1

I suddenly became a witch while still attending college. It happened when I died from alcohol poisoning—only I didn’t stay dead. The good doctors at St. Mary of Mercy revived my drunken ass.

It should be noted that I’d always assumed rumors of overdosing on booze were an urban legend. The daughter of an Irish father should never be taken down by too much whiskey.

Yet, it happened. The paramedics were called and retrieved my unconscious butt from a pool of my own vomit—comprised of pizza, Cheetos, and booze. A nurse later chastised me and claimed that I’d almost choked to death. Not likely given my strong gag reflex, which my ex-boyfriend could attest to. He was less than impressed when I spat his exuberance back at him. In my defense, I’d warned him. He’d thought it would be funny. It was. For me as I watched him screaming, the slimy jizz sliding down his cheek.

But back to that fatal college party. Despite being taken to the hospital, I’d slipped into an alcohol-induced coma, and my heart stopped.

Dead at twenty-two.

In the prime of my life, taken too soon, yet I didn’t get a bright tunnel or stairs to Heaven—which I kind of appreciated, given my college ass wasn’t into exercise. Forget meeting a being of light or standing before the pearly gates. Apparently, I didn’t merit a proper welcoming committee.

In good—and surprising—news, I also didn’t start burning in the flames of Hell or get dragged anywhere by demons. My grandmother would have been shocked. After all, she’d been saying that I had the devil inside me from a young age. She wasn’t far from wrong. I had dated a guy for a while who’d called himself Diablo. Things didn’t work out. See above where I spit on him.

Back to my death. I stood in a dark place, so dark I couldn’t see my hand or even feel the ground underfoot. My voice echoed when I uttered a bold, Yo!

I didn’t receive a reply, but I did get the sense that I wasn’t alone. You know that feeling you get when you’re in bed, thinking about that gap under it? Logically, you understand that it only has dust bunnies and socks, but at the same time, you just fucking know there’s something under there waiting to grab your poor defenseless ankle. Or how about that scary anticipation you get when you open the closet door and expect something to jump out?

I got that same feeling as I stood in pure nothingness.

Someone watched me.

Judged me.

And I swear, they sighed.

What can I say? I was a disappointment to everyone, especially my mother, who always wanted a girly girl but got stuck with me instead. Rebellious, pierced, hair a different color every other month, not into dolls, makeup, or romantic comedies. Oh, and a slut who’d told my mom she could forget me ever having kids. I wasn’t into the snotty noses, crying, and all that other crap people endured with their progeny.

If you thought I was a daddy’s girl, though, think again. My dad was a factory worker, blue-collar all the way. A guy who loved football, beer, and fixing cars. Not that much fixing occurred as he and his buddies hung out in the garage, bottles or cans in hand, standing around the open hood of a mid-eighties Camaro. I didn’t think they ever got grease on their hands. And fifteen years later, I knew for a fact the car wouldn’t ever start. I’d sold some of the less obvious parts to fuel my addictions during high school—which, to everyone’s surprise, I’d graduated. I was a fuckup, but not a dumb one. At least, most of the time.

The presence in my nothing place oozed an impatient feel. Also familiar.

I waved an invisible hand and muttered, Yeah. Yeah. You’re disappointed. Tell me something I don’t know. Can we hurry this along? Judge me, and let’s get this over with.

Would I go high or low? I’d not led an exemplary life, but at the same time, I hadn’t killed anyone, either—that I knew of. However, as sins went, I was a firm proponent of the five-finger discount, mainly applied against greedy corporations that could afford it—my parents included.

For good deeds, while I didn’t volunteer at soup kitchens or other shit, I did donate my hand-me-downs to my local women’s shelter. Who turned around and claimed my pants with artfully placed holes were worse than rags. Prudes.

The dark-place presence vibrated my very soul as if it tried to convey a message.

You’ll have to try talking because I have no idea what you’re attempting to say. I mean, hello, I didn’t speak omniscient being.

The humming intensified. Urgency. Danger. Faith.

In me.

I laughed. Dude, you’ve got the wrong person. Unless… Are you a demon? Was something trying to possess me? I held out my invisible arms and said, Take me, oh mighty dark creature, and let’s wreak havoc on the world.

I was actually joking. Mostly. So imagine my surprise when something slammed into me. Not my body, but my soul. It burned through me, and I screamed. It didn’t hurt, but it did violate every inch of my being.

By the time whatever-the-fuck-it-was withdrew, I’d lost my cockiness. Even sulked a bit as I said, Well, that was fucking rude.

I could have sworn the presence oozed smugness.

What did you do to me?

The presence didn’t provide an answer.

Well, this has been fun, but I think I’m done. What’s next? Heaven? Hell? Shall we do an eeny, meeny, miny, moe to choose a winner?

Rather than reply, the darkness around me spun.

Here we go. Moment of truth. Where would I end up?

What I didn’t expect was to be spat back out into the world. Apparently, not dead, after all.

I woke to bright lights over me. People yapping. Machines beeping, and some doctor compressing my chest.

A cute one. So was it any wonder I slurred, Hey, good-looking?

It would have probably been sexier without the barf.

2

My Exorcist moment was followed by gagging because bile was fucking gross. The nurse who remained behind was kind enough to give me a glass of water to wash out my mouth. As I swirled and spat in a basin they provided, I got an earful about my condition.

…were in a coma, and your heart stopped. We were actually about to call time of death when you revived.

Because Hell rejected me, I muttered, a little miffed because, when even the devil didn’t want you, what the fuck? Should I sin more to attract his notice? Less and see if I could regain a way into Heaven?

Given the length of time your heart stopped beating, you’ll need to be checked for brain damage.

I blinked at her. My brain is fine. Would you like me to recite the alphabet backwards? A skill I’d learned as a great way to mess with cops who asked if I’d had too much to drink. Speaking of which… I could use a drink. I rubbed at my face, wondering if my waterproof mascara had survived my less-than-stellar night. Barf, raccoon eyes, and who knew what else. I must be super pretty right about now.

The nurse handed me a cup of water.

I grimaced. Got anything stronger?

You’re kidding, right? The nurse, name tag Marge, ogled me.

My mouth tastes like something shit in it. Fucking right, I want something with flavor. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, noticing we were in a curtained area of the emergency department.

The cute doctor I’d splattered had disappeared, probably to change. Now that I was conscious, the other nurses and staff had other people to deal with, leaving me with just Marge, who crossed her arms and said, Get back in that bed.

No thanks. I’d rather sleep in mine.

You can’t leave yet. We need to check you over.

I am not staying. I feel fine. Still a bit drunk, actually. I’d have one hell of a hangover when it wore off.

There’s still paperwork to do before you can go anywhere.

And she meant it, too. When I tried to sneak out, Marge practically tackled me to shove a clipboard at my face. Some of the info they’d already filled out, having found my student identification in my pocket.

Between signing, I endured a lecture on the dangers of drinking too much, the doctor’s fresh coat tempting me to be a bit of a bitch. If I wanted to be harangued about my lifestyle, I’d call my parents.

After the doc’s unsuccessful attempt to get me to agree to sobriety, a counselor swung by to give me a pamphlet offering rehab. It went into the trash.

I didn’t have a drinking problem. I had a dare issue. As in someone dared me to chug? I said yes. From now on, I’d only get wasted the proper way, by taking actual sips and not siphoning through a funnel.

Only once I’d given them some way to collect payment—thanks to dear old Dad and his insurance—did Marge finally let me walk out the emergency room doors.

Freedom! But no money for a cab. Meaning, I had to walk back to the dorm.

Clunk. Clunk. My combat boots had definitely gotten heavier. I swore those nurses put weights in them. My clothes at least didn’t show most of my ordeal. An accomplished puker, I knew to spew away from myself.

My mouth remained sour, and my head throbbed as the booze wore off. The clearing of my head meant remembering I had a paper due in just over a day. Not that it mattered if I handed it in or not. I was failing. At life. College. And now, drinking.

Just wait until my parents got the bill for the ambulance ride in the mail. At least my dad’s insurance from work would cover the incident, but it wouldn’t save my ears from a proper blistering.

As I passed an alley, a strange sound caught my ears. I turned and blinked. Obviously, still more drunk than I thought because there was no way I saw a short dude with green skin climbing into the dumpster. Probably a rat.

More rats peered at me through sewer grates, freaking me out with their red eyes. I could admit it was my first time ever seeing them do that. Apparently, almost dying caused an acid-like effect. I was seeing things. So, like any smart girl who’d overindulged, once I reached my dorm, I threw myself onto my bed and passed out—the sleeping kind, not coma-dead.

When I finally returned to the land of the living, this time without being molested by an invisible presence, it was to find myself stinking of sour sweat and tangled in my sheets. Gross, even by my standards.

At least my roommate, who chose to sleep most nights with her boyfriend, wasn’t there to roll her eyes. Forget all those cutesy movies everyone gobbled up about the mismatched roomies becoming best friends. Katia hated me, and I was just indifferent.