That same bar on the outskirts of town. The same half-dead drunks stinking of cheap vodka.And there she was, curled up in a dark corner, flicking a lighter between her fingers. She let the door swing closed on squeaky hinges and looked toward the bartender, a middle-aged man in a white shirt and black vest.

  "Inferno." That’s what the place was called. Inferno. She had to remember that. It was important: to her, to her life, to a pyromaniac like her. Because she was a pyromaniac. Not just some wannabe, but a real one. With talent. That part mattered too, her gift mattered too. A gift that could be useful, especially when combined with Alice’s abilities. Together, they’d be a hellish duo.

  That’s why they would meet here for the first time, at Inferno. It felt like a sign.

  Alice slept through the entire day and night. That cursed encounter with the fake homeless woman had wrecked her. She needed time to recover. But at the same time, her body had its own demands. She knew she had to get up, take care of herself, pull herself together. She couldn’t very well sleep on the floor for the rest of her life.

  Somewhere between sleep and waking, she sensed something was off. Bracing for pain, she started to come to. But to her surprise, the wound from yesterday no longer hurt. She knew the tissue had mostly healed, but her brain hadn’t caught up yet. Maybe it had gotten the message while she slept? Far-fetched, maybe—but not the craziest thing in her life so far. And right now, she didn’t have the strength to think any deeper than that.

  The next thing she noticed was the absence of shoes. She hadn’t had the strength to take them off herself. Doing it in her sleep? Not likely. Which led to the obvious question: how had she ended up in bed?

  "Marcel…" she whispered hoarsely, unable even to raise her voice.

  Silence.

  No ghost in sight. Or maybe he just didn’t feel like showing himself. She couldn’t really blame him, but still, she’d have to punish him later for this kind of insubordination. Not now, though. She had no strength for that. In fact, she had no strength for anything. Not that it surprised her. She placed a hand on her forehead and understood why. She had a fever.

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  "Shit," she muttered, burying her face in the pillow.

  She should’ve seen this coming. Walking around in the rain, draining all her energy to close that wound, having sex in a freezing sacristy, getting soaked on the way back, and then collapsing on the floor… Pneumonia wouldn’t have been a stretch. A simple fever was practically merciful. Well, just one more thing to survive.

  "Marcel!" she called again, louder this time, though still weak.

  The ghost appeared within seconds, uncertain whether she’d really called or if he was imagining things.

  "Look who’s back from the party circuit," Marcel said, settling on the edge of the bed. "You’ve got a fever, huh? Not surprised. The way you looked coming home last night, I half-expected full-blown pneumonia."

  "I know," she groaned, instantly regretting dragging him into the same room. "Head’s splitting… can you not shout?"

  "I’m not shouting, Alice. No offense, but I’m dead, remember? You hear my voice, but your eardrums don’t actually vibrate, so technically I’m not hurting your head. At least not by talking."

  Marcel was quite pleased with himself. If it weren’t for the whole trapped-between-worlds situation, he might’ve even said he was happy. Seeing Alice in such miserable shape wasn’t exactly something he wished for, but truth be told, the worse she felt, the better he tended to feel. He’d figured that out early and learned to live with it fast. Hell, he’d even learned to enjoy it.

  "Quit grinning like an idiot," the girl snapped, then doubled over coughing.

  The ghost’s smile widened. Leaning toward her, he said calmly:

  "You can’t boss me around right now. You’re too weak to even sit up, let alone control me. But if you feel like being nice to me…"

  "Shut up." The coughing gave way to shivers.

  "Well, if that’s how it is…" Marcel began to fade, seeping down through the floor.

  "I’m too weak to give you enough energy to materialize," Alice growled. "You’re not gonna make me tea, or even a dumb sandwich. You can’t straighten my blanket or help me into my pajamas. You’re useless."

  Harsh words, but hard to argue with. He stood there for a long moment, searching for a biting comeback. He’d never been great at verbal sparring. Sarcastic quips were doable. Razor-sharp comebacks? Not so much.

  "Then why the hell did you even call me?" he snapped, offended down to the very essence of his spectral being.

  "How did I get to the bed?" Alice asked, wrapping herself in the blanket like a roll of toilet paper.

  "Not under your own steam, that’s for sure."

  That single sentence was enough to make her feel ten times worse. She didn’t say another word. There was no point in asking for explanations. She just reached out a hand and gave Marcel a weak signal to go. The ghost didn’t wait for a second invitation and sank through the floor without a sound. Sure, she couldn’t do anything to him now, but that didn’t mean it’d still be true in a day or two.