Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
The door to my sister’s magic shop clicks closed and I wander down the street.
I take careful note of the people moving around me.
Somehow, I am almost convinced some creature will stop, point and shout that I am the host everyone is talking about.
I shake my head. I know the idea of that happening is ridiculous.
Witches are incredibly private. They might be the worst gossips imaginable, but they keep what happens within the community to themselves.
It’s like some unwritten rule. Security is important.
I avoid the shopping centre where my department store is located.
I don’t want to see anyone. My old department store, I amend with a frown.
I know the Hunters Guild already did a lot of the legwork, but I will still need to give them a call and officially hand in my resignation.
No matter what, I can never go back. I would be too much of a security risk.
There is still a huge amount of guilt. I think I will always feel guilty. I know it is only a job and that everybody is replaceable, as bad as that sounds. At least I know I established a great team who will step up; it will be like I was never there. My tummy dips. Gosh, these changes are so hard.
Running feet have me turning. “Stop where you are!” bellows a male voice. I flatten myself against the glass of a shop as three hunters barrel toward me. Their weapons glint and jingle in time with the beat of their feet.
I only breathe a little easier when they run past. The wind stirs my hair in their wake. Everyone on the street has also frozen. Well, everybody but one guy. He takes off at a loping run.
“Stop. Niles Bradbury, you are under arrest!” The yelling hunter pulls out a potion. The crowd ahead parts and people scramble, disappearing into shops and doorways. The man, of course, doesn’t stop, and with impressive aim, the potion hits his shoulder and bursts open.
The man takes a few more steps, seemingly unaffected, but then he falls to his knees with a muffled groan.
Like a well-practised team, one hunter steps forward and a null band is slapped onto the guy’s wrist. The other hunter slaps silver handcuffs on him, pulling his long arms behind his back.
Long arms? I let out a shocked gasp. His arms are super long.
The null band must have erased the guy’s appearance-masking spell.
His arms and legs are now super long, with his trousers halfway up his calves.
“You are here on Earth illegally, Niles Bradbury, and you will come with us to be processed.”
“Nooo. Click-click.” The prisoner’s speech becomes garbled and his—mandibles?—clack together. His face now resembles an insect.
An unmarked van pulls up from the closest alleyway and the guy is hauled to his feet and shoved unceremoniously inside.
I must make a noise as the hunter that threw the potion ball turns his head and looks straight at me. He closes the van door, and the bang makes me jump. The hunter narrows his eyes and glares.
My eyes dart about. Oops. I am the only one stupid enough to be left on the street. With a squeak on the glass, my hand frantically searches for the door of the shop. If I am not careful, my nosiness is going to get me killed.
The back of my left hand smacks into a handle. I grab it, push the door open, and I stumble gracelessly inside.
The bell above the door chimes a cheerful welcome. I hunch as I wait for the hunter to come and get me. But he doesn’t, thank goodness. Self-consciously I stand a little straighter and look about. The delicious smell of cakes and coffee hits my nose and my eyes widen.
I balance the plate in one hand and keep one eye on the full mug as I shuffle across the room.
I am conscious that if I am not careful, I will splash a trail to my seat.
My hand-eye coordination is horrendous. I find the perfect spot for people watching—no, I have not learned my lesson—and I settle down next to the window with the bookshelves at my back.
The bright, winter sunset is hitting the table just right.
It slashes across my arm and face. I lean back in the chair a little, so the light doesn’t blind me.
With a deep breath, I lift my eyes to the tree above my head.
It has branches across the ceiling. Glorious pink blossoms entwined with twinkling fairy lights.
It’s a dryad’s tree, I think with recognition.
I wonder if she’s related to or knows Erin?
If I breathe deeply enough, I can just about smell the sweet scent of blossoms above the coffee and cakes. The café is enchanting. I can’t believe I’ve never been in here before. The smell of pastry alone makes my tummy grumble.
I turn the mug so I can get at the handle, and it catches on some bumpy lines on the table and wobbles. I move it to the left and run my finger across the gouged marks.
Huh. It’s a name. I tilt my head as the words are upside down. Liz. I wonder why someone wrote that? Perhaps this is a favourite table of someone’s lost love. What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall when the person wrote that. I grab the spoon to start on the hot chocolate.
I bought Owen’s favourite more-dessert-than-drink, with marshmallows, whipped cream, and a chocolate flake.
I’m hoping it and the enormous slab of chocolate cake will pep me up.
I guess it’s over the top and will probably make me sick with a chocolate overload rather than fix my mood.
But the cake looks amazing and I couldn’t resist. I’ll do my best to finish it all, as it would be a crime to waste it.
Across the road, a troll scratches his bum and shoots me a glare when he notices I am watching.
I shift my eyes and let them go unfocused, hoping he thinks I am staring into space.
I am a pro at people watching. No way do I want an argument with a troll.
With an angry, if somewhat confused glare, he stomps down the street.
I smirk when his hand goes back to itch. I bet that is the work of a potion.
From inside Jodie’s borrowed coat pocket, I pull out my mobile, a notepad, and a pen.
I slap them down on the table. Writing helps me think, so I’ve gone all old-fashioned as I enjoy jotting down my thoughts.
If it all goes wrong, at least I will get some pleasure from ripping the page up into tiny little bits. Much more satisfying than a datapad.
I plant my left elbow on the table, lean over the pad, and I plop my head on my hand. Okay, let’s do this. I draw a wobbly line down the middle of the page and scrawl on the top of the two columns: To stay. To go.
Okay, that’s simple enough. I tap the pen against the pad. My rogue left leg bounces, and I puff out my cheeks when I catch myself humming the song Should I Stay or Should I Go by The Clash. With a groan, I sit back in the chair and rub my face. This is harder than I thought it would be.
I look about, hoping for inspiration. The café is almost empty, with only three other customers.
My eyes drift to the two human ladies sitting near the toilets.
Their heads are close together as they enjoy each other’s company.
I can’t help my smile at their raucous laughter.
They giggle over a flowery blue teapot, and their words drift towards me.
The conversation is about a dog called Tobie peeing on a nightmare neighbour’s leg. Go Tobie.
Movement in the cake display area catches my eye. A sapphire blue pixie, in a protective suit, clutches a small paintbrush in her tiny fist as she climbs a wedding cake, like she’s scaling Mount Everest.
Wow, the thing has got to be seven tiers. I can just about make out she is painting each flower with gold glitter. The attention to detail is astonishing, and I find her fascinating. I dig into my drink and pop the spoon loaded with a pink gooey marshmallow into my mouth.
The girl next to the pixie, the one with the rainbow hair who served me, groans. Hands-on-hips, she looks around the café—at us, her remaining customers, and then back at her watch. Her face scrunches up with a scowl.
I guiltily nudge my phone to check the time.
Phew, I’m okay. There is still an hour left until close. I am not keeping her from going home. From her expression alone, I am guessing it must have been a long day.
Crikey, how many times have I done that myself, looked at my watch with my feet and body aching.
My poor brain buzzing with overstimulation and the overwhelming need to go home.
A minute feels like a lifetime, like the working day will never end and when the second hand of the watch doesn’t move, it’s the worst. Especially when you are finally about to close the doors and a random customer strolls in. Why? Why do they do that?
“I’m so bored,” she grumbles at the pixie.
“Well, no wonder,” the Pixie huffs, wiggling her paintbrush at the girl’s face.
“You are so busy with the excitement of saving the world, no wonder you find being stuck here boring. I know you want to help Tilly out with a couple of shifts, but you have better things to do.” She climbs up another tier.
“Yeah, I guess. I just wanted some normalcy, you know.”
“I know you don’t want to let things go,” the Pixie says as she raises a tiny blue eyebrow meaningfully. Ooh, I bet there is a story there.
Heck, Tuesday, you are so nosy.
I lean forward in my chair and tuck my hands underneath my chin.
“But sometimes you’ve just got to move on. You live in the past too much.” The pixie shakes her head when all the girl does is scowl at her words of wisdom.
She opens her mouth—
Clink, clink, clink.
Ahh, nooo! The lady furthest away sure likes to stir her cappuccino.
I rub my forehead as she irritably cracks the spoon against the cup a few more dozen times.
I can’t hear what they are saying. I think you got it.
What is she doing? Digging to Australia?
I hope she hasn’t got anything to eat. She is probably one of those people that chews really loudly.
I glance down at my pad of paper and the simple words I’ve written scream at me. To stay. To go.
I say I’m a throwaway person, but if I’m honest, I run away before people get the chance.
I keep away from people, so I’m less likely to be hurt.
I glance down at the pen in my hands. I’ve picked at the rubber grip so much, it’s falling apart, and the little yellow pieces are scattered across the table.
Emotional pain is my nemesis. It wiggles inside my brain, turning, twisting, rotting my sense of self. I sigh as I put the damaged pen down and slowly pick up each tiny, ragged piece of rubber. I collect them into the centre of my palm and then drop them into the coat pocket.
I think my mum always knew that there was something wrong with me. Something about me she didn’t like. Even before she found out I had cheated at school, she treated me different. She dotes on my sisters.
I love her.
I love her, but I hate her too. How horrible is that? How can I hate my mum? I’m not even sure if she consciously knows what she is doing. I hope not. No, I don’t hate her. I just hate some things she does. There is a difference.
The noisy cappuccino drinker stomps across the café and leaves. The girl with the rainbow hair moves like a dancer. In a few short silent strides, she is at the cappuccino lady’s table, removing the cup and giving the table a quick wipe.
She goes back behind the counter as I take a huge bite of the cake. I groan as the taste of chocolate fills my mouth. I should really use the cake fork. I am eating like a savage. Oh, but this cake is divine. No wonder they boast the best chocolate cake in the city. This is—
I jump when the door cracks against the wall and the bell above chimes in distress. I close my eyes for a second and then place the cake gently back on the plate. My hypervigilance kicks into overdrive.
Uh-oh. I hope this isn’t about me.