Incident 1 Definitely Not Paid Enough for This #3
Ross’s co-worker, Suze, was about his age. She was sharp energy, angles, and quick words that tumbled over each other. They got along alright in the hour they shared, but what Ross wanted wasn’t comradery. He wanted information.
This morning, like every other morning, he tried to subtly pump her. “How many customers do you get during the day that never seem to have the right amount of change on them?”
Suze stopped wiping down the front glass doors and gave him an odd look. She pushed back inky black bangs to see him better. “Rarely ever. I mean, sometimes they don’t have exact change, but who cares? That’s what the penny jar is for.”
“No, I mean, I had an odd customer come in last night asking for an energy drink. They only had a dollar bill on them. That’s fairly common for me during the night shift.”
“Oh yeah? I don’t get customers like those. But basically everyone uses a card these days anyway.” She went back to wiping down the glass with a squeak of the cloth.
Ross, you’re being too subtle, he informed himself. Try something more blatant. “Do you ever get those people who look like actors? Like they literally stepped off the set from some glamourous red-carpet film?”
Suze stood and blinked at him. “No, never. You do? Really? All the way out here?”
Again, not the reaction he was looking for. But in hindsight, that likely wasn’t the right question to garner any answers. Ross changed the question to something more blunt. “So, what’s the strangest customer you’ve seen here?”
“Hmmm. I think the lady who wanted to carry her Chihuahua into the store was pretty odd. She kept trying to hand me the dog, said he was perfect for breeding with my dog.”
“Do you have a dog?”
“Nope. Never have. Strange, right?”
“Strange,” he agreed with a slight smile. But not at all in comparison to night shift.
Apparently, the night shift had a magic all of its own that enticed the creatures of myth to come and buy Gatorade. And gas. Sometimes hot dogs.
Ross would like to spread that magic around a bit more, please. Seriously, why was it just his shift? Not everyone was nocturnal.
The question begged for an answer.
Ross sat on the stool behind the counter and worked numbers onto a notebook, using the calculator app on his phone to double-check his math.
No matter how he worked his finances, he’d need to work here another four months just to afford a year of college.
Ross sighed, exasperated. Why did life have to be so expensive?
His mom was right, maybe he really should just get one of those student loans.
He hated the thought of starting out his adult life in that much debt, though.
Still, he was already twenty-one. Most of his friends had already graduated and started working.
Ross disliked the feeling of being left behind.
He had two years of college done, but with his degree, two years was basically worthless.
He would not only need the bachelor’s degree, but a CPA, plus maybe a master’s in public accounting.
All just to be perfectly marketable. That meant a few more years at least.
Ross growled at the math on the page in renewed aggravation.
The bell above the door chimed and Ross lifted his head to say an automatic, “Welcome.”
A man shuffled, both hands clutching something to his chest. He looked done in, to put it mildly.
College students facing finals with three papers to write and only eight hours to do it looked like he did.
Dark bags stained under his eyes, his hair was so wild it was on the verge of gaining sentient life, and he’d probably been wearing the same outfit for three days.
At least, he had about three days of absent drips from different meals splattering his shirt.
He stumbled to a stop in front of Ross and gave him a pleading look with hopeful hazel eyes. With a noticeable Australian accent, he asked, “Can I read you something?”
Ross went through a mental catalogue. Not vampire, werewolf, goblin, or druid.
Quite possibly could be some other shifter.
He could also be human, but…well, that looked suspiciously like parchment in his hands.
And average citizens didn’t normally walk around with parchment scrolls. “What do you wish to read me?”
“I’ve got this spell.” He held it out, still with the beseeching eyes. “But it won’t work. I’ve tried it a hundred times, I’ve checked it a thousand, but it won’t work. It should work. Can I read it to you?”
Was this something like a bug in the code? An error in the matrix? Did Ross really want a sleep-deprived (magician? warlock? sorcerer?) reading aloud a spell that didn’t work? “Why do you think reading it to me will help?”
“Because I’ll be forced to slow down. Really look at it. I tried asking my clanmates, but they didn’t have time tonight. Too busy. Please?”
The man looked too pitiful. Ross felt like saying ‘no’ would be akin to kicking a puppy.
A sick puppy. Ross brought him around into the niche next to the counter.
There was a thin bar table there, and a gathering of chairs, so he could sit and be out of the way at the same time.
“Sit. I’ll get you some coffee. You can read it to me in between customers. ”
“You’re really so nice,” he said, sinking into the chair. “Annabella said you were fair dinkum.”
“Oh, is that who sent you here?”
“She said you’d have time to listen.”
Annabella now officially owed him snacks. “Alright, how do you take your coffee?”
“Two sugars?”
“Sure. I’ll make that up. What’s your name?”
“Keane. You’re Ross, right?”
He was only now checking? “I am. You start reading.”
Keane did. What he read made no sense whatsoever. It sounded possibly Latin, or perhaps a Latin-based language. Ross only held that opinion because it sounded like the man was summoning a demon, and spoken Latin seemed to hold that power.
“—es sut emn. Close bracket. Open bracket. Tre qua—”
Ross wanted to ask about the close bracket/open bracket thing.
No, actually, he didn’t. That seemed like a rabbit hole he did not want to open.
He’d let the man read him the parchment.
Really, reading it aloud to a goldfish would have been just as beneficial—Ross had no clue what the man was saying.
But it didn’t do any harm to pretend to listen.
Keane droned on for nearly a half hour. Ross checked out three people during that time. A werewolf in wolf form sauntered by for a bowl of water, then flopped down nearby to watch Keane with amusement. His head cocked at Ross, silently asking what this was all about.
Ross shrugged and let Keane be.
One customer even seemed a normal person. He was a trucker by the looks of it, stopping off for gas, coffee, and some powdered donuts. As Ross rang him up, the trucker gave the magician and werewolf a long, strange look. “Mighty big dog there.”
Ross glanced up. Sure, the werewolf in the corner—with the same body mass as a large man, who was without a collar or leash—was a dog. Uh-huh. Were all humans this oblivious?
Undeterred, the trucker asked next, mouth screwed up in a dubious manner, “What’s he reading?”
“Dissertation coming up,” Ross lied smoothly.
“Oh. Huh. Well, good night.”
“Good night, come again.”
The third customer looked human, and Ross was ready to steer him subtly away from the corner, but the newcomer only snapped a finger at the werewolf. “We’re late.”
The werewolf heaved himself up to his feet and sauntered out. As the man turned, Ross got a better look at his ears. Sharp, very pointed ears. Ah. Fae, then. Ross really had a hard time telling the difference some nights.
Ross tuned in a little, checking to see how his guest was doing.
Keane was doggedly reading, eyes crossing as he tried to focus.
Sometimes the words tripped over themselves and he had to go back and correct himself.
Seeing that he was out of coffee, Ross went to fetch his cup and refill it.
The magician definitely needed a refill.
When Keane felt the tug on the cup, he blinked owlishly up at Ross. “Oh. Crikey. Thanks.”
“No problem. Keane, just wondering, but you said ‘open bracket’ a while ago. I never heard you say ‘close bracket.’ Are the brackets important?”
Keane stared at him, expression perfectly frozen and blank for a full ten seconds.
Then he jerked the parchment back up to his face and frantically skimmed through it.
Victoriously, he stabbed at a spot with a finger.
“THERE! Bloody buggering fuck, but it’s always something so STUPID like this. Pen, pen, I need a pen—”
Ross reached across the counter, fetched one of the pens, and handed it over.
Keane snatched it and frantically scribbled for several seconds.
Then he bounced up, beaming and alight, like he’d seen Buddha.
Without warning, he hugged Ross hard for a second, clapped him on both shoulders, and withdrew again.
“You are seriously so helpful, thank you! Here, let me do you a favor. You have no protections in this place. I’m going to ward this area, right here around and behind the counter. ”
“I’m sorry, what’s a ward?”
“Think of it like a police shield, or a force field,” Keane advised.
He pulled a pencil from his pocket and gave the air a double-tap, repeating this every few steps as he worked his way around the counter.
Wait, that wasn’t a pencil. Was it a miniature wand?
It looked like a pencil, but light shot out where there should have been lead.
“It’ll protect you if something happens. ”