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I do not believe in death and by that, I do not mean the guy.

It seems as though every time I am about to meet my permanent ending, something gets in the way. I find myself with yet another thing to bury in the figurative trauma cemetery that I have inadvertently built in the darkest part of my mind.

I do not mean to get all philosophical this morning, especially as I lay in my bed with no recollection of how or when I got there. I am able to sit up without feeling much more than a slight sting in my muscles. Nothing worse than the feeling I imagine one would get after a good workout. There is no blood, no bruises and no broken anything.

I remember vividly how I was beaten nearly to death last night. This is impossible. I should be in a hospital right now. I should be fighting for my life, not sleeping peacefully in my bed while wearing my nice pyjamas.

I frown at the silky black material. I never wear these. I usually settle for a good old t-shirt and baggy sweats, certainly not a babydoll. No. These stay at the back of my pyjama drawer. Permanently. I do not even want to think back on the one time I actually have had to wear them.

Groaning, I pull myself out of bed. There is something seriously wrong with this picture. I think back to the night before. The last thing I remember seeing is a guy materializing from a bright cloud of light and sending my attackers away. Everything after that is kind of fuzzy. I mean, there is this image of me drinking Death's blood at one point, but I am pretty sure that is just another one of my nightmares.

When I am dressed in something that screams less "high-maintenance sex-kitten" and more "low-key, under-achieving bad-ass ", I make my way down. From the bottom of the stairs, I can see well into the living room, where Sophie is currently on the lazy-boy, holding her knees to herself with her eyes in a book that is propped against the armrest

Shit, Sophie. I completely forgot about her last night. She must have waited forever for me and decided to stay the night. Her eyes instantly find me when I clear my throat.

"Oh my god, you-you look great," she says in disbelief after taking me all in, "How?"

I know she is not just referring to how healthy I look despite getting my ass beat, but rather to how glowy I am, for lack of a better word. A quick look in the mirror earlier had showed how rosier my cheeks appeared, how bright my eyes were and how shiny my auburn hair was. I do not understand any of it, and it truly freaks me out.

When I do not say anything, she clumsily gets up and I watch her book fall flat to the floor.

"I made coffee," she offers, carefully walking past me to the kitchen and ignoring the fallen volume.

I follow her to the kitchen where she starts to pour me a cup. I snatch it from her, before making my way to the alcohol cabinet where I keep a rhum bottle stashed. When I have poured a generous amount in my coffee, I gulp down the liquid. Sophie stares at me with wide eyes without saying anything.

"Another." I say, presenting her with my empty cup. She fills it, and I add more rhum to it. I take another sip, hoping the alcohol might sooth my nerves.

"Can I please ask what's going on?" she says tentatively, but I can still make out a hint of agitation in her voice, "Because I'm a little confused, Em. I mean, you came back within an inch of your life last night. You were damn bloody, and you were passed out," her voice breaks, but she continues, "And-and then there was this faceless guy that brought you in."

"What faceless guy?"

"Tall, kind of moody, he was wearing a hoodie," she gulps, "Is he the one who did that to you?"

"Are you sure he was faceless?"

"Yes! Tell me Emma, right now!"

"No, no he wasn't the one who did this to me. Actually, I think he saved me."

I lift my eyes from my cup and notice that Sophie's eyes are starting to fill with tears. I know I owe her an explanation.

"That was Death." I watch her expression go from upset to confused.

"Death? Death who tried to kill you before? But he isn't the one who tried to kill you this time?" I can tell she is trying hard to understand, but she is missing so many pieces. I need to come clean, she deserves to know after everything she has already witnessed.

"He did try once," I recoil at the thought of that night, "but that was before. Ever since then, he's been kind of around but he hasn't tried to kill me again. Look, Soph," I place my cup on the counter and lean on it while bringing a hand to my forehead. I know a headache is coming, "I lied to you."

"What do you mean?"

Time to 'fess up, Emmalyn.

"That night at the cinema, I didn't break my arm by falling on our way out like I tried to make you believe. When you asked me how it was possible that you missed it and I told you that it was probably because all the chaos, I lied."

Her eyes narrow at me, but she does not say anything.

"During the movie I had this sort of hallucination. When you woke me up, I was just about to get killed by this horrible thing. In the hallucination, it threw me on the ground and that's how my arm broke, somehow. I know it sounds crazy."

"But... how is that even possible?"

"I don't know. But Death wasn't behind that, I'm sure of it."

"So, you think someone sent you the hallucination? Like what, a witch?"

"No idea. Then last night, I got cornered on my way back from the store by these three guys. They beat me up real good, Soph."

"Did you know them?" she uncrosses her arms to place her palms behind her on the counter.

"Never seen any of them. They were humans as far as I can tell." I rake my brain in search of something else until I remember this small detail that I had almost missed. "One of them had these puncture marks all over his neck. It kinda looked like vampire bites."

"Fangers? Why would fangers be after you?"

"Beat's me. Then someone came out of nowhere and got them off me. I don't really remember much after that." I decide to omit the part where I think I may or may not have drank Death's blood.

"Ok, so someone is clearly after you. But that's ok, 'cause you'll find them and take care of them, right?" she asks in a hopeful voice.

"Right," I give her a tight smile. Mostly because I have no idea how I am going to deal with this.

You could always change cities and run away, says the ever-present voice at the back of my head. It's not like you've never done it before.

"Even if I couldn't see his face, I could tell he was really agitated," she says

"Who?"

"Death, last night."

"What do you mean?" I am genuinely curious.

"When he brought you here, you were unconscious and all... broken," she swallows, "he insisted on getting you cleaned up and putting you to bed. Then, he told me to stay the night to make sure you got rest. As if I was just going to leave you alone."

Just as I am about to answer, the door bell rings. I jump, my head whipping around to look at the door.

"I'll get it," offers Sophie.

"Wait!" I stop her. I have no idea who or what could behind that door, but I am not about to let Sophie find out for me.

I grab the Glock 22 that I keep in the pantry, behind the Fruit Loops, and advance toward the front door with caution. I sneak a peek through the living room window. A couple delivery guys are standing on my porch, holding a rectangular-shaped box that definitely looks big enough to hold a body. Or even two if the bodies were of small persons. Actually, now that I think of it, it is almost the shape of a coffin.

"Sophie," I whisper, "Go downstairs, grab a weapon and hide there. Do not come out until I come for you."

"Erm, Em, it's just the mail people," she says, looking through the same window as me.

"Go! Now" I hiss.

"Fine," she whispers back.

When she is finally out of sight, I cautiously open the door only wide enough to show half of my face.

"Yes?" I ask them.

They look at each other before one of them raises a clipboard to his face.

"Is this Emmalyn Rivers?"

"Depends. Who's asking?"

"Ugh, ma'am. We're just here to deliver a," he looks back down at his clipboard, eyes roaming over the page as though searching for something, "Masseuse chair?"

I feel a wave of relief wash over me. I had completely forgotten about that. Vanesa had suggested I get equipped in case the Revenue Agency opened an investigation on me.

"Oh, yes. Come on in," I tell them, opening the door wider, "Sophie, come back out," I call,"it's just the masseuse chair." I ignore the look they give me as they bring the box inside.

"Where should we leave it?" asks one of them.

"Just there in the living room, if you don't mind."

"If you'll just sign here and here," I sign on the delivery man's clipboard.

"Should I ask why you ordered a masseuse chair?" asks Sophie after they leave.

"It's a long story." I roll my eyes, going back to my cup of coffee in the kitchen.

"So, did Death say anything else to you? About what happened, I mean." I ask, hoping maybe she can shed some light on what happened.

"He said he gave you something that should fix you up." Something like, blood perhaps?

"Anything else?"

"No, I mean, I'm not sure. He was kind of scary," she crosses her arms across her chest and thinks for a moment.

"Oh! Right, he left you this," she walks to the dining room table and hands me a a box wrapped in brown paper.

I hesitantly grab it from her hand and start unwrapping it. When I lift the lid, I am surprised at what I find inside.

"Janice," I say with a smirk. I grab the smooth blade and run my fingers along its black metal handle, engraved pommel and the ruby that is encased in the guard.

I notice a folded piece of paper at the bottom of the box and frown. When I open it, I read the four words no one ever wants to read.

We need to talk.

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