Mark was aware that he looked more dead than alive, so he did not have high expectations for his first, and last, night on the town. He had fled the hospital’s cancer ward fuelled by stolen methamphetamines, wearing stolen clothes, and armed with just his credit card.

He entered the Sunrise Bar because the name suggested it stayed open until daylight—that, and he did not think he could walk any farther. He was on his fourteenth vodka shot when he heard his name spoken.

“Mark.”

“Do I know you?” he asked without turning, suspecting that hospital security had tracked him down.

“You know of me. I gave you terminal cancer at just nineteen. My apologies. Big mistake.”

Only now did Mark turn. The woman looked his age but was dressed like a junior executive on her way to a board meeting. She was also translucent.

“You’re Death?” Mark guessed, fearing that he had died but not noticed.

“No. Come along.”

“Who are you?” he asked as they left the bar. “Or, like, what?”

“Who? I am Lady Fortune. What? Hard to explain. You are Dr. Mark Connell. You learned that you had a month to live on the day that you got your PhD in mathematics. While other guys your age were out having a good time, you were researching probability theory. Now you just want to experience a single night of fun before cancer claims you.”

Mark held his hand up. A streetlight’s glow was visible through it.

“Are you sure I’m not dead?”

“Positive.”

• • • •

After two blocks they reached a building whose entrance was marked by a red plush rope clipped between two brass posts. The nightclub’s gatekeepers were four broad-shouldered security guards wearing dark suits and open shirts. There was a long queue of people hoping to be admitted before daylight closed the place.

“This is Free Fall, a very exclusive playground,” said Fortune.

“I’ll not be let in,” Mark muttered. “Every one of those folk queuing looks better than me. I could be an extra from The Walking Dead.”

A guard unclipped the rope as Fortune approached, then waved them both through. This is definitely a dream, thought Mark. The first level had a bar, dance floor, and DJ, yet the babble of conversation and pounding dance music seemed strangely muted. Fortune led Mark up to the next level, which was a wide, wraparound mezzanine looking down on the dance floor. It had another bar, chrome and glass tables, comfortable but low maintenance chairs, and private booths.

“What now?” asked Mark.

“We are here to observe. See the woman in the short black skirt and silk top?”

“Talking to the guy who looks like a blond Viking who just walked out of a barber’s shop?”

“Indeed. His name is Bjorn; he is not important. The woman is Melisa.”

“She’s hot,” said Mark.

“She is, but that’s not important either. She is a sorceress.”

Melisa was rubbing her foot against her companion’s leg. Presently they got up and walked to one of the booths. It featured a wide couch . . . and nothing else. Melisa pulled a curtain across behind them.

“Those booths are for casual sex,” Fortune explained.

Mark gasped with shock. He was not prudish, just sheltered. His knowledge of sexual encounters was mostly confined to romantic comedies on cable television.

“The booths are for lust, not romance,” she continued. “Melisa and Bjorn liked the look of each other. Now they are enjoying the feel.”

“Don’t they care what people think?”

“Yes and no. Melisa owns this place, it is her . . . laboratory. Tonight she is casting a powerful, subtle spell which requires a broken heart as a capstone. She knows that she and Bjorn were being watched by Jeff, this floor’s security guard. He adores her, but now his goddess is having casual sex with some random pickup.”

“That must hurt.”

“It does, but Melisa doesn’t know that Jeff works for a security company run by Bjorn’s wife. Jeff rang her thirty minutes ago and reported that Bjorn is doing something extramarital.”

“Let me guess, she won’t like that.”

“Heaven hath no rage like love to hatred turned. She is driving here as we speak, running red lights and tripping speed cameras.”

Mark stared at the booth’s curtain, not really believing what it apparently concealed. It suddenly became transparent to his eyes. Mark gasped.

“Convinced?” asked Fortune.

“That’s . . . confronting.”

The curtain became opaque once more.

“People who don’t get much sex really value intimacy,” she explained. “Jeff is such a person. He values it far more than suave and glamorous people do.”

“Yeah, they can usually have whoever they want by just smiling and raising an eyebrow. But Jeff isn’t ugly.”

“He’s nothing special either. Bjorn stands out.” Fortune closed her eyes. “Sally has just pulled up outside and double parked. Door security works for her, so she’s walking straight in. She’s on her way up, and there she is.”

The woman glancing about did not fit in. She was dressed to intimidate staff rather than attract admiring stares.

“She looks angry,” Mark decided.

“She’s had a bad day.”

At that very moment Melisa swept the curtain aside and emerged from the booth with Bjorn, looking flushed and radiant. Then she noticed Sally’s Ruger pointed at her head.

The first 9mm bullet hit Melisa in the forehead, killing her instantly. Sally wanted the satisfaction of seeing Bjorn experience a moment of intense terror, and Melisa’s death provided that. Bjorn fled back into the booth, but Sally’s second shot slammed into the back of his leg, dropping him across the couch. She followed and emptied the remaining fourteen rounds into his body, shooting to ruin, not kill.

Except for the spectral presence of Mark and Fortune, the floor was deserted as Sally made her way past the overturned chairs and abandoned tables to the bar. She filled a large wine glass with cognac, then sat down to await the police.

“Time to go,” said Fortune, standing.

“But she killed them!” exclaimed Mark.

“Only Melisa. Come along, I have a hotel room booked for us.”

For Mark, reality returned the moment the hotel door closed behind them. The methamphetamines faded but the vodka shots asserted themselves. He collapsed across the bed, and a hot flush blazed through him like molten lead. Sweat poured from his skin, sweat the colour of blood that smelled of rot.

• • • •

The maid found Mark the next morning, encrusted in dried blood. Emergency Services were called, but both the paramedics and police were astounded to find he still had a pulse. Another week passed before he regained consciousness.

“Now I hope that you’re aware of being a medical miracle,” said the oncologist heading the team of scientists gathered around Mark’s gurney.

“People keep saying that,” he replied.

“And you still have no recollection of your night out?”

“Not much. I went to a bar and drank vodka, then I must have passed out. I woke up in a hotel room, sweating blood.”

“Not blood, liquidised cancer tissue. Something supercharged your immune system, dissolving the tumours and excreting them as fluid. Apart from mixing methamphetamines and vodka, can you think of anything else that you did that night?”

Nothing that you would believe, thought Mark.

“No, sorry.”

• • • •

A translucent shape solidified beside the gurney once Mark was alone again.

“Thank you for the rest of my life,” he said.

“Live it without regrets,” Fortune replied.

“What actually happened on that night?”

“I made Melisa choose Bjorn to help her break Jeff’s heart. I also knew that Bjorn was married to a psychotic.”

“Why kill them both?”

“Bjorn was a mess but survived through Fortune’s grace. It was Melisa I wanted dead; she was close to developing powers that would interfere with mine.”

“Why cure me in particular? A whim of Fortune?”

“I don’t have whims. I deliberately took a life, and Fortune’s Balance meant I had to give one back. I chose you because it was a chance to undo a stupid mistake. Of all mortals, you seem to like me for what I am.”

“You mean . . . you fancy me?”

“Mark, I’m lonely. When people get lucky they give Fortune no credit, yet they curse Fortune in hard times. Gamblers, soldiers, stockbrokers, they all pray to me, but only one mathematician, yourself, thinks me beautiful, elegant and alluring. I will always favour you.”

Fortune faded from view, but Mark lay awake for the rest of the night. How should Fortune’s boyfriend behave? he wondered over and over, but no answers presented themselves. Will we be good for each other? Where can we go for a date?