A VIPER IN THE DARK

          Espresso blew skyward in a spray of steam and scalding liquid, drenching my arms and plastering hair to skin. Midnight Sips Café glowed around me— the mahogany bar and steam coiling like translucent serpents through the low pendant lights. I hissed, “Shit,” and chucked the still-hot portafilter into the sink. Two mugs teetered off the edge of the bar, shattering across handmade umber tile and interrupting the modern pop flamenco riffs which pulsed through hidden speakers. 
          The sounds of keyboard clicks and low conversation dropped slightly as a few customers glanced up—brows knitting in surprise. I slapped my forearm, feigning pain, then spun back to the counter. The thin white button up underneath turned translucent, but modesty was the least of my concerns.
          Hair and skin glued together by hundred-sixty-degree brew, welts blistered painfully. Pulling up my apron’s top fold, I pressed the steaming liquid into its canvas.  Behind me, a line of customers waited on their orders or to submit their order. Others sat at tables and low sofas working or chatting with associates, some with coffees already, some still waiting. 
          I glanced over my shoulder. Customers glanced over at me and the blackboard menus above my head—mocha, cortado, matcha—offering puzzled half-smiles as I plastered on an “All good here” shrug. Out of view, no one screamed about centuries-old vampires, as their barista suffered from horrendous second degree burns.
          My reddened skin cooled to pink as I summoned some energy for a quick heal. Hunger pinched my ribs, so I paused before reverting fully to my pale olive hue. Five botched coffees, three ruined cups, a hippy’s tiny car in the “owner only” spot—plus a delayed flight and hours in a lightless box on the Atlanta tarmac—had me smelling like stale beans and musty cargo.
          A towel arced over the bar and smacked my head. Soren—sole survivor of tonight’s shift—leaned in. His platform boots squeaked against the hardwood floor, dark eyeliner wings still sharp after a double shift.
          “Nathan, dear boss,” he said, voice smooth. “How many cups die tonight?”
          I dabbed my chest and face. “As many as it takes.” Most of the markers that I wasn’t human alleviated, I waved the towel and turned back around. “Want to stay employed in this economy?”
          “Of course. I’d hate to get fired because you decided to redecorate in shattered porcelain.”
          “Go do that bothering thing you do, which people seem to like.”
          “It’s called customer service.”
          “I don’t care. Make them think about you instead of their missing drinks.” He grinned, dropped another order sheet atop the growing stack, and strolled away—black shirt untucked in the back, skinny jeans hugging his ass with pen and order pad stuck in a pocket. I’d have to lie to myself to say he didn’t look fuckable as hell in that attire. Good enough to bite too. 
          I shook off the thought—Soren was help, not a snack. He might swagger, but even sassy staff beat an empty business. I ran an anxious hand through my short brown hair then fiddled with the two charms hung around my neck. One carried a glamour which was powerful and nuanced enough to show things like the super-heated water on skin reaction. Sadly, I didn’t have the power to say when to be so detailed and when not. 
          Sheer disaster another near miss. No one here suspected their barista was a centuries-old vampire. Yet.
          Cups in hand, I measured another double shot. Tonight I’d go disposable: fewer dishes, more speed. A queue of a dozen drink orders glared at me from the counter.
          The steam wand hissed. I poured silky milk over a fresh espresso, tracing a leaf in the foam, then slapped the latte ticket where Soren could see it. The door’s metal bell chimed again. Three new customers studied the board.
          “Be right with you,” I promised, flicking the grinder on for their drips. They waffled between half-fat and fat-free so long, my jaw ached from holding my patience. 
          In the open-concept café, judges’ paneling divided the walls into display sections. Solid columns, painted with artistic forest green ivy on a cream base, marked the outlines of the old hallways and load-bearing walls. The previous stairway’s rotting handrail replaced with an exquisite custom ironwork piece, which had cost me two favors and a rare manuscript. Unlike most cafés that attracted hipsters with local artists and eclectic decor, I curated my space like a museum. A few local artists were included, but only if their work blended well. 
          The downstairs featured European Renaissance art, appealing to the average coffee buyer. Upstairs, the meeting and study rooms showcased styles ranging from Navajo to Persian to the Ming Dynasty. Clients assumed the art were stellar replicas because copies were easier to insure, and no one scrutinized them too closely. Yet, among the fakes were authentic pieces I’d collected myself at the time they were made. That bit of whimsy cheered me over the years.         
          The drips finished; I made three more. Zero net progress. Soren reappeared, snagged the lot, and vanished into the back. My phone buzzed with an incoming message. I paused in between concoctions and thumbed through the text on the screen. 
          It was an order for materials from my contact in the coven in Chicago, the largest in the United States. A little snippy in their tone, but I’d ignored their other requests since I had been out of the country. 
          Everyone had an attitude tonight.
          Their item list read like a demon-summoning prayer, but the price was sweet. Vélos could deal with it, if that’s what the Chicago witches ended up doing. I thumbed a quick “accepted” and sent my standard contract through our encrypted portal. Pigeons and steam-liners were quaint, but e-signatures beat midnight owl drops.

         

          After four lattes, three macchiatos, and not nearly enough of the fresh brewed Ethiopian drip coffees, I raised my head to check the scene. The next three were pour-overs—pretentious orders, time consuming but not difficult. I waved Soren over and handed the tedium to him. He rolled his eyes at me again, but I ignored it.

          “I’m stepping outside,” I said. 

          “Will do, boss.” The cheeky grin he sent carried sass and innuendo. Hunger rippled through me again. Before I changed my mind, I grabbed a rag to clean with and hurried out the front door.

          Cold fall wind tugged at my apron and instantly chilled the remaining dampness of my shirt. The wraparound porch creaked under foot. Forgotten tables, sticky with teenage neglect and short staffing, scattered from one corner to the other. I wiped one down and caught movement in the left corner’s shadows, closest to the front door.

          “Linden.” I nodded at my guest.

          “Evening, arbiter.” His voice fluttered like wind through dry leaves. Stagnant swamp, hoarfrost, and orange peel drifted on the evening breeze telling me he was a graveyard pixie even if I hadn’t already known. Most vampires lacked the ability to identify supernatural beings by scent. My extensive lifespan provided ample practice, unlike other vampires. 

          Glamour dripped off his skin— no one I’d ever met had seen the true face of a graveyard pixie. As a more undead offshoot of their Tinkerbell-style cousins, they were always covered in glamour. Most of them shifted their looks and gender, like some women exchanged purses. He sat leaned back in the chair, letting it creak on two legs.

          “Slow month?” I kept polishing the table.

          “Nothing to fetch. You’ve been away.” His hands folded on his stomach tapped softly. “Heard Liang Mei came to town.”

          I glanced at the porch floor. “Yearly pilgrimage.”

          “Time races once you’re dead.”

          I let it hang. The charm which concealed my identity felt heavier on my neck. He settled the chair back onto four legs. He lifted the sugar caddy as I wiped his table top down.

          “Let me know when you hit another century,” I said, then retreated to other tables. Without commissions or tasks for him, I wasn’t sure why Linden was here. Casual chats weren’t typical of Linden.

          “It would be an interesting century.” A shiver slithered down my spine. Linden leaned forward. “Word is a vélos might be scouting.”

          I chuckled, heart thudding. “A vélos? They’re never lone wolves.”

          “Maybe one’s flying solo.”

          “Vélos never…” I trailed off as I remembered the last time I’d run into  one of the Magnum Councilium’s peacekeeping forces. She’d been alone.

          The supernatural global governing body, the Councilium, established rules to keep all Folk hidden from humans. All Folk had their quirks. Unlike fiction, vampires lack hypnotic powers and true immortality. Generally, vampires left their victims alive. Between that and the fact that after three centuries, mental degradation made vampires go feral and violent. To prevent chaos, the Councilium required vampires over three hundred years old to be put to rest, and feral ones were executed immediately. The vélos enforced these rules and carried out assassinations with minimal justification.

          Linden awaited the end of sentence. I tucked my rag into the apron ties and looked at him directly. “Anything else you need tonight?”

          “Nope. Only passing through. It’s almost All Hollows’ and the clan has a good run with the tours. Big finale at the mound the night of—coinciding with the new moon. You should come by.”

          I shook my head. The pixies enjoyed mundanes who signed up voluntarily to be scared out of their wits. Then Oakland Cemetery received another grant for fixing up the place and keeping “tradition” alive. The populace got to keep their historical landmark, and the pixies kept their fairy mound safe inside the city limits. I enjoyed the favoritism of helping grease those political wheels.

          “I need to get back inside. Let me know if you need another drink. On the house, from me.”

          “Fine beverages.” Linden acknowledged the minor exchange for the volunteered information. I nodded and slipped back inside. Chaos greeted me. 

          Soren had flooded the espresso machine. Puddles spread at his feet. He wrestled the gallon pitcher and milk sloshed over the counter. I swooped in, snatched the cup, and shoved him toward the drip spigot. 

          “Basics first.”

          He stiffened. “If I don’t learn the fancy stuff, I’ll never improve.”

          “A Friday night, when we expect a rush from a local game on top of the late night clubbers, is not the time to learn.”

          “Then come in before dark and teach me already.”

          If I had a free hand to rub the ache from my temples, I would. Instead, I faced the machine and scrambled to understand the list of orders in front of me. 

          Come into the café before sunset? I’d be dust before a toe left my house. 

          “Donna is plenty skilled enough to teach you,” I said. My day manager taught all the new hires.

Tension so recently released welled back up from his feet to his ears. His lips compressed into a thin line. I set down the finished cup for the customer to take.

          “Soren?”

          “Nothing. I’ve been looking for official courses. Then I can do the fancy stuff, like you do.”

          I stepped in front of him, cutting him off as he tried to duck around me. A cup of coffee in each hand sloshed dangerously as he stopped before adding more coffee to my attire.

          He pasted on the equivalent of a goth’s breezy, no-cares smile. It was mostly a cross between a grimace and an eye roll. 

          “Classes are good. Why aren’t you working with the daytime manager, Donna?”

          “She’s very busy.”

          “So am I. She hasn’t mentioned she hasn’t had time. The new hires are learning.”

          “No, no. The new hires are great. She can only teach so many at a time. But they definitely make better lattes than mine already—“

          “Why?”

          He winced as he realized his attempt to dissuade me had only dug him deeper. People were grumbling as they waited for their drinks. The door’s bell jingled with more customers entering.

          “Look, people.” His eyes pleaded with me to drop it. Taller than I, my head tilted back slightly to meet his look. I gave a small nod, then let him pass. Now was not the time to abuse his pride over someone else’s bigotry. 

          I watched him steady his hands, then turned to greet a fresh wave of customers. Through the front window, I spotted Linden still on the porch, lavender tea with a little heat left, scanning the street. A prickle ran down my spine. 

          That damned job in Brazil had taken too long. My canines threaten to cut against the inside of my upper lip. Anger pressed into my apathy. Hunger thinned the composure I usually carried, dealing with so many mundanes.

          Yet for now, I braced myself and called out, “Next! What can I get you?”