by A L Hart
“How are you feeling, anyway?” I asked cautiously. She could hardly stand on her own last night, but now there was hardly a sign of whatever sickness had taken her.
There was still no eye contact, but she hung her head and answered, “Better.” Her fingers ran along her throat for a moment as though it was sore—no, not her throat.
I peered closer. Some sort of black band was bound around her neck, sleek, thick. I couldn’t remember if it’d been there last night or not.
“I can’t remove it,” she said quietly. “I was going to ask Jera, but she was asleep and it looked as though she was having another one of her nightmares, so I sat with her and I hummed her favorite song for a while.” She looked to me. It was only a split second, but a second no less. “I was going to ask you, but you too were asleep, and it looked as though you too were having a bad dream.”
So that hadn’t been a dream, her fingers moving through my hair, stealing away all other senses save the lazy, fine sensation.
I didn’t like my personal space violated. It was why I chose the corners at clubs and why my track record with women could be used as a comedy pitch. Despite this, last night, Jera had been a breath away from me and I’d been too busy growling at her to notice the discomfort—or too busy secretly ogling, and now Ophelia had been in actual contact and rather than bristle, I’d unknowingly submitted to the proximity.
Everything was off.
Starting with the genuine concern I had towards this woman as I leaned in. “Here, let me take a look at it.”
Uncertainty lasted for a moment before she lifted her chin tentatively and cast such a reluctant yet trusting look at me, I decided there was no way these women—Ophelia at least—hadn’t experienced some form of domestic abuse. Like a beaten dog searching for the right person to show it the time of day. As bad as the analogy was, it was the first that sprung to mind.
So I touched the band as gently as I could, where then I determined I didn’t know the first thing about it. It was some sort of hard, welded metal with no clasp or latch in sight to show just how it was connected.
“How did you get this on you?” I wondered.
“It wasn’t me,” she said. “It was them. The hunters.”
“The men in black?”
She nodded.
I remembered the men approaching her with some odd rod. Had this collar been what was attached at the end? There was no helping the dog comparisons now. The contraption had reminded me of how Animal Control captured stray dogs in the neighborhood sometimes.
Pursing my lips, unsure what to do and with the clock quickly nearing opening time, I stood back. “Don’t worry, I’ll get the collar off of you, promise. Just wear it a little longer.” What was I saying? Only one who was going to get that thing off was a specialized welder of some variety.
But I could hardly retract the promise with how brightly her eyes lit up as she beamed at me. “Really? Thank you, mister. I told my sister you were kind.”
Unsure what to do with that information, I looked off to the side. “Speaking of your sister, last night we came to an agreement. She would work in exchange for staying here for a month—nothing more. I’m sure you know you’re not obligated—”
“I want to,” she said quickly, not an ounce of doubt in her tone.
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Well . . . alright. I’ll probably have an official contract drafted some time this week. For now, would you please wake your sister?” I didn’t know why, but something about this woman dampened what usual crass and dull reproach resided in me, encouraging a wayward politeness.
She was out of her seat and darting eagerly for the stairs in a flash, leaving me to stare long after she’d gone. This day couldn’t possibly be any stranger than last night, I tried to convince myself. My routine would get back on track in no time.
Moments later, she returned without her sister, her eyes pinned to the floors.
“What happened?” I dared to venture.
“Jera said she would wake when she got ready and when I advised her against it, she said not to bother her again unless I had breakfast for her.”
A muscle ticked in my jaw. “Did she now.”
She nodded.
Without another word, I went into the kitchen briefly and got something that would suffice for the situation. When I came out, I started for the stairs.
“Mister, I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” Ophelia warned, lingering at the bottom and looking at the item in my hand.
“I think it’s a great idea,” I disagreed.
“Jera has something of a temper in the morning.”
“Yeah, well, so do I.” I opened the upstairs room door and spied the woman in question, cocooned in a sea of blankets like royalty, fast asleep. My hand clenched. A little over half an hour until the prep team arrived, and these two women would be more in the way than helpful if I didn’t assign them some reasonable task.
I moved and hovered at the edge of the bed. “It’s 7 in the morning and we have work to do,” I announced sternly.
The princess turned onto her side, her back to me.
“Jera, I won’t ask twice.”
“You didn’t ask once.”
“You have until the count of three.”
Silence.
“One,” I started.
Then I used the cup from the kitchen and poured the icy water onto her face.
She gasped, jerking up and scrambling from the water as though it were acid. “Have you no shame!” she erupted, wet curls dripping, eyes widened like a drenched cat. “I am a young woman in need of slumber, you poor excuse for a human.”
“We have an agreement,” was all I said. I was learning rather quickly that no matter if you used a long winded paragraph or four clipped words, this woman was going to bite out a retort. That was fine. So long as she kept up her end of the bargain, she could call me whatever insult she could pull from that head of hers.
She glared at me from behind the covers she held up to her chest.
“Work,” I said. “Or leave.”
Ten minutes later, she glared at me from behind the counter, while opposite of her, Ophelia awaited instructions enthusiastically.
“Because it’s only your first day, I’m going to have you on dishes, Jera, and you on the floors, Ophelia.”
Ophelia nodded vigorously, curls jouncing.
Jera’s abysmal gaze of fury bored into me deeper.
“But first, your uniforms,” I continued. “Don’t worry, I’ve taken it from the shop’s funds.” I slid one uniform across the counter. “Ophelia, your job is fairly rudimentary, so if you could shower first while I show Jera the ropes, that’d be great.”
She saluted me with a cupid’s bow smile. “Yes, sir!”
“Bathroom’s upstairs on your left.”
Accepting the uniform, she disappeared up the stairs, leaving me to suffer the full pricks of Jera’s dismay.
Unphased, I beckoned the woman to the kitchen. It’d been newly remodeled last year. Ceramic countertops, new cabinets and stainless steel appliances that cast a silver refraction when I turned on the lightswitch. The tiles had been pulled up and replaced with black slate flooring, eating up some of the gloss and shine for a perfect color balance. I was in love with this kitchen as much as it was in love with me.
At the washing station, I started at the left, introducing the first sink. “This is where the magic of sudding happens,” I told her. There were no dirty dishes to demonstrate with, so I removed two clean plates from the rack. One for her, one for me. I filled the sink with water and detergent, stopping at the recommended line. Then, after popping on a pair of blue gloves, I dropped the plate in. “You want to start by soaping the plate up nice and good before taking the cleaning sponge to it—”
A long, loud groan broke free of her lips. “Is this not work for mongrels in poverty?”
I shot her a look. “That would be you, Jera.”
“I am a—”
“Young woman, yeah, I get it. But you’re also a young woman with nowhere to go and not to mention, you apparently have a target on your head, so consider yourself a “mongrel” and listen.”
“This isn’t going to simply blow over, brute. I do hope you understand that and heed my expert advice: which is to learn all that you can before it’s too late.”
I took a deep breath, tried to roll the stiffness from my back, then asked, “How did we get from a lesson in dishwashing back to . . . whatever it is you’re going on about?”
Bemusement bore up at me. “What it is I’m going on about is a matter of life and death, you imbecile. If my sister and I are to stay here and do the work of lowly humans, then it is only fair I ensure it is a safe environment.”
Still twisting my shoulder, I shook my head. “You’re the one who asked to stay. If you don’t feel safe here, by all means, leave.”
“I was not finished,” she said. “If you would learn to utilize what you are, this would be the safest place around.”
“First you want residence in my coffeeshop, and now you want me to become some bodyguard for the two of you?” I asked, disbelieving.
“You don’t understand.”
“Truer words have never been spoken,” I said, scrubbing the back of the plate.
Her gaze turned fierce. “I told you before, you share the Maker’s gift. There are those besides the hunters who will realize this and they will come to you seeking your help. Having this dingy shop of yours become an attraction for the immortals will keep the hunters away as they typically do not hunt where immortals are gathered in large masses. Thus, it would provide Ophelia and I a perfect measure of safety.”
“So we’re back to our beliefs in fairy tales?” I asked, brow raised.
That fierce spark in her gaze melted into something like triumph. “How is your back, brute?”
I paused rolling my shoulders, unaware that’d I’d been doing so for the duration of our discussion. The deep throb between my shoulder blades wouldn’t ebb, webbing down to the base of my spine. I’d had muscle pains before, but never one like this. It was as though the pain presided in a muscle I’d never felt until this moment.
Still, I said, “My back is fine.”
“It’s not, nor will it be anytime soon.” That coy smile of mischief was back on her lips as she revealed, “Because they’re coming in and there’s nothing you can do about it, nothing you can do to stop what you’re becoming. Except learn to embrace it.”
“What’s coming in?” I asked, already knowing it would be just another insane answer of hers that made close to no sense.
“Your wings.”
Yep. No sense at all.
With about twenty-five minutes until prep arrived, I wrote off her words and pointed to the second sink. “Moving on; this is where you rinse.”
Ch. 5
By the time Roger and Renae arrived, the twins were somewhat acquainted with their tasks for the day, and when I say somewhat, I meant Ophelia had finally gotten the hang of holding a broom—her words being “I’ve never encountered such a strange contraption before”—and Jera had finally stopped “accidentally” shattering plates—her words being “Oh dear, my young, womanly hands just aren’t made for this sort of labor” right before casting me a glare.
When I introduced the two to the other staff, for once Roger got off of his phone and stayed off of it, too busy watching Ophelia in a way that I hoped wouldn’t become a problem later down the line. As for Renae, one hundred percent ecstatic, every fiber of her being programmed on friendly, she introduced herself eagerly, warming right up to Ophelia. Meanwhile, I had to cart Jera away when Renae started to give one of her trademark hugs, at which point Jera threatened to flay her alive.
“We don’t do that,” I grated once we were alone in the kitchen area.
“She moved to attack me,” Jera defended, lids low, perfectly at home with threatening to burn a girl. “Ergo, I’ll flay her if she thinks to touch me.”
“It’s called a hug.”
“An excellent, inconspicuous name for a torture device,” she said.
“If I so much as find a lighter in this shop, you’re done,” I warned.
“Please,” she scoffed. “I’ve no use for such a primitive mean.”
Deep breath. Count down from ten.
I pointed to the sink. “How about we stay at our station and there won’t be any misperceived attacks or need for pyromaniacal behavior, okay?”
“You’re the boss.”
Out in the lounge area, Roger was leaning far too close to Ophelia, squinting at her horns. “Those things are so cool. Where’d you get them done?”
Crap. That was another matter. While both the twins fit into the black uniform skirt, white tucked in shirt and black straps, what was I supposed to do about the horns?
Roger pulled up the long sleeve I’d required him to wear and revealed the tattoo of skulls and symbols. “Wanted to get it studded, but I got no clear skin left where I needed it.”
“Oh?” Ophelia said, far more intrigued than I—or anyone else—would have ever been in her shoes. She held the broomstick in her hand, examining the ink.
Roger nodded, then looked back to her horns and asked, “Mind if I touch them?”
Just like Jera had last night, Ophelia’s face suddenly turned a deep red, her hands squeezing the broom for dear life. “Um . . . my horns . . . they’re . . .”
“I won’t be a douche and pull ‘em or anything,” Roger said.
Pfft.
I stepped in at this. “Hey, Roger, we’ll be opening in about thirty minutes. I think Renae could use some help.”
Roger flicked a thick lock of brown hair from his eyes and looked over his shoulder. Renae was, as usual, preening around the coffee machines and bar area, a one woman army that could practically sustain the shop even if none of us did a thing.
But Roger got the message: he could socialize and flirt on his own time.
Except, even then, when I looked back to Ophelia who was still blushing furiously, I got the feeling no part of her wanted to continue where they’d left off.
As Roger stalked off in his cloud of gloominess, I said, “How about I find you and Jera a cap to cover those up?”
Gratitude fortified in her gaze as she nodded sheepishly.
One problem down.
When it came time to open, I ran the assembly line of machines to make sure all was in working order. Nothing was worse than approaching peak espresso hour only to find the machines had yet to be primed. Then I checked the stock for our coffee grounds, coffee beans, individual stocks, tea varieties, and eventually I moved on to the perishable edibles. Starting with the pastry compartment.
Where I found Jera not in the kitchen, but reaching into the glass, scooping out five or six custard buns, and then fitting them into her mouth one at a time until her cheeks resembled that of a chipmunk's.
A muscle ticked in my jaw.
Count down from ten, Peter.
“Jera, what are you doing?” I seethed quietly behind her.
At the front door, the overhead bell dinged, announcing the arrival of a customer.
Startled, Jera looked up at me, gray eyes wide, mouth working around the sweets determinedly.
The bell rung again, announcing another customer. Saturdays really were the worst.
Beside the pastry compartment, before I could finish scolding Jera, a head popped up over the counter. A boy with shabby blonde curls shucked all around him, cheeks dirty, eyes a bright warm honey color, regarded us. I looked behind him, saw no adult.
“Just a moment, please,” I told him. Then to Jera, “You can’t eat the merchandise.”
“Why not?” she asked after a big swallow. “I’m hungry.”
It occurred to me that while I was a fan of skipping meals and forgetting nutritional values, not everyone else operated the same. There was no telling when the last time was that these women had eaten.
Stil
l.
“It doesn’t mean you can just take whatever you want. Everything in life costs money.”
“I’m working for you.”
“Not good enough,” I ground, recalling the four shattered plates I was already deducting from her nonexistent paycheck.
She glowered.
I returned it.
When she stalked off into the kitchen, I turned back to the boy. “I’m sorry—” He was gone.
I didn’t blame him. He likely lost interest in the pastries after seeing Jera reach inside, no gloves or anything. I rubbed my temples and counted down from ten again. I was on four when Renae interrupted.
“I’ll clean and restock it, Peter. It’s no big thing.”
“Renae, you’re a saint.”
I was still massaging the headache away when a second voice interrupted. Young. High pitched.
“Sir, I’m here to get hired!”
I paused and cracked one eyelid open. It was the same boy with his doughy features and freckle-spotted nose. He looked at me, determined, golden gaze blazing with alacrity.
I frowned. “What’re you, seven? Nice try, but you’re not getting me on any child labor laws.”
“I’m eleven!” he declared.
“Statement stands, kid. Besides, I’m not hiring.”
He clamored up on the stool, revealing the true extent of his dirty clothes like he’d had a field day in the mud. He shoved a flier in my face. “Are, too. Says I’ll get nine dollars an hour.”
I squinted at the pink sheet of paper he held out. ‘1948’s All American Coffee House. Now Hiring. Competitive wages at $9/hr.’ I snatched the paper up and peered at it closer, but the words didn’t rearrange themselves. “Where did you get this? I didn’t hang this up.”
“No, I did.” Out of seemingly thin air, Natalie materialized and sat down at the bar area, protein shake in one hand and a bag of her usual breakfast—two boiled eggs—in the other. “Since you didn’t have the gonads to.” Today she wore a flashy, bright fuchsia top with holey jeans and a silver bead necklace. Her lipstick was dark blue.
“Natalie, I’m not hiring.” To the boy, I enforced, “I’m not hiring. Go try the donut shop across the street. The mean old geezer who runs the place could use a lawsuit.”