The only guest you expect at dawn is a hangover—and even that one usually knocks first.

  This one didn’t.

  He was short. You had to look down to see him, down past the harsh and unrelenting thud in your temples. Not "kid at the door selling candy" short. More like "what the hell am I looking at" short. You rubbed your eyes to clear the crust and make sure he wasn't a hangover hallucination, but he was still there. A wiry frame, round face, and sharp yellow eyes that shimmered like twin cat-eyes from some childhood nightmare. He wore bright red-and-white sneakers, as though he picked them out for their brightness, or had stepped out of a cartoon. His worn-out jeans sagged at the knees, and his black hoodie had TIKTOK scrawled across the chest in cracked, fading letters. It was the kind of shirt you see at the thrift store, its logo peeled and frayed, and wonder who had ever wanted it in the first place.

  But the horns were the real giveaway.

  Even in your bleary state, you couldn't miss them—two stubby, goat-like nubs that peeked out defiantly from beneath a riot of shaggy ginger hair. Just enough to register as *definitely not human*. Just enough to make you stand there, dumbfounded, clutching the doorway for support as your brain tried to piece together this puzzle. You wondered if he'd gone to a Halloween party or if he was just really into cosplay, but something told you these weren't props. He wasn't dressed up as anything but himself.

  I blinked. Twice.

  Somewhere, a car alarm echoed, and the dawn mist clung to everything in heavy swathes. All you could do was stare, open-mouthed and half-sober, while the small creature stared back with those liquid, unblinking eyes that seemed to ask what your problem was.

  “What the hell is that?” I asked, pointing at the horns.

  “Calcium surplus,” he said, scratching his beard like he’d been asked that five times already today. Honestly, if I had horns, I’d be tired of explaining, too.

  He didn’t seem aggressive. Didn’t seem particularly rushed either. That was... almost worse.

  I sat down slowly on the edge of the couch, still studying him.

  “Matt,” I offered, extending a hand on autopilot.

  He laughed—a sharp, hiccup of a sound.

  “Matt?” he echoed. Then, more formally, “Apologies. Grimm.”

  Why did that name sound familiar?

  And then it clicked. The old woman. Last night. Her voice, already beginning to echo in my head like a dream:

  “You’ll get help. Grimm is temperamental, but loyal.”

  Also... the cat. The one that dive-bombed my window.

  I should’ve been screaming. Should’ve run. But after the night I’d had? My brain had already clocked out. Sanity was optional now.

  “Wait,” I said carefully, still staring at his horns. “Are you a... demon?”

  “Watch it,” he said, clearly offended. “You throw words like that around in decent company, and you might catch one in the teeth.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t realize we were *in* decent company.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I’m an imp. And not the worst of them.”

  Somehow, that was... not reassuring.

  “And you were the cat?” I asked. “Back in the apartment?”

  “Yeah. I change shapes. It’s a thing.”

  “And you’re... here to serve me?”

  The words sounded so ridiculous I almost laughed. I imagined him saluting in a latex suit: *At your command, Lord Warden!*

  “Not you,” Grimm said flatly. “The Hist. I serve the power. Don’t expect me to mop the floors.”

  He looked pointedly at the disaster zone that was my entryway—scattered sushi containers, dirt trails, and what I hoped wasn’t still dog crap on my sneakers.

  “If I told you to?” I asked, testing.

  “I’d obey. Within my means and motivation. But I suck at cleaning. My last mistress gave up on me after two weeks. I just smeared the dirt around. Can’t cook either. Tried once. Nearly set a kitchen spirit on fire.”

  He held up both hands in mock surrender. They looked normal—except for the tufts of hair on the knuckles. Hobbit scale: medium.

  “So... what *can* you do?” I asked.

  ———

  Grimm raised one of his thick, ginger eyebrows. “You really don’t know anything, do you?”

  “I literally woke up like twenty minutes ago,” I said, rubbing my temples. “After vomiting my soul out, discovering a new scar over my heart, and watching a cat turn into a guy with horns. No. I don’t know anything.”

  He nodded, as if that was fair.

  “All right. Here’s the basic version,” Grimm said, pacing a little between piles of trash. “You’ve got something inside you now. A thread of power. Old power. We call it the Hist.”

  “Hist,” I repeated. “Sounds like an allergy medication.”

  “It’s what separates people like you from civilians,” he went on. “You crossed a threshold. Ordinary people can’t see what’s really out there—not unless they’re cursed, crazy, or dead. You? You’re a Borderlander now. One of those caught between the worlds. Some still call us Threshold Walkers—but Borderlander’s what sticks.”

  “Sounds like a prestige class from a fantasy RPG.”

  “Call it what you want,” Grimm said. “But the point is: you’ve changed. The Hist is alive in you now. Tiny, sure—about the size of an apple seed. That’s why we call new ones like you saplings.”

  “Cute,” I muttered. “So what’s the endgame? I water it, talk to it, and it grows?”

  “Something like that,” he said. “With time—and, well, with deeds—it’ll grow. Stronger. Deeper. Meaner. Each time it evolves, it leaves a mark on your body. Most often? Right near the heart.”

  I instinctively glanced down at my chest.

  “So that scar…?”

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  “Your first mark,” Grimm said. “Your first step. You earn five of those, the Hist starts to… notice you. It gives you something in return.”

  “What kind of something?”

  He gave me a long, unreadable look. “Whatever you need most. And I don’t mean like a sandwich or a winning lottery ticket. I mean something… deeper. Power. Clarity. Vengeance. Protection.”

  I swallowed.

  “And then I get a cool title? Wizard? Warlock? Sorcerer Supreme?”

  Grimm snorted. “They start calling you a Warden. Some say Seer. The old ones might still say Threshold Walker. But Borderlander—that’s what you really are now.”

  I looked around my trashed apartment. “Yeah. Kinda figured.”

  He scratched at one horn. “If you keep going—if you get to ten marks—you become something else. A *Lich*.”

  “That’s not ominous at all.”

  “They’re rare. Near-immortal. Hard to kill. They live between this world and the next. Some rule hidden cities. Others vanish into the deep wilds.”

  “And fifteen marks?” I asked, just to push.

  Grimm froze.

  “Don’t blaspheme,” he said quietly. “Most people never make it past three. Ten gets you to Lich. Fifteen... that’s something else. That’s crossing into legend.”

  ———

  “So let me guess,” I said. “No Hogwarts letter. No wand. But I can toss fireballs now, right?”

  Grimm raised a hand. “Whoa there, Dumbledork. Let’s keep expectations reasonable.”

  I sighed. “You just said I have power.”

  “You do,” he admitted. “But it’s not plug-and-play magic. It’s Hist-driven. Most of what you’ll be able to do depends on what rituals you learn, who teaches them, and—” he gave me a look—“how much you’re willing to pay.”

  “Pay?” I asked. “With what?”

  “Oh, you know. Time. Blood. Soul. Nightmares. Memories. The usual.”

  I gave him a blank stare.

  “But hey,” Grimm added quickly, “I know plenty of rituals!”

  My ears perked up.

  He counted off on his fingers. “I can summon mice into a pantry. I can give your neighbor chronic night terrors. I can make someone gain weight no matter what they eat.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Hey,” he shrugged. “I watched a lot of reality TV. It sparked creativity.”

  “That’s your idea of magic?”

  “I never said it was good magic.”

  I rubbed my face with both hands. “So I’ve got a personal imp who can ruin snack drawers and sabotage diets.”

  “I also boil a mean tea.”

  “Do these rituals at least work on my end?” I asked. “Can you teach me?”

  Grimm’s face fell like I’d kicked a puppy.

  “Nope,” he said. “Strictly imp stuff. Our rites don’t transfer to Wardens. Sorry, boss.”

  Of course they don’t.

  “So let me get this straight,” I said slowly. “You’re here to help me. You can’t clean. You can’t cook. You can’t teach me spells. And you definitely can’t throw fireballs.”

  “I can throw shade,” Grimm offered.

  I stared.

  “Kidding. Mostly.”

  This… this was my life now. Urban fantasy minus the fantasy. Add a sarcastic, underqualified imp who watched too much TV and chewed with his mouth open.

  “You’re not very useful,” I muttered.

  “Yet here I am,” he grinned, then pointed at the trash pile. “Still, someone ought to clean that up. Not naming names.”

  ———

  By the time I got the worst of the trash into a bag, Grimm had already claimed the kitchen.

  He sat at the table, legs swinging, slurping tea from a chipped mug like he owned the place. A pack of off-brand vanilla wafers lay open in front of him, and he was demolishing them like a kid on a sugar high.

  “You know,” he said with his mouth half-full, “you’re weird.”

  “Thanks,” I muttered, wiping down the counter. “That coming from a magical raccoon in sneakers really means a lot.”

  He pointed at the sugar jar. “Your sugar jar actually has sugar in it.”

  “Yeah. It says sugar.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Last mistress labeled all her jars too. ‘Sugar’ had dried nettle. ‘Salt’ had some kind of fire moss. ‘Pepper’ was… don’t ask. If it hissed when you opened it, you closed it again.”

  I paused. “Wait—your old mistress was the one who lived in that apartment?”

  “Yup. For a long time. We weren’t best friends, but she was sharp. Knew how to brew, bind, banish. Didn’t laugh at my jokes, though. That part stung.”

  I poured myself a cup of tea and leaned against the counter, watching him crunch through another wafer like a gremlin in a hoodie.

  “So… this is it now?” I asked. “You and me? Roommates?”

  “Technically I’m bonded to the Hist, not to you,” he said between sips. “But yeah. This is it.”

  I looked around the kitchen—peeling linoleum, tiny fridge that wheezed when it cooled, a secondhand microwave that blinked 00:00 like it had PTSD.

  “My grandma left me this place,” I said. “Figured it was a start. Now it’s… I don’t even know.”

  “You’re not the worst pick,” Grimm said. “Bit slow. Cranky. But teachable.”

  “Oh good,” I said dryly. “A magical internship with a goat.”

  He grinned, showing sharp canines.

  “You’re lucky, though,” he added. “Most people never get this far. You? You’ve got potential. And an imp who knows how to make tea.”

  ———

  While Grimm continued demolishing wafers and watching the morning news like a retired uncle, I half-heartedly started picking up empty bottles near the trash can.

  “Drinker?” he asked, eyeing the glass with mild judgment.

  “Professional,” I shot back. “Friend came over a couple days ago. We watched bad movies and solved the world’s problems with cheap beer. Sorry if that offends your demonic sensibilities.”

  He squinted. “I prefer mead. Real honey stuff. Beer’s not what it used to be.”

  He sounded genuinely mournful—like a barfly who remembered the Cold War.

  That’s when something clinked on the linoleum. I reached into my pocket and pulled it out: a worn, red-tagged key with the number 6 scratched into the plastic fob.

  I stared.

  The old woman had given it to me. Back when her eyes were glowing and her voice was thunder and I still had dreams about being normal.

  Grimm stopped chewing. The TV kept buzzing in the background, but the imp had gone statue-still.

  “Know what this is?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer. Just nodded slowly.

  The room felt colder.

  “I almost forgot about it,” I said. “Looks like it opens a locker. Or a box. Something small.”

  “Something important,” Grimm said at last. “She wouldn’t have passed it if it wasn’t.”

  A strange chill ran through me. I wasn’t sure if it was fear, grief, or… curiosity.

  I turned the key in my fingers.

  Maybe it unlocks a bomb.

  Maybe it opens a freezer full of cursed cookies.

  Maybe it’s nothing at all.

  “I’ll check it out later,” I said quietly, tucking it into a drawer. “For now, I’ve got bigger problems.”

  “Like what?” Grimm asked.

  “Like how the hell we’re supposed to live.”

  He brightened immediately. “Simple! Tea in the morning, beer on Fridays, snacks whenever available. Maybe the occasional sacrifice if things get spicy—”

  “I meant financially.”

  “Oh. Well, don’t worry about money.”

  “People who say that are either rich or about to rob me.”

  “The old woman said the same thing, didn’t she?”

  “She also gave me a glowing death-scar and a cat that talks.”

  “She gave you me,” Grimm said proudly.

  “Exactly.”

  He leaned back in the chair, patting his belly like this was already home. “Look. It’ll work out. You’ve got a roof, a Hist, and a Grimm. You’re better off than most.”

  “Do you plan to contribute? You know—rent, utilities, toilet paper?”

  “I’m an imp,” he said, scandalized. “We don’t use toilet paper.”

  I buried my face in my hands.

  “And the big question,” I mumbled. “Where are you sleeping?”

  “Not the couch,” he said. “Back issues.”

  “Then where?”

  He looked around, shrugged, and nodded at the kitchen cupboard.

  “Under the sink?”

  “Cozy, dark, perfect humidity.”

  And that’s how I learned that I now lived with a trash-talking imp who slept under the sink, drank my tea, and refused to clean.

  And somehow… that was still better than the day before.