Chapter 2
Chapter two
Simone
The bell above the door jingled precisely at seven, like the universe had synchronized watches with my coffee timer.
First through the door was Mr. Graves, fitting name for a lich who'd been dead longer than America had been a country.
His suit was the same faded charcoal he'd worn every day since I'd started working here, his skeletal fingers clutching a leather briefcase that probably contained secrets older than dirt.
"Good morning, Mr. Graves!" I called over the counter, already pouring his usual into the mug that kept cold things cold, a necessity for a customer who preferred his coffee at the temperature of a crypt.
"Miss Parker." He nodded, hollow eye sockets somehow still conveying weariness. He settled at his usual corner table, bones creaking like rusty hinges.
I delivered his coffee, watching as he stirred it with a yellowed finger bone that was definitely not attached to his hand. "Fresh pot today. Ethiopian blend."
He grimaced, as much as a skull can grimace. "It's too lively. Tastes of sunshine and hope. Revolting."
"I'll make it more depressing tomorrow, just for you," I promised with a wink.
The door jingled again, and the morning avalanche began.
A trio of witches in business suits, arguing about mercury retrograde.
Two werewolves in flannel with snow melting on their fur.
A vampire hiding behind sunglasses despite the overcast day, clutching a thermos I knew contained something thicker than coffee.
I moved like a caffeinated ballet dancer, pouring, stirring, remembering that Mrs. Whisperwind needed exactly three pumps of vanilla, that the centaur preferred his scone warmed for precisely seventeen seconds, that the banshee sisters would share a large mocha but needed separate cups because they refused to drink after each other since "The Incident" last summer.
"Camille, your soy latte with cinnamon is up! Derek, that haunting in your basement sounds concerning, have you tried sage? Marissa, your daughter passed her enchantment exam? That's wonderful!"
Names, lives, stories, I collected them all, storing them readily. It was easier to remember everyone else's details than to dwell on the emptiness of my own life.
The front door slammed open with enough force to rattle the fairy lights. Silas had arrived.
"I," he announced to the entire café, "am operating on four hours of sleep and enough eyeliner to paint the moon black. Anyone who complains about waiting for their pastry will be cursed with dry, flaky skin for a week."
Every head turned to watch him strut toward the counter.
Today's look was particularly dramatic, fishnet arm warmers beneath a tight black t-shirt, ripped black jeans that looked painted on, silver chains connecting his lip ring to the multiple hoops in his left ear, and eyeliner so sharp it could probably cut glass.
His demon heritage showed in the small obsidian horns peeking through his dyed-black hair and the swishing spaded tail behind him.
He carried three trays of pastries with insulting ease, balancing them like they weighed nothing. Each creation was more gorgeous than the last, berry tarts that sparkled with sugar, gingerbread creatures that occasionally twitched, black cocoa cookies with blood-red centers.
"You're late," I whispered as he slid behind the counter.
"I'm worth waiting for," he replied, arranging his masterpieces in the display case with the precision of a surgeon.
A harpy with iridescent feathers that changed color with her mood leaned across the counter, her wings fluffing out in what I recognized as her flirting posture. Currently, they shimmered with pinks and purples, horny harpy colors.
"Silas, darling," she cooed, "those fingers of yours work magic on more than just pastry dough?"
"Mmm, Vivienne." He didn't look up from his arrangement, but his tail, flicked visibly behind him. "If you're wondering if I'll make you my signature black forest cake for your birthday next week, the answer is yes. If you're asking about my fingers in other contexts, the answer is still no."
Her feathers rippled with blue disappointment, but her smile remained. "Can't blame a girl for trying, especially when you're looking particularly delicious today."
I ducked between them with practiced ease. "Vivienne, your usual iced tea with extra honey is ready."
The morning rush crescendoed. I juggled orders, wiped spills, and maintained peace like a one-woman supernatural UN.
When a werewolf in a lumberjack coat and a vampire in a tailored blazer both reached for the last cinnamon roll, I materialized between them before growls could escalate to bared teeth.
"Gentlemen," I said, voice sweet but firm, "I believe Silas just pulled a fresh batch from the oven. Perhaps you could each have one that hasn't been touched by... competing scents?"
Crisis averted with minimal snarling. Just another Tuesday.
Through it all, I smiled. Laughed at jokes.
My sunshine personality never faltered, even as the familiar ache of loneliness pressed against my ribs.
I watched couples holding hands over steaming mugs.
Friends sharing secrets in cozy corners.
Families arguing lovingly about weekend plans. Everyone connected to someone.
Everyone except me.
During a rare lull, Silas cornered me by the pastry case. "Playing boss lady again today?" His tone was light, but his eyes, completely black except for ruby pupils, were sharper than usual. "Any word from the mysterious owner about making it official?"
I wiped imaginary crumbs from the counter. "Nothing. Not a peep."
"Ridiculous." He snorted, a puff of cinnamon-scented smoke escaping his nostrils. "You're running this place single-handedly, and what, we're supposed to just wait for some absentee demon lord to notice?"
"I don't even know if the owner is a demon," I said, though I'd heard the rumors. "And I'm not running it single-handedly. I have you and Bramble."
"Speaking of our plant witch..." Silas nodded toward the window where a small, dark figure battled through the snow.
The back door burst open, bringing a swirl of snowflakes and the scent of crushed herbs.
Bramble stomped in, her delicate pixie wings dusted with frost and twitching with irritation.
Today she wore what I called her "goth gardener" look, black overalls over a purple sweater with dark floral embroidery, paired with combat boots that made her seem more imposing.
"These damn icy sidewalks are ruining my morning," she growled, shaking snow from her wings. The movement sent droplets flying, several hitting Silas who hissed.
"Watch the eyeliner, plant girl!"
Bramble shot him a look that could have wilted his horns. "Call me 'plant girl' again and I'll make sure every pastry you bake tastes like dirt for a week."
I slipped a steaming mug into Bramble's cold hands before she could make good on her threat. "Blackberry tea with honey and just a drop of that tincture you made for sore wings."
Her fierce expression softened slightly. "Thanks, Sim." She took a sip and sighed, some of the tension leaving her narrow shoulders. "You're too good for this place."
"Or just good enough," I replied, patting her arm.
The café hummed with conversation, laughter, and the occasional supernatural spat.
I moved through it all like a pink beacon, smiling, soothing, serving.
The perfect hostess to this mismatched family of regulars and misfits.
No one needed to know about the hollow space behind my smile.
How I watched their connections with hungry eyes and I collected scraps of belonging like a bird building a nest with borrowed twigs.
I belonged to the café, to its customers and their needs. It was enough.
It had to be enough.
Mid-pour over a half-caf oat milk latte, I felt it before I heard it, a pressure change that made my ears pop, as if the café had suddenly been transported to a higher altitude.
Then came the cold. Not the gentle winter chill that swirled in with each opening door, something more harsh that made my bones ache.
The front door blasted inward with a gust of air that extinguished three floating candles and sent napkins scattering like startled birds.
He filled the doorway completely.
Krampus.
I'd never seen him before, but I knew instantly, viscerally, who and what he was.
The owner. The shadow behind the café. He had to duck to enter, his curved horns nearly scraping the doorframe.
They weren't cute nubs like Silas', these were proper horns, obsidian black and ridged, sweeping back from his forehead like a crown made of midnight.
His face was sharp angles and harsh planes, skin the color of blood.
His eyes, though, gods, his eyes. They glowed gold, not warm like honey but sharp like metal, reflective and utterly inhuman.
The café went silent as a tomb. Even the enchanted gingerbread men in the display case froze mid-dance.
He wore what might generously be called a suit, if suits were designed for creatures with shoulders broader than doorways.
Black wool coat, charcoal vest, blood-red tie that made the golden accents at his cuffs gleam brighter.
But from the knee down, the illusion of humanity disappeared entirely.
His legs were those of a beast, furred, powerful, ending in hooves that clicked against the wooden floor with each deliberate step.
Mr. Graves's coffee cup hovered midway to his skeletal mouth. The werewolves, usually so boisterous, tucked their tails and averted their eyes. The vampire pulled her collar higher, as if trying to disappear into her own coat.
I stood paralyzed, coffee pot still tilted, watching liquid overflow the forgotten mug and pool on the counter.
"Shit," I whispered, yanking the pot upright. My hands weren't steady anymore.