Shadow King (Shadowmen #2)

Chapter 1 Help Wanted

Help Wanted

“Your name is Brian?”

The young man sitting across from me in Coffeelicious nods enthusiastically. He has big blue eyes, a mop of curly blond hair, and the kind of face that makes you think of Renaissance paintings of cherubs. He looks like an angel, not a Brian.

“Yep!” he says, and his smile is so bright I want to put on sunglasses.

I glance down at his CV. It’s surprisingly decent for someone who looks like they’ve never had a negative thought in their entire life.

He has coffee shop experience, which immediately puts him ahead of the three other candidates I interviewed this morning, one of whom thought ‘latte art’ meant drawing on the cups with a Sharpie.

“And you’re studying law at Bristol University?”

“That’s right!” More enthusiastic nodding. I’m getting a headache just watching him. “First year. I’m really excited about it. The law is fascinating, don’t you think? All those rules and precedents and the way everything has to fit together just so.”

I blink at him. He sounds genuinely excited about law. What kind of person gets excited about law?

“Right,” I say slowly. “And it says here you worked at a coffee shop in Somerset for two years?”

“Oh yes! The Blessed Bean. It was the cult’s main source of income, actually. We made excellent coffee. High Priestess Magdalene was very particular about the roasting process.”

I pause, my pen hovering over my notebook. “I’m sorry, did you just say cult?”

“Mmhmm!” Brian’s smile doesn’t even flicker. “I grew up in the Children of the Eternal Light. It’s a commune, really, but everyone calls it a cult. We had about forty members at peak, but it’s down to maybe twenty now. Lots of people left after the prophecy didn’t come true.”

He says this with the same casual tone someone might use to discuss the weather. I stare at him.

“The prophecy?”

“Oh, you know. End times, rivers of blood, the usual stuff.” He waves a hand dismissively. “High Priestess Magdalene said the alignment was wrong and Big Brian just needed to recalculate, but honestly, I think she was just making excuses.”

I have no idea what to say to that. I’ve interviewed a lot of people since I first became a coffee shop manager.

I’ve had candidates who showed up high, candidates who couldn’t spell their own names, and one memorable candidate who tried to convince me that poisoning customers was a valid form of marketing.

But I have never had someone calmly discuss growing up in a doomsday cult like it’s a perfectly normal thing.

“So you left the cult to study law,” I say eventually.

“Well, I left to get an education generally,” Brian explains. “But law seemed like a good fit. I’m used to complex rule systems and hierarchical structures. Plus, all firstborn sons in the cult are called Brian, so I figured I should probably make something of the name.”

I blink. “All firstborn sons are called Brian.”

“Yep! The founder was called Brian, and he was really into Monty Python. Life of Brian, specifically. He thought it would be funny and also spiritually significant. You know, the whole ‘he’s not the messiah, he’s a very naughty boy’ thing. He said it would keep us humble.”

“Right.” Usually, I’m the oddest person in the room. The one who says shit that makes everyone else stare. It’s very discombobulating being on the receiving end.

Brian leans forward conspiratorially. “Brian One left to become an accountant. Brian Two is still there, he’s really into the goat yoga classes.

And Brian Four ran off with a guy he met at a farmer’s market.

There was a whole thing about it. High Priestess Magdalene said he’d been corrupted by capitalism, but honestly, I think she was just mad because the guy sold organic honey and it was better than ours. ”

Despite everything, despite my truly terrible mood and the headache building behind my eye sockets and the general low-level fury that has been living in my chest for months now, I make a sound that is almost a laugh.

Brian looks delighted in a way that is deeply annoying.

“Sounds like a hippy paradise,” I snap.

“Oh, massively. Tie-dye, organic vegetables, meditation circles, Enya at every full moon ceremony. Everyone wove their own clothes on this ancient loom. I can make you a scarf. It might have some asymmetrical bits.”

“I don’t want a scarf.”

“Your loss,” he says cheerfully, and means it. “Let me know when you want a black one with white skulls and red pentagrams on it. Or whatever you want that goes with your whole goth thing.”

My eyes narrow. Damn him, that does sound like a cool scarf. Not that I’m ever going to admit it.

This is insane. This entire conversation is insane.

I should probably end this interview right now and call the next candidate.

Except I really, really don’t want to interview anyone else.

I’m so close to finishing the incantation.

The dark moon is in three days, and I’ve been working on this summoning for months.

If I don’t get it done now, I’ll have to wait another month, and I absolutely cannot wait another month.

I need someone who can make a decent cappuccino and handle the morning rush without burning the place down.

Brian has coffee shop experience. He seems cheerful and friendly, which customers apparently love, for some unknown, utterly baffling reason.

And most importantly, if I hire him right now, I can get back to my flat and finish the final preparations.

Besides, most people think I’m a weirdo, and yet I’m a fantastic coffee shop employee, so who the hell am I to judge? So what if Brian is relentlessly cheerful? It wouldn’t be fair to hold it against him.

How bad could hiring him be? Any pain would be worth getting out of the utter ball-ache of interviewing more people.

I narrow my eyes and observe him with my other vision. His aura flares into view. Golden and bright and thoroughly sincere. None of him is an act. He really is this bouncy and pure. It’s enough to give me nausea.

“Right,” I say, making a decision I will definitely regret. “You’re hired. Minimum wage, tips are pooled, you get one free drink per shift. Don’t steal, don’t show up drunk, and absolutely no trying to convert customers to your cult.”

Brian’s face lights up like I’ve just told him he won the lottery. “Oh my goodness, thank you so much! This is amazing! I promise you won’t regret this!”

He lunges forward with his arms spread wide, and I throw myself backwards in my chair so fast I nearly tip over.

“Hell no!” I snap. “First rule, no hugging the manager.”

Brian freezes mid-lunge, but his grin doesn’t fade. “I hear you. Don’t worry, friend, I’ll wear those prickles down and get to the squishy marshmallow underneath.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “There is no marshmallow. I am prickles all the way through. I am a dead cactus. One that has been set on fire.”

“Sure you are,” he says, as if he’s humouring a toddler.

I grab an apron from behind the counter and throw it at him. “Your first shift starts now. Put that on.”

“Now? Really?” Brian catches the apron and clutches it to his chest like it’s a precious gift. “Oh wow, okay! Yes! Let’s do this!”

He pulls the apron over his head with so much enthusiasm he nearly strangles himself with the ties. I watch in horrified fascination as he bounds over to the coffee machine and starts examining it like it’s the most wondrous thing he’s ever seen.

The door chimes, and two customers walk in. Before I can say anything, Brian spins around and spreads his arms wide.

“Welcome to Coffeelicious!” he announces, his voice booming across the tiny shop. “How may we serve you?”

The customers look startled. One of them takes a step backwards. I groan and press my fingers against my temples.

What was I thinking? This is Adam’s coffee shop now. Adam is my friend, so I should put a modicum more care into who I hire.

This is going to be a disaster.

I brace myself for the horror, and settle down to watch whatever the hell is about to occur.

Brian makes a perfect flat white. He makes a perfectly decent Americano. He talks to the customers about Bristol pigeons, their audacity, the comparative politeness of Somerset birds. All while grinning absurdly, as if he actually likes serving customers and genuinely enjoys talking to people.

It’s quite possibly the most abhorrent thing I’ve ever witnessed, but it’s not a disaster.

The woman drops three pounds in the tip jar and tells him to have a lovely day.

The moment they’re gone, he announces, “That was amazing!” and spins around to face me with his whole body, arms spread slightly, like he expects a hug for doing his job.

“The flat white was acceptable,” I say.

“It was perfect,” says Brian, without any arrogance at all, just as a statement of fact, and then he starts wiping down the machine without being asked, and I hate that I am the tiniest bit impressed by his work ethic.

“High Priestess Magdalene taught me well,” he continues. “She’d probably have something to say about the capitalist wage structure. But I think she’d appreciate the craftsmanship.”

I watch him work. He is humming.

He is humming something I don’t recognise and wiping down my espresso machine with the focused contentment of someone who is exactly where they want to be, and the worst part, the genuinely worst part, is that the flat white really was perfect.

I’m not going to tell him that. I’m not going to tell him anything except where the milk goes and what time his next shift starts and possibly, if the situation demands it, what the rules are regarding humming.

“Is there anything else you need me to do?” Brian asks, turning around with an expression of absolute readiness.

He looks like a dog that has heard the word walk.

“I could reorganise the pastry display. Or I could learn where everything is kept. Or I could just stand here, ready to greet the customers enthusiastically. I’m very good at that. ”

“I can tell,” I say.

He grins. It is an enormous grin. It takes up most of his face.

Brian is a genuinely happy person. Just… happy down to his core. As if being happy is as easy as breathing.

I’ve never been happy like that. I’ve certainly never grinned like that, and I don’t think I ever will.

I look at that grin, and all I can think about is the smoke in my old flat, and the very specific and intimate experience of thinking this was how I die.

I think about being collateral damage in someone else’s war, which I was not consulted about and did not consent to and am still, frankly, furious about.

I don’t grin like Brian does. Never have, definitely never will now. The smoke changed me.

And I did not hire this boy so that I could stand here watching him grin. I hired him so I could go upstairs and finish what I started.

“Go and see how the milk is stored,” I say. “Don’t talk to me. Don’t hum. Reorganise nothing without asking first.”

“Got it,” says Brian, with every appearance of sincere agreement. He points finger guns at me, which I have no response to, and disappears into the back.

I stand behind the counter in the quiet of my coffee shop and breathe.

From the back, I can hear him talking to himself as he moves around the storeroom. Small, happy sounds of discovery. “Oh, that’s where that goes. Oh, that’s clever. Oh, there’s a lot of oat milk.”

I press two fingers to the bridge of my nose, until I can feel my skull.

What have I done? I am fairly certain that hiring Brian is going to be a worse mistake than attempting to summon a shadow being.

And I am planning to summon a shadow being. So that is really saying something.