Isla, Necromoronicon

Screw crying. I was over it. For real. It was so dumb. Just, like, the stupidest bodily reaction ever. Of all time. Didn't even know why I'd been doing it so much lately, you know? Not like I got my heartbroken or anything. Pfft.

Yeah. That is what I was going to keep telling myself. Thanks very much.

I blew my nose into another ragged tear of toilet paper. Sticky snot bled onto my fingers as the tissue dissolved under my nasal assault.

Got up to dunk the tissue into my overstuffed trash and found myself anchored to the chaise.

Grumpkin sat like a gargoyle on the back of my robe, shedding heaps of black fur over the lavender silk. He cocked his head. It pendulum swung, barely hanging on to his over wrung neck. The cat, sickly gray eyes and crinkled whiskers, blinked upside down at me. Maybe I should get him a chicken like Sal did for Big Tony.

No, girlfriend, you need to stop.

I tossed the tissue instead. It missed. Whatever. I threw back the Netherworld's Okayest Sister mug full of cheap prosecco and slumped into the chaise, robe puddling around me.

Purring, Grumpkin nudged his screwed up little head under my hand. I scratched his ears as my vision blurred into a watery mess. Again.

"Tell me I don't have a good reason to cry, will you Grumps?" I wiped the stinging eyeliner out of my eyes, smearing black onto the sleeve of my robe. "I did what I had to survive. For us both—" I twirled a finger "— all us, you know? Me, you, and that ungrateful bitch. That was the plan from the start. Always. Hire the vamp to find her and ditch him when I did. See? For once everything is going according to plan! My plan."

Grumpkin nibbled my finger.

"I know, I know what fucking plan!" I ditched the empty mug and snatched the warm, bottom shelf, eight-dollar wine bottle by the neck. "For being an evil necromancer, my rap sheet is pathetic. Can't even undo a resurrection spell! Or recommit murder. Or girl-boss a vampire around a without torturing him," Grumpkin licked his crotch. "I never bothered to learn if there was a non-head smashy way to undo that resurrection spell anyway."

I'm the worst necromoronicon there ever was. And I wasn't even portraying public enemy number one right! No lightning storm, skintight black latex, maniacal cackle, or army of undead corpses for me. I just sat around, drinking flat sparkling wine in my pajamas. Boring.

Well, I mean, at least one person thought I was sufficiently wicked, didn't he?

"He said I hurt him—well, implied it at least. I didn't mean to hurt him. How could I hurt him? He doesn't ask for the aspirin every time he gets uninvited from a house, does he? How's that any different!"

Grumpkin mewed and gave what sounded like a wheezy little kitty cough into his groin.

"I don't feel bad. I don't. Why would I? I barely know the guy," ugh, heck, this wine tasted like banshee ass. "If he can't see that whole tongue thing was an accident—when he was mean to me... and then confessed he was falling in love with me and that that sucked for him, so, like, yeah, I might have panicked and totally bailed cause I don't know how to undo that binding spell either but mother of goblin pus, Grumpkin, love is a big step¸ and fuck! I left him cursed. It must really suck to fall in love with me."

Those traitorous moths did somersaults in my chest at the idea of Greg falling in love with me. Bet he was good boyfriend material, red flags be damned. The real breakfast in bed type. Kind of man who made it his solemn duty to ensure his paramour never left the bedroom unsatisfied (heck he already knew where my clit was, the champ). Who'd steal kisses often, without shame, because he thinks the way it feels to kiss me is just swell. A guy who knew exactly which of my clothes were dry clean only, and how I took my coffee, and precisely which brand of cigarettes to buy from the bodegas I'd been banned from for accidentally checking out with somebody's deceased abuela which made look like both a crazy person and a shoplifter on CCTV.

Yeah. Right.

The look in his eyes. The last one he gave me. Cold and hateful and hurting (and you deserved it). Like just being near me was painful. That wasn't really the look somebody doled out to the person they supposedly loved. More like an enemy they were hoping to murder with just a glance.

An ugly, choked, warbling sob echoed through my apartment. Oh, no, don't even tell me that was me. Is that what I sounded like? Ew.

Did I make the same ugly noise with his mouth on my throat? Piercing and bruising and kissing me senseless as he brought my body to shuddering bliss beneath him.

I stood.

Grumpkin yowled as his bath was so rudely interrupted by my launching him off the seat.

"I should call him."

No texts. No missed calls. Not from Greg or my sisters checking in or even Denise. Pixie dust. Did she know yet that her son-in-law was dead? I hadn't caught wind of a body washing up on the banks of the Schuylkill recently. No other irate werewolves have come pounding on my front door either. But they're the mafia. They had to have noticed a missing person by now.

My days were numbered, weren't they? Because if Denise didn't come at me first, then a neighbor will eventually call the cops for the smell Momma Cabroni will make. Only a matter of time before the Magistrate gets pulled in and they scry this all back to me, and I'm busted for resurrecting Lily.

Seriously, that bitch. Just thinking about her rekindled the throb on my bruised tailbone. Bag of frozen pineapple I'd been using to combat the swelling was long since thawed and water-damaging my coffee table.

A notification popped up on my lock screen, reminding me that I had a regular appointment with Nazira coming up. Groan.

What would the Magistrate do to Greg if they discovered my blood had cursed him? Bury him in a coffin encased in cement on triply consecrated ground? Boy was claustrophobic! And a good guy. Moody bits aside (you did do him dirty, girlfriend). He had a decent business. More professional than mine by a mile. I couldn't let him get caught associating with a necromancer on any level. His business would be ruined if it got out.

If it came down to it, I wasn't going to let any of this mess get pinned on Greg. And if all went according to plan (ha!) I'd never see him again anyway.

Or maybe, I could, just, you know, reach out? We could spitball getting our stories straight, should my probation Magistrate ask.

"No. I don't have his money. Like he needs my money. He'll be fine! He's immortal and undead and has the prettiest stupid eyes for being undead, doesn't he? It's not even fair. The way he looked at me with those dumb, big eyes," my stomach akin to a rusty fishhook snagged in my stomach and tugged and tugged and tugged. "No, fuck it, who cares. I'll get over it. And, you know what, I bet I'm very easy to get over too. He won't even miss me when I'm arrested."

Grumpkin gagged, refocusing my attention on him.

"Shoot, baby, you got a hairball?"

The cat arched his back. Fur stood on end as he hacked. Eventually, after one particularly wet gurgle, Grumpkin burped up a slimy, fur covered chunk.

Oh.

The fingerbone.

"Mother of fuck," I grumbled.

I needed to get rid of that thing. Now.

Scooped the goopy bone up with a snippet of toilet paper—no, not the snot covered one— and plopped it in my sleeve. Nope. No way was I leaving that to rot in my apartment. No more incriminating evidence for me. I was ditching this baby.

Sorry, Mason.

The diner was always slow this time of night. Mason was there, clanking about cleaning machines and filling milk carafes. Somebody in the rear of the dining room was mopping. The lack of bacon smell lingering in the air suggested the cooks weren't even prepped for a breakfast rush yet.

Pale sun peaked through the front windows. It—wait a sec, it was daylight? Here I am walking around in my silk nightgown. I glanced at the clock on the wall. Oh. It was approaching seven in the damn morning. When was the last time I slept?

I clutched the finger in the toilet paper and marched toward the large trash bin near the coffee bar, the lavender silk of my robe fluttering in my wake. It'll get lumped in with all the other trash and tossed in the dumpster before nightfall. Wrapped amongst several layers of plastic bags and food waste by then, if I was lucky.

But the fatigue clinging to my limbs seemed to finally set in then. That, combined with the two bottles of cheap wine I'd been binging, filled me with a wooziness that had me tripping over my slippers and pajama bottoms. I gripped the counter to steady myself.

The delicious aroma of fresh brewed espresso caressed my nose holes. What a tempting mistress, sweet lady caffeine was. I guess... while I was here... I might as well indulge. How else was I supposed to keep this completely unreasonable, and paranoia enforced sleep schedule up?

Lucky for me, another one of the baristas was placing a cup on the pickup counter as I bumped into it.

"Extra hot black coffee," the dark-haired girl mumbled, the brim of her official 'South St Family' hat hiding her face.

"Thanks."

"De nada," she said.

"I didn't serve you anything," called Mason from behind the girl.

I leaned against the counter, peering over the small girl's shoulder. "Good morning to you too, babe,"

Mason scowled at me from the register. "You going to order anything or are you just drunk again?"

"Your girl already got me," I held up my cup. "Seriously, though, does your schedule have any consistent shifts?"

"Yep, you're drunk. I'll brew a fresh pot to sober you up, okay? On the house this time. Give me sec to grab new beans."

With that, Mason ditched me at the coffee bar as he trotted off to the kitchen. Rude.

"What's his deal today?" I said to the girl.

"Are you," the girl spoke in a mere whisper, eyes kept downcast, "for real?"

The scalding hot coffee iced in my hand.

Clutching my trembling coffee, I craned my neck to peer over the counter. The girl, chin down and standing so still, wore a blush pink sweater. A ragged hole was torn through her side. Blood oozed from the wound and dripped steadily. Vanishing, as otherworldly visions tended to do, before it make a mess of the floor.

Oh. Fuck.

"Hey, uh, you okay?"

I hunched down. Did my best to get a view of the girl's face, but no matter the angle, my gaze seemed to slide off her. She never really solidified. Appearing only as a vague, hazy impression of a girl beneath that hat.

I glanced at the cup. Madame Margherita was scrawled across it in purple marker.

"L-lily?"

I reached out and gently laid a hand over Lily's resting on the counter.

She snapped to attention. The haze vanished. All at once her pretty face came into focus, making all the hairs on my arm stand up. Cotton candy pink lip gloss. Curly black bangs. Shag cut otherwise tucked under her hat. Brown eyes wet and shining and frightened. She brought a thumb to her lip, worrying the nail. A few of her baby pink acrylics were still missing. The beds of her exposed nailbeds that same ruddy brown.

"Are you for real?" gasped the ghost of Lily Perez.