The Cindercorn Trilogy (with a body count)

1. What a way to start the day.

ONE

What a way to start the day.

No one in their right mind would ever license me as a private investigator, but that didn't stop people from coming to me when they needed something found.

Fortunately, I liked my job as the only human barista at Faery Fortunes Coffee and Book Shop.

Most came for a cup of joe and left too buzzed to read a thing, but who was I to complain?

People paid top dollar for their pixie dust infused latte, and they tipped me well not to judge them.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t so fond of Chief Quinn.

When he walked through the door, bad things usually happened to someone—me.

For him to come in five minutes after opening, long before the sun even thought about rising, he needed something, and it wasn’t a cup of coffee.

Why couldn’t he want coffee? I could deal with making him a drink, and I’d double his dose of pixie dust to keep him happy.

I gave the espresso machine a defiant swipe of my cleaning cloth before stepping to the counter to deal with Manhattan’s Most Wanted Bachelor. Without my help, he’d still be married, too.

What a way to start the day.

And to think people wondered why I refused to help find anything for anyone anymore.

The reason stood across the counter from me.

Chief Samuel Quinn, aged thirty, hotter than sin, and my heaven and hell rolled together in one smoking tall, dark, and handsome package, hated me for good reason.

It was his fault, too. He had been the one to ask me for help finding his wife.

I had found her all right, right in the middle of teaching a college stud the nuances of the reverse cowgirl.

If no one asked me to find something or someone again for the rest of my life, I’d be a very happy woman.

“Chief Quinn, what a pleasant surprise,” I lied. “Can I get you something? A dark roast, cream, no sugar, light on the dust?”

Why couldn’t I have been blessed with forgetfulness?

I knew my worst nightmare’s favorite drink, and I had to make it for him first thing in the morning.

Of course I knew it. He came in at least three times a week to torment me.

Screw it. Who was I kidding? Instead of the coffee, he could take me instead.

If I had to put up with the hassle of dealing with him, why couldn’t I enjoy it, too?

“Cream, no dust, and make it a large, Bailey.”

Alarm bells tinkled in my head. Since when did Chief Quinn address me by my first name? On a good day, he snapped my last name like he worried it would contaminate him. “Of course, sir.”

The faster I made his coffee, the sooner he’d go away. I’d love every second I spent watching him go. In less than a minute, I had his drink ready, and to lower the risk of him spending any extra time with me, I chirped, “It’s on me today, Chief Quinn. Have yourself a nice morning.”

If it meant we parted without incident, it’d be well worth the five bucks.

He saluted me with his cup, flashed a hint of a smile, and walked out the door. Facing him was hell, but I glimpsed the heavens when he left, and if my panties hadn’t caught on fire under my jeans, I’d be very, very surprised.

“You’re drooling, Gardener,” my boss squeaked. The moth faery, with just enough pixie heritage to dust glitter when she wanted, fluttered over my shoulder, her tiny arms crossed over her chest. “Reverse cowgirl.”

“Stop reminding me!” I wailed, slumping over the counter. “He hates me. Worse, all I think about when he struts in is taking off my clothes and giving him my panties. I think they caught on fire this time, Mary. Why couldn’t he have had one of his cops find his wife instead?”

“You just want to indulge in some guilt-free fantasizing like every other hot-blooded American woman in the city.”

“Exactly. This is why no one in their right mind asks me for help. I ruin everything.”

“Except my coffee, which is a miracle. Now that we’ve had our daily dose of excitement, can you handle the shop on your own for an hour? We’ll call it even on the coffee.”

Was she serious? Alone for an hour on a Monday morning forty minutes before rush hour?

If she thought I’d be all right alone, she was completely cracked.

I could already hear her if I dared to complain about my shift.

What could possibly go wrong in an hour?

Didn’t I like my job? The list went on and on and on.

I smiled so I wouldn’t cry. “Sure, Mary. I can last an hour.”

“You’ve gotten better at lying. Your smile didn’t even slip that time. Try not to die while I’m gone. Good humans are so hard to find.” Mary zipped out of the shop through the pixie door and dove through the window of an idling sports car.

Wait.

Sports car? Red, convertible, top up despite the nice summer morning? I leaned over the counter and squinted. Yep. My boss had just ditched me for a ride in Chief Quinn’s car. Sometimes life really wasn’t fair.

Ten minutes after Mary left, every centaur in the city decided to hold a convention in the shop.

Not a single one of them seemed to notice—or care—they barely fit through the door.

Equine, bovine, and God-only-knew-what bodies crammed together, waiting for their chance to get a taste of pixie dust goodness.

I lost track of the number of species, wondering what sort of idiot decided to call them all centaurs; maybe they got tired of trying to come up with names for them.

By the time the first cat hybrid showed up, I decided to just skip past questioning my sanity to weary resignation and kept making coffee.

Since asking a centaur for his species classified as rude, I plastered my best smile on my face, swallowed my curiosity, and asked, “What can I get for you, sir?”

“Small latte, extra dust.” He slapped a pair of twenties on the counter.

If he’d wanted B-grade dust, he would’ve dropped a ten and left with change, so I rang him up for an upgrade to something a bit better.

While we kept all four types of A-grade in stock, we only offered A and A+ to regular customers.

Without a permit, no one got the best stuff, and I thanked God for that each and every day. It was only polite; I never knew if the poor bastard stuck with the portfolio was listening.

“Keep the change, my guardian angel.” While the cat hybrid centaur thing had a human face, orange and black fur covered his skin, and when he smiled, he showed his sharp, pointy teeth.

I checked for wings just in case. Stranger things had happened on shift.

“Was my halo showing?” I took his cash, tossed the extra fifteen dollars into my tip jar, and fetched his drink, handling the tiny vial of A-grade dust with care.

The last thing I needed was to give everyone in the shop a high they’d remember for years to come.

With a fifteen buck tip and a customer to keep happy, I took advantage of Mary’s bribe box on the way back to the counter, snagging a catnip bag. A happy feline mauled no one, including me. “Here you are, sir. Have a great day.”

With that much pixie dust in his system, if the centaur cat wasn’t grinning from ear to ear by the time he made it half a block, I’d be shocked.

Of all the legalized recreational drugs, pixie dust brought the high without the low, impaired so few people no one bothered to test for it, and single-handedly fought off the weekday blues for those who could afford it.

I sure as hell couldn’t, even if the dust worked for me, which it didn’t. I balked at a five buck coffee. Twenty-five for a morning hit would bankrupt me within a month.

The centaurs kept on coming, which in turn lured in the more curious races, including the faery.

I’d never understand why they came to a shop dedicated to selling pixie dust. The bright-colored blighters wanted one thing in life: liquid sugar, and lots of it.

We kept it by the gallons in the fridge, and by the time my shift was over, I would need to make more.

We even stocked pure sugar cane for the really adventurous, but we made them sign a waiver and an agreement to pay for any damages.

On the heels of the traditional faery, all of whom had butterfly, moth, or dragonfly wings, the bat-winged folk fluttered in.

I doubted they called themselves faery, but with hundreds of different ‘What the hell is that thing?!’ critters living in the city, could anyone really blame me for forgetting their proper names?

After the faery stampeded their way in, taking up every bit of available table space, the cops showed up in search of a little Monday morning cheer.

Most of them were frequent flyers from every station in a five mile radius, and it really wouldn’t have surprised me if they came because they idolized Chief Quinn.

At least the faery were easy to serve; one had the bright idea of bringing her credit card—which was bigger than she was—and paying for them all, asking for a pitcher and thimbles.

I had no idea how the card disappeared into the faery’s black tank top, but I wisely didn’t ask.

I got out the liquid brown sugar and poured it into a cup, dug out enough thimbles to stock a sewing store, and left them to their binge.

When I could serve at least fifty in less than two minutes, I considered it a good day. Unfortunately, at least fifty more people waited for service. On a good day, a line of ten inspired rage and pissed the customers off.

None of the cops, straggler centaurs, or other beasties peeped a single complaint.

If I wanted to survive the shift, I’d need to take the methodical, perfectionist approach.

As long as I didn’t screw up an order, I might survive until Mary showed up.

Once she arrived, we could tag team the crowd.

She’d take the orders, I’d fill them, and everything would be okay.

I lasted the full hour, but Mary didn’t show up. Instead, the first wave of businessmen stormed through the door, and some of them were even human.

Crap.