Chapter 3
Chapter three
Simone
The morning after meeting the boss from hell.
Literally. Went on as usual, surprisingly.
I'd spent half the night convincing myself I'd dreamed the whole encounter, but there he was, sprawled across my largest corner booth like some dark king on a throne, watching me with a focus that made my skin buzz with electricity.
The café hummed with its usual morning energy, though today's symphony came with an undercurrent of tension.
Customers spoke in hushed tones, stealing glances at the massive figure in the corner.
Krampus had claimed the booth farthest from the counter but with the clearest sightline to where I worked.
His position couldn't have been more strategic if he'd measured the angles with demonic protractors.
His legs, those powerful, furred things ending in hooves that should have been ridiculous but somehow weren't, stretched into the walkway, forcing customers to navigate around them.
He hadn't ordered anything. Didn't appear to need sustenance like the rest of us mortals.
All he did was watch. Me. With unblinking eyes that tracked my every movement like I was prey he was considering how to devour.
I fumbled a simple cappuccino, nearly burning my hand on the steam wand. This wouldn't do. I had a café to run, customers to serve, and a reputation to uphold. I wasn't about to let a horned, seven-foot Christmas cryptid throw off my latte game.
"You're staring," Silas muttered as he passed behind me with a tray of fresh pastries. Today's theme seemed to be "festive memento mori" gingerbread coffins with candy cane handles, skull-shaped sugar cookies with holly berry eyes.
"I am not," I hissed back, though I absolutely was. It was like trying not to look at a car wreck, if the car wreck was unfairly attractive and radiating enough heat to warm the entire café.
"He hasn't taken his eyes off you since he sat down." Silas's voice dripped with suggestive delight. "I think the boss likes what he sees."
I shoved him with my elbow. "Go frost something demonic and leave me alone."
But Silas's observation sank into my awareness like a stone in water, rippling outward until it was all I could think about.
The weight of Krampus's gaze felt physical, a pressure against my skin that followed me as I moved behind the counter.
My cheeks burned. My fingers trembled slightly as I prepared a triple-shot mocha for a sleep-deprived witch.
"Extra whip today, Ms. Parker?" she asked, her eyes barely open.
"After the week you've had? Absolutely." I piled the whipped cream high, adding a sprinkle of cinnamon and a touch of edible glitter that sparkled like tiny stars. "On the house."
Her tired smile was worth every cent of that small kindness.
This was what I lived for, these tiny connections, the web of community I'd woven customer by customer.
I glanced toward Krampus, wondering if he noticed these moments.
If he understood that The Hearth was more than balance sheets and profit margins.
He was still watching, one clawed finger tapping rhythmically against the tabletop, the wood beneath his talon had begun to smoke faintly.
I grabbed a cleaning cloth and bottle of wood polish, steeling myself as I approached his table.
Each step closer sent my heart rate climbing until I could hear my pulse drumming in my ears.
The heat radiating from him intensified as the distance between us shrank, not uncomfortable, but enveloping, like stepping into a hot bath.
"Mind if I clean this table?" I asked, gesturing to the empty space across from him. My voice came out steadier than I felt, a small victory.
He didn't answer immediately. Just kept watching me, his expression unreadable.
"By all means."
His eyes caught mine, gold against brown, and held.
I couldn't look away. I didn't want to. The world beyond our shared gaze faded to background noise.
His pupils expanded slightly, the black centers eating into the gold, and something fierce and hungry flashed across his face.
My chest fluttered like I'd swallowed a hummingbird.
My breath hitched, catching on nothing. His nostrils flared slightly.
Could he smell it on me? The sudden, mortifying arousal that had bloomed under his gaze?
"Simone!" Bramble's voice snapped the tension like a dry twig. "That traveling potion-seller is asking about the cinnamon buns again."
I jerked back, breaking the eye contact that had held me captive. "Coming!"
My hands shook as I gathered my cleaning supplies, the bottle nearly slipping from my grip. I could feel sweat beading at my hairline, dampening curls that had been perfectly arranged this morning. My smile felt brittle as I fixed it back in place.
"Enjoy your... sitting," I managed lamely, then fled back to the safety of my counter.
Behind me, I heard the deep, quiet rumble of his laughter, satisfied and knowing, like he'd confirmed something important.
I spent the next hour in a state of hyperawareness, my body betraying me with each passing minute.
Every time I turned, I found his eyes. Every time I smiled at a customer, I wondered if he could tell it wasn't reaching my eyes.
Every time I bent to retrieve something from a lower shelf, I felt the heat of his attention.
This was going to be the longest week of my life.
I was just settling into a rhythm when I noticed the goblin sisters shooting daggers at each other with their bulbous eyes.
Myrtle and Thistle (not their real names, just what I called them in my head) came in every Thursday for peppermint scones and nettle tea.
They always argued, but today's tension crackled between them, making the sugar shakers on their table vibrate ominously.
I'd seen enough supernatural sibling spats to recognize the warning signs of imminent chaos.
The taller sister jabbed a gnarled green finger at the single remaining peppermint scone on their shared plate. Her warty nose quivered with indignation. "I specifically ordered three! That means this one is mine!"
"You've already had one!" The shorter goblin's ears, long and pointed like overgrown chili peppers, twitched violently. "I've only had one because you inhale yours like a vacuum cleaner with teeth!"
I glanced toward Krampus, who was watching the developing drama with narrowed eyes.
Great. Just what I needed, customer drama with the boss from hell evaluating my crowd control skills.
Before I could intervene, the situation escalated from simmering to boiling.
The shorter goblin made a grab for the scone, but her sister slapped her hand away with a loud smack that turned heads throughout the café.
Not to be outdone, the shorter goblin let out a battle cry that sounded like a blender full of gravel, and lunged across the table.
"It's mine!" she shrieked, sinking her yellowed teeth directly into her sister's forearm.
The bitten goblin howled. Tea cups flew. A napkin holder sailed across the room, narrowly missing a vampire's perfectly coiffed hair. The sugar bowl tipped, spilling crystals that immediately formed themselves into tiny marching soldiers on the tabletop.
I was already moving. This wasn't my first goblin rodeo.
"Ladies!" I sang out, my voice dripping with honey while my eyes promised consequences. "What seems to be the issue today?"
The shorter goblin was still attached to her sister's arm, teeth embedded deep enough that I could see the indentations.
The taller one had her claws tangled in her sister's straggly hair.
Both froze mid-fight, looking up at me with identical expressions of surprise, as if they'd forgotten they were in public.
"She started it," the taller one grunted, wincing as her sister's teeth remained firmly locked on her flesh.
I clapped my hands once, sharply. The sound contained just enough magic, a little trick Marcel had taught me before his untimely demise, to make both goblins flinch and separate. The shorter one released her bite with a reluctant slurp that turned my stomach.
"Now then," I said, voice sweet as pie but posture straight as steel. "Fighting over pastries is simply not acceptable behavior at The Hearth. You know the rules."
They had the decency to look ashamed, ears drooping in unison.
"But she—" the taller began.
"I don't care who started it," I interrupted, maintaining my sugary tone while fixing them with a look that could have frozen flames. "I'm finishing it."
With the efficient grace of someone who'd handled far worse tantrums, I picked up the contested scone and broke it cleanly in half. One piece went onto each of their plates, served with a smile that dared them to complain about the division.
"And because you've been such regular customers," I added, producing two small paper bags from my apron pocket, "I saved you each a special cinnamon bite from this morning's batch. They're the last ones."
This was a blatant lie. The cinnamon bites were yesterday's leftovers that I'd been planning to take home.
But lies were a must when goblins were gnawing on each other in your café.
The sisters' eyes widened, momentary feud forgotten in the face of unexpected treats.
They accepted the bags with reverent hands, quarrel dissolving as quickly as it had erupted.
Crisis averted. I smoothed my dress and turned, only to freeze at the sound of the door chime, followed by a distinctive high-pitched intake of breath that made the hairs on my arms stand at attention.
A banshee had entered the café. Not just any banshee, but Mrs. Mourningveil with her toddler, Dirge.
The mother was elegant as always, wrapped in flowing gray silks that whispered against the floor.
Her son, clutched in her arms, was turning an alarming shade of purple.