back pressed against the bathtub. Her knees were pulled tight to her chest as she stared blankly at the floor. In the harsh fluorescent light, all the regal authority of the Countess was stripped away, leaving only an exhausted girl trapped in an alien world.
“I’m so tired.” She said, “Whether I’m awake or asleep…”
It hit me then: when I fell into her world, I had her and a gun to fall back on. But when she woke up here, surrounded by roaring engines, glass towers, and millions of strangers, she had faced it alone.
I slowly eased my fingers, letting the keys drop onto the counter, and walked over to sit on the floor beside her. I wrapped an arm around her trembling shoulders, pulling her in gently.
"I'm your bodyguard and your valet, remember?" I said, keeping my voice as light as I could manage. "You're stuck with me."
A choked breath escaped her throat, half a sob and half a laugh. "Thank you."
She wiped her face with the sleeve of her jacket, swallowed hard, and looked up at me with determined eyes.
"We need to sleep," she said, her voice steadying. "We have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"We are going into the deep woods to see the court witch," Clara said. "Brace yourself. She is not easy to handle."