I never knew working at an office job would be this soul-sucking. I mean, everyone said it would be, and I expected some amount of sucking, but not like this.
It’s one of those Tuesdays that feels a little too much like a second Monday. Specifically it feels like one of those Mondays that every little thing scratches against your consciousness like sandpaper on your face. The ticking of someone’s watch. The creaky chairs that complain whenever someone shifts their weight a little. The smell of burnt coffee seeping out of the breakroom because putting the coffee pot directly beneath the drip is beyond some people.
I’ve never been an I-Hate-Mondays kind of person, but I think I might be turning into one, this very Tuesday.
It could just be because the washed out fluorescent lighting is giving me a headache. The conversation two cubicles over, the not-so-subtle whispering about vacation days, is making my eyes roll back in my skull. I can’t focus on my spreadsheets. I’m not used to working with so many other people around. Maybe the reason I never contemplated hating my coworkers is because I wasn’t with them for the whole day before. The only thing I’m capable of thinking about is how much I want to poke my head up over the divider and ask for some quiet.
Suddenly, I get my wish.
All the chatter silences, a sudden hush that feels heavy and old as a catacomb. A feeling like a breeze ripples through the room, as my skin prickles. An unnatural cold wraps around my body, when I see a dark shadow fall over me.
I look up into the hollow cowl of a black cloak that drapes down to the floor.
The spectre hangs near me with an empty stare that feels like standing on the edge of a cliff.
“Any messages?” the disembodied voice murmurs, low and guttural, coming from somewhere within the black robes that billow even without wind.
“I, uh, no, but I have a couple things people asked to reschedule,” I stammer, shuffling through my desk for the little paper squares I’ve jotted down notes. I pause before I relay them to him, glancing around. I can see the color-drained faces of my coworkers peering out over their partitions to watch.
We usually do this in my office, but it’s currently being renovated. I mean, I don’t really have an office. I have a desk in the little waiting room outside the Dark Lich Lord’s Grand Sanctum, where I sit and reschedule his appointments, remind him to take his daily blood doses, and really just tell people it’ll be another ten minutes before they can see him.
At least, I used to have a desk. Until an assassin managed to sneak past security and tried to ambush the Lich Lord in the waiting room. It got messy. As in, pretty much all of the furniture was obliterated in the fight messy. I’d stepped away from my desk, only to return to a scorched room and a pile of cinders. Honestly, I don’t even know why we have security if the Lich Lord can just vaporize anyone that comes at him with a poisoned blade.
There was a ‘chosen hero” or whatever a few years ago that tried to defeat the Lich Lord, but it didn’t quite work out. There were details, but that kind of stuff gets buried in the endless paperwork that is required in maintaining an evil dominion. I don’t think anyone has the real story except the Lich Lord himself.
Anyway, that’s how I got stuck in one of the spare partitioned desks in the accounting department. It’s only until the room is finished being renovated.
I glance over my shoulder and at the whole office still staring, unsubtly, to see what’s going on.
It’s right about then that I realize, most people in the Dark Domain don’t get to see their Lich Lord all that often.
“Um, I’ll bring these to the Sanctum, shall I?” I say, feeling their stares on my back.
Still, their stares are nothing compared to the gravity I feel when I look into the empty depth that is the Lich’s cloak. The constant motion of his cloak is a slow, underwater-like movement that always makes me start to lean towards him. It’s a weird, dizzying feeling. People talk about staring into the void until the void stares back, but that void is always staring.
The cloak’s cowl nods stiffly, but the cold air of his presence feels more like an appreciative caress.
My chair makes an awful screech as I push it back against the floor; the sounds of me packing up my things from the desk are the only noises in the office. I dodge around a few desks and hurry after the Lich Lord to the Grand Sanctum.
Some people really haven’t adjusted to life under the Dark Reign of Terror yet. Some things are different, but honestly it’s all cosmetic. Things aren’t that different from when we had a normal, living CEO.
And the thing about economic collapse and social upheaval is that there’s a lot of room for upward mobility. At least that’s what Janice from HR says, and I guess she’s right, because I used to work in customer service, but now I’m a personal assistant to the Lich.
The Grand Sanctum is an utterly gorgeous room, once you get used to how creepy it is. It’s about as big as a ballroom, but much more cluttered. The walls are lined with old bookshelves stuffed with dusty tomes and piled scrolls, occasionally featuring distilling glasses, crystals and jars of murky liquids. The windows are all stained glass in geometric patterns, all blue and green and purple. They don’t let much light in, but they’re my favorite part about stepping into the Dark Lord’s office.
As the twenty-foot carved door shuts closed behind me, I start reading off the notes for today’s schedule, the missives for him that I’ve sorted through by priority.
I get through maybe two of them before I realize the Dark Lord isn’t listening in the slightest. Usually he interjects, making me take down notes about rearranging things or moving appointments up. I’ve never gotten this far without him at least canceling something.
He’s pacing the lower inner level of the Sanctum, the ritual floor. It’s drawn up in runes and incantation circles, with all his most-used ingredients lined up near the edges, and an altar for sacrifices in the center.
“…And there’s that initiative to bring more women into STEM fields. That’s Sneakiness, Traumatization, Evil Studies, and Misfortune,” I trail off, watching his movement.
Definitely not listening.
“Is something the matter, Soven?” I ask. I don’t usually use his first name, only when we’re in his office together. I think it amuses him that he, an ageless entity with power beyond comprehension, is on a first name basis with a mortal like me. It’s that social upheaval at work.
At that, the Dark Lord pauses in his pacing. He doesn’t turn to look at me.
‘Was it the assasination attempt?’
He gives a nod, and his cloak flutters like a sigh disturbs them. “Yes. I’m afraid it’s left me somewhat unbalanced.”
‘It did cause quite a disruption. I’ve already briefed the legal department; they’re working on how to deal with the agency that sent her. They’ve got some plans for a lawsuit, and some other options for how we should vet our outsourced labor in the future,’ I say.
That covers all the important concerns, but I wonder a bit if he hates having to seek me out at my new desk as much as I hate having to work there. After a moment I add, ‘I’m told the renovation should be finished in a few days.’
He tilts his hood towards me in a way that feels reminiscent of a wry smile. ‘Sometimes I wonder who really is the Evil Overlord around here.’
I contain a smile at the burst of pride. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I say, shrugging, putting on a tone of utmost innocence.
‘Well I didn’t hire you for your looks,’ he starts to say, and cuts himself off. The cloak stiffens in something like a wince. ‘Not that I wouldn’t. Or that there’s anything wrong with your looks. They’re very nice for a human. It’s just not reign-policy to hire specifically on a appearance-basis-‘
I smother a giggle behind my hand. ‘Quit while you’re ahead.’
Sometimes I really think the whole dark and ominous presence he exudes is just a front behind which he hides his social ineptitude. No one would exactly cower in terror at him if they knew he was kind of a dork.
The feeling of my smile fades as I watch him. If I thought there were shoulders under that cloak of perpetual billowing, I would have thought they’d sunk down in frustration.
“I’m at a loss, Lily,” he says, the cloak’s hood turning to look deep into one of the greenish fires. “For how to complete this ritual.”
My eyes fall to the ritual circle. Now that he brings it up, it does look about the same as I saw it arranged last week. Usually things get moved around, new symbols drawn on it, etc.
“If you need me to order more ingredients, I can take down a list,” I begin, wondering where I’m going to get a copy of the requisition forms when my usual desk is now ash.
But Soven shakes his head.
“There are many magical things that can’t be collected in vials,” Soven explains. “A last breath. A first kiss. A shiver over the skin.”
I fall silent, his words provoking my imagination. I don’t know much about magic, and he’s never told me much about how he does what he does.
“Last week, the woman who was in the waiting room, before I—” he jerks his head and makes a clicking noise with his teeth, referring back to the vaporization event, “But these assassins are becoming craftier by the day, they must have infiltrated that agency. There’s no knowing who I can trust, now.”
I nod. Initially, we had hired the woman through an agency, had her vetted for her services through them. I hadn’t really known what services exactly she was supposed to provide at the time, and when my brain puts two together, I nearly laugh.
“Hang on, is that what you needed? A shiver?” I ask skeptically. “That’s what we’re outsourcing for?”
The cloak’s hood turns slowly to me, and he nods.
I’m doing my best to keep my face straight. I let out a quiet laugh as I say, “You could have just called me in. I’ve got skin.”
I wonder if that last remark is rude or something. After all, he doesn’t really have skin, to my knowledge. I hope I don’t have to take an undead sensitivity training class now.
The cloak’s hood stares through me for a few long, uncomfortable moments. The air doesn’t grow colder, instead I’m too warm about the collar, and maybe it’s not anything supernatural, my face is reddening under the intensity of his attention.
Every second in the hourglass slipping by makes me think my suggestion was perhaps really dumb. I don’t know, maybe he needed a professional to shiver for him. Maybe professionally rendered shivers are higher quality? I’ve never really thought about it before.
“You do,” he notes, something different in his voice. He’s looking at me, and I don’t think he’s ever stared at me this long.
Is he looking at my skin? Everything that isn’t covered by my office clothes, my arms and shins and my collar, all of it feels oddly on display. I fight the urge to cross my arms over myself or any other way of covering myself up.
“You do,” he repeats, crossing the Sanctum towards me, less like he’s moving towards me, more like the room is shrinking the space between us. With him comes that scent of herbs, a heavy dose of clove, thyme, lavender, cedar, and a slight hint of embalming fluids.
“Yeah, I do,” I echo, my voice nearly a whisper and more than enough for how close we are. Either I feel like I’m underwater with him or I feel that I’m in over my head. Maybe I’m not as used to being in my boss’s presence as I think I am, because by now I’d usually have gone back to my little not-a-real-office.
He towers over me, staring into my soul probably. I mean, as far as I can tell, the cloak’s hood doesn’t have eyeballs, but even as I look into that endless void, I can feel his gaze sweeping over me, sending goosebumps over my skin.
His head tilts ever so slightly, like he can tell.
When my coworkers talk about the chills Soven gives them, it’s all ‘frailty of life’ this, and ‘acute sense of my mortality’ that.
And for an undying Lord of Darkness, that makes sense.
But when he looks at me, I get this feeling like walking through an old house, where all the furniture has sheets draped over them while the house is dormant, and suddenly, someone is dragging the sheets off. Like he’s unveiling me; like plucking petals off a flower, to see what’s hiding at the center.
“You would really do that,” he says, unconvinced. He makes it sound like I’m chopping off an arm.
“Shiver-rly isn’t dead yet,” I say, trying a wide smile. It feels like the best thought I’ve had today, until I hear myself say it and wince. I cough. “Uh. Yeah. It’s no big deal.”
He’s still for a long moment, before he nods. He tilts his head to the ritual floor. “Come then.”
It’s then, creeping down into the ritual floor, careful not to step on any of the lines, that I realize I’ve never been so far into this room. Maybe I’m too used to being able to duck back out the door as soon as I’m done.
Standing by the Sanctum doors, hugging the walls, is an entirely different experience from crossing to the middle, which borders on agoraphobic. I’ve never needed the closeness of my flimsy cubicle walls so much. The sound of my breath echoes off the tiles, the only sound in the hall, making me feel like I should maybe hold my breath. My footsteps against the marble punctuate the air so loud I nearly wince with each one.
I hike my skirt up a bit as I hop onto the altar Soven gestures to, straightening it as I sit down and lay back.
The stone is cold to touch, and there’s something about laying across this ledge in the center of the room that makes me feel more than exposed. How can I feel practically naked with all my clothes still on?
Maybe it’s the giant mirror on the ceiling.
It’s pretty high up, but I can see myself, wavy brown hair spread around me, the lush dark green of my skirt. It’s too far away to see my freckles or birthmarks, or the buttons on my blouse.
Oh shit, I think my nipples are hard because it’s so damn cold in the ritual space. I try to inconspicuously crane my head up for a better look to check if they’re visible through my blouse.
“Everything all right?” Soven asks, crossing to my side.
“Yes!” I squeak, a little too quickly. Ugh.
His voice is deeper than the abyss. When he talks to me, sometimes his words reverberate down my body and find all my hollow spaces. Too often I find it’s left me biting my lip.
It’s hard for me to believe there’s absolutely nothing under that cloak. There’s gotta be at least bones or something. I speculated as much to Janice from HR once, and she laughed, “Why, so you can jump those bones?”
Suffice it to say, I haven’t told anyone about what his voice does to me or my thoughts about what he really looks like. I pretend not to think about my undead boss in any unprofessional way.
“Just lay back and relax,” he intones, like he’s used to doing this. He must be, he’s done probably hundreds of rituals, and this is my first. “Close your eyes.”
There is something soothing in the way he flips through pages of his tomes, muttering incantations as he sprinkles herbs and splashes of potions into the cold burning fire.
As soothing as listening to him move about is, I can’t help but feel the moments stretch thin with curiosity and anticipation. I wonder how he’s going to make me shiver. I’d think the easiest way would be to turn the thermostat way down, but he seems to have a more arcane approach.
I almost startle out of my skin when his touch ghosts down my bare shoulder. A whisper crawls up my neck, and I feel something soft, something almost like skin with a light down of fur over it. It’s like the soft side of cured leather, but alive.
I shiver alright. I shiver right down to my godsdamnned vagina, that moth-wing flutter low in my belly as my clit pulses awake with interest. The need for him to drag that touch, mouth or whatever it is, over more of my body is so visceral, I nearly moan.
If he couldn’t tell my nipples were hard through my bra before, I’m almost absolutely sure he can now.
I can feel the magic buzzing in the air as the last ingredient completes the ritual, but I keep my eyes squeezed shut. I’ve seen the light blaze from under the door when he’s done rituals before.
The air abates, and after a few minutes I hope it’s safe enough to peek around. When I look up again, his attention is buried back in his books, as he scribbles something down.
I guess he doesn’t need me now, and I should probably get back to work.
Still, I pause when I get to the door, glancing back at him.
“…I’ve never been kissed, either,” I say after a moment.
It’s true. A few years ago, a fortune teller told me that my soulmate was the champion who would overthrow the Dark Reign. And I, a naïve dummy at the time, believed her. I should have seen then that it was a load of crock to get me to waste more money on her tarot booth, but it kept me saving that kiss for the chosen one. By the time there were rumors of his death, I’d realized what a fool I’d been. It was hard to get close to anybody at that, when the takeover and acquisition happened, there was so much chaos. After that, well, I was too busy being Soven’s personal assistant.
I feel foolish saying it, not because I’m ashamed of being a virgin or whatever, but because who says that to her boss?
I duck out the door before he can say anything, before he can see the way my cheeks turn red, and hopefully before he realizes how much I want him to be that first kiss.
