Heels click outside my window, along the footpath. The blaring green 3:00 a.m. on the bedside clock flickers in the bedroom shadows. It can only be him. I stumble out of bed, my foot catching in the sheet, tugging me back in warning before I make it into the hall. He knocks, three loud beats, before I make it down to the front door. Stumbling, I grab at the wall, my  limbs locking still as I cast a cautious look to my parent’s room.

My mother’s snores can still be heard, vibrating through the bedroom door.

Breathing out, I quietly edge the last few steps and answer the front door, the wood creaking until I cringe. The fear slips away and I let go of the door. It’s not him standing behind it. It is, but it isn’t. He’s taken a new form, a woman this time and I stand back, stunned. First, noticing the thick, golden curls that drip over bare shoulders and down her back. But it's the red material of her dress, tight against her curves, that has me staring. It’s too bright for three in the morning. I’m not awake.

She pins me to the doorframe, hand on my chin tilting my head up as I blink at her. My head strikes the wood and I gasp, biting back a curse. “Payment time,” she whispers, a thumb stroking my bottom lip slowly, mocking me. Or teasing. I don’t know with him. Her. Damn.

Trembling beneath her, I stare, half expecting black or a red irises. But they’re blue, horribly, wonderfully blue. “Payment?” I echo. Somewhere, the word rings in my head and a picture of my sister’s smiling face appears, laughing. Right, her. Sarah. 

“Mm. You haven’t forgotten have you?”

“No.” Of course not. Six months I’ve been waiting for this day, wondering if it’s tomorrow or in ten years. I had half expected him – her – to wait until I forgot. Maybe she grew impatient. Maybe she's bored.

“Good.” She steps back, turning away to walk down the concrete steps.

“Where are you going?”

“We’re going on a walk. Unless you’d prefer to invite me in?” She looks at me from the corner of her eye, daring me to say yes, but I turn and shut the door. I don’t know how I would explain this to my parents. I don’t even know how I’d explain her.

My feet step onto the path and I wish I had shoes, but I can’t turn back now.

She falls back, walking beside me as if this isn’t rating high among the surreal moments of my life. “How’s life?” Her knuckles graze my wrist and a shiver slides down my spine. She’s warm, like a person.

“Good.” I swallow, wondering if the polite thing is to turn the question back on her. But when I open my mouth to ask her, the question is stuffed back into my throat. Dumbly, I swallow it back.

She steps onto the road and I follow, cringing as my toes clench uncomfortably on the asphalt, but she doesn’t care. She’s quiet, thinking, and a nervous tickle curls in my stomach.

“Do you enjoy living?” she asks me.

Moving forward, I wrap my arms around my stomach and focus on her spine. The dress drapes down low in back, lower than her hair, exposing warm, golden skin over muscle. Why did she choose this form?

“Humans enjoy living, don’t they? They always appear…upset when separated from what they love.”

“Always?” I stall.

“They cry for ages about one thing or another. Irrelevant objects that hold sentimental value.” Her heels click, grinding against the gravel. “Friends, family, money. Sometimes even pets. They’re all temporary things.” She stops then, head turning to look at me. “Would you like to continue living?”

My throat becomes swollen before I stutter out, “C-can I?”

“Why?”

“Why?”

She pauses, a pink tongue sliding over her teeth as if she’s questioning the word before she smiles again. “Convince me not to kill you. Perhaps I am in a giving mood this evening.”

“Will you kill me anyway?” I gasp, hand slapping over my mouth, but her face pinches curiously.

“I wouldn’t be awfully convinced if I did.” She turns away. I catch up to her, clutching at my pyjamas pants as if they could hold the answer. They don’t.

“I don’t know how to convince you,” I tell her. “I…I love my sister, I want to be-“

“Wants are fleeting. Something sustainable, please.”

“I need to be there for her.”

“Why does she need you?”

“She…” an argument doesn’t come. “She…she doesn’t, I suppose.” It comes out as a whisper. Then, hopefully, “But she might. She might need me to hold her hand, or-or warn her about people, offer advice?”

“Question or statement?”

I try again, “There is a possibility-“

“Not enough.”

This time I spit out the words, “She will need me to look out for her. It’s my duty.”

“She has parents for that.” The anger dies and I hold my breath, watching her. Her chest rises and falls beneath the crimson material and I wonder: if I put my hand there, would I feel a heartbeat? “Giving up?” she asks.

“She needs me.”

The woman laughs, a warm, mocking laugh that breaks the night air. “You need her, my love. That’s why you brought her back.”

I shiver, folding my arms. My toes wiggle on the warm road, searching for something sustainable. “My parents needed her too.”

“And you, selflessly, couldn’t stand their sadness, so you came to me?” She’s definitely mocking me this time.

Her hands come up, around my cheek and hold me close. I wonder if she’ll kiss me again.

But her breath curls against my lips, and she doesn’t speak. She holds me there and I feel my stomach twist, hands shaking. “Are you afraid?”

“Yes.”

“Liar. Cardinal sin; you’re distracted.” I don’t reply, but her fingertips dig into me.

“Yes.”

“Good girl.” She steps away, the warm hands falling to her sides and I feel cold. But she’s standing tall, looking up at the stars. “I think I might keep you,” she tells me. I feel my body hum at the statement. Her eyes catch mine and a grin break over her face. “I have a most interesting deal for you, would you like to hear it?” She asks as if I have a choice.

“Yes.”

Her head tilts, grin softening into a smirk. Whatever the question, I know my answer’s yes. It will always be yes.

“For every week your sister lives, and for as long as you live, I want something.”

“What do you want?”

“Well, there are many names for it, but because I’m feeling lazy this evening, let’s call it ‘life’.”

“Life?” My heart beats, loud and slow in my ears. “Mine?”

“Oh no, yours is hardly sustainable. No, there will be people, like you, who have made deals. Their time will come up for payment. I ask that you send them to me. Can you do that?”

“How?”

“However you want. Perhaps, if you’re good, I’ll give you a gift.” I have no idea what she means by good, but I think about my sister. About the hug she gave me and how tightly she clung.

“I admit,” she says, turning to lead me down to the through road, “I had expected one or two question about morality.”

“What do you mean?”

“‘Are they all innocent?’ ‘does it have to be me’ ‘will there be children?’ ‘is it murder?’” her voice changed, as though they had all been recorded; from a low, masculine voice, to the shrill feminine voice similar to my aunt, but it’s the last one that gets me. My sister’s. Her exact voice. I blink and the woman laughs, “Don’t look so afraid, I stole that one last year.”

“You followed my sister?”

“Oh, you didn’t think all of this is an accident did you?” The woman smiles, her teeth white against the pink. Something hot slices through me, cutting until it finds my heart. Then, I understand. The knife twists.

“You-” I can’t manage the word. Glaring up at her, I think of the blood, the coughing and my sister’s pale hand. I want to lunge, to attack, but the anger washes over me and ties my body in knots. I can’t move, can’t speak, and god, I want to cry.

“Do we have a deal?”

“A deal?” I spit, glaring. But she knows my answer. I can put up a fight or run away, but somehow, someway I know that we will always end back here. “Fuck you.” Her grin only peels wider.

“Is that a ‘yes’?”

I stare at her stiffly, refusing, watching for her next move. Her index finger taps on the red dress and the word spills out like a command, “Yes.”

"Oh, you are a good pet, aren't you?"

"Bite me."

She grins, stepping closer. "Don't tempt me, dear. I just might." Shivering, I look away. She grabs my hand, lifting it up until my finger tips press over her heart. It beats beneath my touch. "I can make all your dreams come true," she said. "Forget about the anger your holding, and I'll make you feel something better."

I try to snatch my hand away, but her grip doesn't loosen. The heart beats faster, thrumming at my fingertips. "Let me go."

She lets go and I fly back, stumbling on the asphalt. "All you have to do is ask," she said, turning away. "Ask me to appear and I'll arrive in your room. Wherever that may be." She laughs, looking at me. "I doubt that will take long."

"You're a right bitch, you know that?"

"Oh, naughty. Do you use the word bitch because of this form?" She steps towards me. I step back, swallowing. "If I'd been him..." her form changes, shifts and melts into the man I met before. His voice low and gravelly."What would you call me?"

"A bastard."

"A bastard? How is a man born out of wedlock such an insult. In this day and time it's as common as daisies. But bitch..." he shifts again back into her. "A bitch is a lovely term, both men and women use it to control women, barking it at them. Ironic, don't you think?"

"I think you have too much time to spare."

Her hand reaches out, snatching my wrist and pulling me close. Her breath slides over my face and I tremble, feeling heat pool low in my belly. "I could teach you how to speak, how to charm and command armies. Would you like that?"

"Yes." I blink, aware that somehow she has pull over my confession. There my words, my truth.

"Do you want me?"

"Yes."

"Do you consent, knowing that at any time I you may ask me to leave?"

"Why are you asking me this?" I sound breathless, aroused beyond capacity. Swallowing, I try to move, to do anything, but all I can manage is a small push on my toes, moving closer to her instead of away.

"Consent was my thing, dear," she whispers, pressing closer until I can almost taste her mouth. "Consent is one of the most direct means of seduction. Do you consent to me?"

"Yes."