by A L Hart
“I don’t want to work for that old geezer. I want to work for the one right here.”
“I. Am. Twenty. Six.”
“And I’m eleven.”
“Beat it, kid.”
A deep pout set into his face, before he let out an exaggerated huff, hopped down from the barstool and skulked out of the shop.
“Well, that was harsh,” Natalie said.
“No point getting the kid’s hopes up if he’s too young to work.”
“You started working when you were nine,” she pointed out.
“Yeah, under my parents’ supervision and it was to take the garbage out of the shop. Basic chores.” I shook my head when she thought up another point. “Forget it.”
“You really do need to hire more hands, though, Peter.”
Denial rest on the tip of my tongue just as Jera came out of the kitchen for the billionth time this morning, hands wet (refusal to wear “hideous” gloves), eyes alert as she stopped in front of me. “Without revealing any names,” she began. “It would appear someone has clogged your dishwashing contraption.”
“How, Jera? We’ve only had one customer—you haven’t even been back there for more than five minutes.”
“I never said I did it!” After a moment: “However, I’ll admit, I did do it.”
Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven—
“Mister, I think I may have broken the cleaning utensil.”
Breathe, Peter. Just breathe.
Slowly, I opened my eyes and looked to Ophelia. She held in her hands a broken broomstick. Snapped clean at the neck, jagged edges protruding like a stake. “How?”
What was this day turning into? It wasn’t even 10 yet!
“For a man who’s dwelled within this rather poorly lit establishment for quite some time, your ignorance to your own appliances is baffling,” Jera commented.
White hot fury rushed through me just as the bell above the door announced yet another customer. Renae could handle them. For now, I weighed the pros and cons of ditching these two women.
“You didn’t tell me you hired new staff already,” Natalie cut in, likely sensing my rising blood pressure. “I’d have never hung up the fliers.”
Fliers? Plural?
“We’re not meager, pitiful staff,” Jera quipped at the woman. And then she leaned into me, tossing an arm around my waist and squeezing, making me give a muffled yelp as the dull back pain hitched to a piercing stab. “We’re his secret lovers.”
My gaze whipped around to her.
Natalie about choked on her shake.
Ophelia continued to mourn the broken broom.
“L-lovers?” Natalia coughed,
“Lovers?” I seconded.
“We warm his bed at night, isn’t that right, Lia?”
Ophelia looked up obliviously from the broom, thought for a moment, then nodded. “Oh, yes, the bed we shared last night was very warm.”
These two . . .
“And he promised we could share his bed for a month more,” Jera preened. “So long as we wear what he gives us,” She pinched the skirt of her uniform. “And follow his instructions. Right, master?” She cast deceitfully innocuous, gray eyes up at me.
Words failed me.
“Uh . . . okay, then, Peter,” Natalie said. “It seems you took my advice and found yourself two girlfriends.”
“Wait, Nat, you have the wrong idea,” I stumbled, talking in a rush while peeling Jera’s body heat away from me.
Natalie held up a hand. “It’s fine with me.”
Well it wasn’t fine with me. What was Jera thinking? Introducing this wild, made up stunt between us. Lovers. Ridiculous. Especially when she managed to draw out a rage in me that, before last night, had been dormant for years. She couldn’t possibly think I would go along with such high-level absurdity.
“I guess this means you’ll be too busy to go to the play with Camille and me tonight,” Natalie sighed.
Just like that, I wrapped my arm around Jera’s waist and pulled her back against me. “A real shame, but what kind of lover would I be if I neglected my lovely petals.” The last thing I wanted was to attend a play with Natalie and Camille, even less than I wanted to see just how defunct Jera had rendered my washer. If that meant I had upgraded to lover status, so be it.
Jera stood, eyes turned to saucers, body stiff in my hold, obviously not a fan of her own medicine.
“Don’t worry about it,” excused Natalie. “I get it.”
“Mister, how much longer before you remove this?” Ophelia asked, her fingers lingering at the black collar draped around her neck. I’d forgotten it was even there.
“Wow,” Natalie mouthed.
I knew what it looked like, and I tried to defend what shards of dignity I had left. “Nat, i-it’s not like that. Really. I promised I’d get the collar off. I was just waiting until after work was done.”
Her brows shot way up as she rose to leave. “Hey, man, I’m not judging. You like what you like. Just tell me next time that you’d rather I take you to a kinky slave club instead of those lame city joints.”
I stuttered, unintelligible words falling from my lips. There was nothing to say. Nothing that would make this situation any less embarrassing or validated. Couldn’t mention last night for a score of reasons, and trying to explain that they were working for me in exchange for rent sounded even worse than what she already assumed.
Not that it mattered. Natalie was already up and ready to go. But not before leaving a pity tip. “I’ll be back sometime next week. Try not to have too much fun now.”
The second she was gone, I hauled both sisters to the kitchen, where they stood looking up at me in silence as if they’d done nothing wrong.
“Don’t give me that look,” I snapped.
“What look, mister?” asked Ophelia. Now her oblivion I could believe. The women seemed genuinely oblivious to a lot of things, including how earlier’s chosen words made me seem like an S&M weirdo. That was fine. I could let it slide.
As for Jera.
“What?” the woman said haughtily beneath my gaze. “That human was expressing obvious affection towards you.”
“It’s called friendship.” Something I’d been reluctant to call it last night.
“It’s called a death sentence. For them. That’s what the hunters want you to do. Get close to others so they can be used as leverage, and a mere human such as your Natalie could hardly protect herself from the likes of them. Best she not be involved with you. Thus, you’re welcome.”
Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Breathe.
“Jera, listen to me. Hear me. Those men last night? They were not hunters. They were, I don’t know, some affiliates of a gang or drug lord. And your belief in these immortal demons and monsters that will supposedly come looking for me, that’s fine, believe what you will, but it simply cannot interfere with your performance here.”
If I kicked them to the curb, would that be a viable case of religious discrimination? How much did those lawsuits go for?
“Believe what you want, brute,” said Jera, crossing her arms. “But don’t come crawling to me when you’re proven wrong.”
“I don’t see that happening. And I have a name. It’s Peter. Call me Peter. Not brute, not mister, and definitely not master.”
“You’re the boss,” Jera claimed.
Ophelia nodded apologetically.
With that, the rest of the day passed painfully slow.
It was a mixture of my assisting on register, back in the stock room, and primarily resolving the many troubles the sisters ran into. Ophelia was put on table duty, where she wiped down the tables and collected the dishes when the customers were finished—sometimes she collected them before they were finished, and at some point she’d gotten her hands on ammonia and sent half the shop into a coughing fit. As for Jera, it sufficed to say, she nearly flooded the kitchen—twice, then clogged the sink yet again, this time with a sponge rather
than earlier’s glove.
It was a long eleven hours of nonstop problems.
And that pain in my back, rather than fade to a dull throb like most muscle aches, this one only grew. A hot, irritant itch that caught me at the shoulder blades, and between keeping a vigilant eye on Ophelia and a hawk eye on Jera, I stood at the threshold joining the kitchen and the lounge area.
Watching.
Jera, after having to practically wrestle the gloves onto her, stood grumbling at the soapy dishwater, scrubbing plate after plate and casting me the occasional glare, which I of course returned.
Ophelia made her rounds from table to table, humming and smiling at passing customers and occasionally me, which I of course couldn’t help but return, and the closing staff, Liam and Conner, handled the register flawlessly.
But that wasn’t what stalled me. I’d seen many smooth days of the shop’s operation and many hectic days, and with them both, there’d always been an identifiable grayscale I couldn’t shake, a static noise I couldn’t unhear. It’d all been predictable, monotone, always a pale, systematic similarity to each day.
That wasn’t the case today. I was tired, yes, but I was alert. I was also starving and for once wanted to eat every bit of merchandise I owned. There wasn’t a second I wasn’t on edge, prepared to hear glass shatter from the kitchen, a customer screech from the lounge area, or even those men in black come in weapons ablaze.
I could honestly say, this day was one of the most colorful ones I’d had in over five years—and I couldn’t predict what tomorrow would bring.
It was . . . new.
And beyond that, there was another thing I noted. Something that’d been nagging at the back of my mind all day, buried behind they day’s hustle: I hadn’t thought of my family once.
“We staying for closing?” asked Liam, pulling me from my reverie.
The day had melted away in all of its busyness and chaos. The sun descending over the horizon, the hardwood floors sheened by the deep copper light of dusk, and now the lounge empty.
My stomach rumbled, gnawing from the corners, and all at once, the pain started up again in my back. I shook my head. “Not tonight, unless you need the hours?”
Both of them shook their head, and ten minutes later, the ding of the bell signaled their departure. I was alone once again—except, not really.
The clatter back in the kitchen of Jera’s movements said as much, and Ophelia—
I blinked.
The woman was passed out at one of the booths, cleaning rag in hand, the shop’s cap arranged low, obscuring her face. The burgundy hue of fading evening light settled over her form in drowsy sheets. Around her, the tables were spotless, the dishes all collected and carted to the kitchen, the chairs pushed in, floors swept clean with the backup broom.
What was it about watching her that afflicted that pool of serenity in me?
“I’m starving,” Jera moaned as she stumbled from the kitchen, dragging one of the bar stools behind the counter and propping it beside me. Or more accurately, beside the pastry compartment. She clamored onto the stool, gloves still on—and wet—and dropped her head onto her arms. “And my legs, I can hardly feel them. And it’s cold.”
The corner of my mouth twitched, but I refrained from laughing when her eyes turned to slits.
“None of this is amusing,” she said.
Maybe not from where she was sitting. I turned for the stairs. “I’ll find you something with sleeves if it helps. We’re going to have to make a run to the mall tomorrow and get you both something that’s not my clothes.”
“And food,” she added.
“And food,” I agreed.
I frowned when something stretched inside of my chest. Something I couldn’t name but made me want to rub the unfamiliar presence away. I ignored it instead.
Upstairs, I visited the walk-in closet and gathered one of my favorite fleeces from my Fall running season. Navy blue, soft to the touch, I gave it a sniff and the scent of the powder detergent sent a shock through me, but not . . . pain. Which was what I usually received when bombarded with an unexpected memory of Ma. After all these years, the fabric of the fleece had held tight to Ma’s choice of cleaner. I used to go for a run around the neighborhood when in university and my route had always ended here. I’d come in through the back, go up the stairs and Ma would demand the sweaty fleece went straight to the washer.
For once, the memory the scent elicited didn’t twist that cold place inside of me.
Even so, I contemplated putting it in the storage room, burying it with the rest of the memories, but then Jera’s complaining voice echoed in my head. Cold. Food. Etc.
There was no telling what she would get up to on her own if I didn’t hurry.
I closed the closet door behind me.
Downstairs, I rounded the corner and came up short.
Jera was still where I left her, only now, she was fast asleep, just as Ophelia was. And beside her, the pastry compartment hung wide open. Inside, every last donut, cake, cookie and crumb was missing without a trace, and there at the corner of Jera’s mouth was the telling evidence of strawberry filling.
I didn’t know why my face split into a grin or what it was about this day as a whole that inserted an unidentifiable sensation inside of me. As if something was rustling, unfurling, coming alive inside of my mind. Blank space that was just beginning to fill itself with . . . something.
I crossed over to her and simply draped the fleece over her shoulders and watched as she pulled it around herself tighter.
As the sun struggled to claim its last minutes above the horizon, I used its burgundy rays to the best of my ability, reluctant to wake either sister after they’d worked eleven hours straight without complaint—well, not from Ophelia anyway.
But the light was enough, scarce, hazy, but enough.
I wrote.
Then, just as I added the last period to the entry, the bell above the door rang, announcing a customer.
“We’re closed,” I said automatically just as Jera practically sprung from the stool, fleece falling to the floor, her hair in disarray as she exclaimed, “Lia made me eat them!”
Realizing my attention wasn’t on the empty pastry compartment, she followed my gaze to the newcomer.
A woman whose head was wrapped in a hijab closed the shop’s door softly. She wore a long woolen dress that hushed against the floor as she closed in. There was something about the way that she held herself, a reserved, confined posture as she walked that made me cast a glance first to Ophelia, then Jera, who’d stiffened beside me, her eyes narrowed to a look similar to the one she’d given Renae—right before she’d threatened to flay the girl alive.
“I’m sorry, but we’re closed,” I said again. “But we open tomorrow at—”
My words cut off when something peered out from behind the woman. Brown eyes so large I was sure they were glimpsing into my soul, hand clutching the skirt of the woman’s dress, head hidden by a hooded shawl, a little girl looked back at me.
I returned my eyes to the woman. Any other day, I was more than willing to offer any remaining perishable items to those who needed them, but the shop had already given out six apology drinks today due to the mishaps of the new staff. That, and the food and drinks had been put away minutes ago (not to mention Jera ate all of the perishable pastries). I didn’t have anything to spare them.
The woman looked between Jera and me, then cast a suspicious glance at the windows before drawing closer to the counter, where she reached into her pocket and pulled out . . .
I stared dumbfounded at the thick wad of twenties placed before me. “Ma’am?” I asked, perplexed.
After another furtive, tentative glance to the windows, she spoke low, my ears straining to pick up the sound, let alone the thick accent. “Are you him?”
Shifting uncomfortably, I gave another restless glance at the little girl who was now staring at the floor, still shielding herself behind who I guessed to be her mother
. To the woman, I said awkwardly, “That would depend on who he is.”
At once, her eyes hardened, her body straightening the slightest as she said starkly, “The one who can heal my little girl.”
Immediately, I glanced at Jera who already had an “I told you so” look on her face as she reached for the money. I yanked her hand away from it and slid the wad of cash back to the woman. “I’m not sure what you’ve heard or where you heard it from, but I’m just a coffeeshop owner. The best I can do is offer you a cup of coffee.”
That hardened look in her eyes cracked, and in the fissures, I saw desperation. “Please,” she begged. “She keeps changing and I can’t stop it. I can’t go to the doctors and I can’t keep hiding her. Please, sir, you have to understand—”
A soft thud sounded and all three of us looked down to the girl in question.
“Kyda!” her mother chided, taking the girl by the arm. “I told you to keep it hidden until I said so.”
The girl looked away, and at first I wasn’t sure what it was I was seeing. Behind her, descending from the girl’s hooded shawl was something thick and gray, about the length of my arm. I blinked slowly, focused harder, and wondered if maybe my building had illusion-inducing mold because I wasn’t mistaken: the low sunlight refracted off of what could be nothing other than scales.
Scales attached to a tail.
A tail attached to the girl.
The girl’s caramel skin tinted slightly in shame, her head lowered.
The mother took one defeated glance at me, saw my gawking disbelief, and as though to drive her point home further, she gripped the girl’s hood and pulled it down.
As I looked at what stared back at me, only one thing went through my head.
Jera had been telling the truth.
Ch. 6
Within my father’s coffee shop, standing in front of the counter, was a girl with rabbit ears. Not those Easter headbands or halloween cosmetics—like I wanted to believe—but actual dark brown ears that ascended from the crown of deep, burgundy locks. True, honest ears. I knew by the fleshy adipose of the left ear which drooped forward slightly lower than the right and the way the umber shaded skin descended perfectly to the girl’s scalp.