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decided to stay on. His office is next to mine, pimped out in clichés from noir detective agency novels and it doesn’t suit him in the least. He’s not exactly detective-looking, if there is such a thing. He’s too tall, too intelligent, too serious, and too fit. He might’ve been Scotland Yard’s most handsome criminologist had he stayed in Britain, but apparently he doesn’t like the weather. So here he is, still learning the ropes of the business, and the culture of this foreign land. People are instantly taken by his suave accent, his eloquence, the way he carries himself—almost like Benedict Cumberbatch. He wears suits and ties no matter what the weather’s like, has a five-hundred-rand haircut and carries around a pair of designer sunglasses. Howlen’s posh, yes, but behind the clean-cut façade is something else. Something dark.
    I Googled him when we first met three years ago but all I got were a couple of social media listings. His Facebook profile is somewhat impersonal; quotes of notable writers qualify as status updates, a photograph of him and his buddies from university appears from time to time. There are a few films tagged in his “Favourites”—mostly horror and sci-fi flicks—and the odd YouTube cat video also show its face once in a while. He has a few hundred friends, nothing to write home about, and there’s nothing more. His Twitter is pretty much the same as his Facebook with vague updates of his day-to-day life appearing every couple of weeks. Otherwise, Howlen Walcott is non-existent on the internet.
    Fast forward three years, a dozen drunken nights spent together between the sheets, and I still don’t know a thing about the guy.
    ~
    I’ve entered an in-between stage, where I’m not a liquid or a solid. My legs tingle with needles and pins from my thighs to my toes and my mind responds in favour with a euphoric release of don’t-give-a-fuck. Aftershocks still rush through my body as I try to catch my breath and cool off. It’s not an easy feat when your air-conditioner is on the fritz and a working fan isn’t in the vicinity. The cool breeze, entering through the bedroom window helps somewhat, but a glass of ice cold water would be nicer. My legs are jelly though and I’m on the brink of blacking out. Besides, I’m being held hostage by a naked Brit who’s already fallen asleep after our stellar performance between the sheets.
    Howlen has been blessed with Atlas’ stamina, but when he’s done, he’s done . Out cold. Hell, so am I.
    I fall asleep with his arm draped over my waist, and his crown nested in the nape of my neck. No nightmares infiltrate my unconscious state for a change, no panic attacks or sudden startles. It’s a deep, dreamless sleep that’ll recharge my batteries properly for Case #137-ES.
    All is well, almost blissful, until I hear a familiar voice whisper in a thick British accent: “Esmé, don’t open your eyes.” A hint of anxiety laces Howlen’s murmur. I grumble an incoherent question and his hand moves over my mouth to muffle the sound. “Don’t,” he breathes.
    Panic jolts me away from my dreamless oasis and bubbles into my veins. My chest feels heavy with dread and indecision. Do I open my eyes and face the intruder who somehow made it past all my security measures without being heard or seen? Or do I play dead? I can feel Howlen’s heart pounding where my shoulder presses up against him and his quick breaths against my cheek, even though they’re silent.
    Curiosity killed the cat, Esmé, I think the cliché, but curiosity gets the better of me anyway.
    My eyelids flutter open and my pupils adjust to the darkness in seconds.
    I see it.
    A shapeless thing in a shade darker than night hovers over me, its face inches from mine. The shadow feels more than looks sallow. It’s somehow gaunt and corpulent at the same time. There’s a menacing expression in the swirls of black dripping from nothingness into nothingness. Somehow I can make out a