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She walked out of the dressing room in a pair of jean shorts and a nude tank-top but kept on Ronin’s olive-green overshirt, unwilling to part ways with it yet.
Naia approached Ronin standing at the register with several tunics strung over her arm, knowing if she came out empty-handed, he’d make her continue the tedious task of trying on clothes, how he’d done for the past several hours. Even after she insisted one outfit would be plenty, he refused and threatened to stay in the store all day until she found enough outfits to pacify him.
In the middle of the chatty employee ringing up the articles of clothing, Naia could see Ronin out of the corner of her eye. His attention was steady on her, the boredom in his gaze sharpening into something that surged Naia’s bloodstream.
She walked up to the counter, ignoring his staring, and placed the tunics on the pile being rung up. “This is the last of it,” she told the employee.
The middle-aged, brunette-haired woman gave a wide smile, full of teeth. “Wonderful choices! Oh, I love this one. We have a matching sweater during the winter season I think would go great with your hair color…”
Ronin took a step closer to Naia, keeping behind her, but off to her side. She swore his fingers brushed the backside of her thigh, but she couldn’t tell if she imagined the feeling. Either way, heat dripped in her stomach like a melting ice cube, and she wanted nothing more than to rest her weight back on her heels.
“I’m glad you are still wearing my shirt,” Ronin murmured, his voice dangerously close to her ear.
Gooseflesh spread down the back of her neck. She swallowed, in an attempt to focus on another body sensation. Anything but the feeling of his breath grazing her nape.
“It’ll be three-oh-seven,” the employee said and bagged the rest of the clothes.
Ronin remained unmoving, despite the employee waiting.
Naia slowly rotated her head to glance at him over her shoulder. “She’s ready.”
His eyes were on her, and he smirked. “I know.”
Without another word, he stepped up to the counter.
They parked on the curb of a bustling street in front of an establishment with a thicket of ivy consuming the front windowpanes. The car ride had been a quiet delight—windows cracked, a delightful tune playing from the stereo system. Naia couldn’t help but notice how spacey Ronin seemed in the driver’s seat during the song, only making the bare movements required to keep the car moving forward, eyes jumping to the rearview mirror when necessary. It seemed he was not fully alive yet.
Above the rickety old door was a sign that read: Madam Maeve’s Café.
A couple sat outside and sipped on what looked to be an artistic frothy heart in a cup. Naia inhaled deeply, savoring the thick morning dew cloaking the air. Veiled in the sky above was a hauntingly beautiful, midnight blue fog.
As they approached the entrance, a black and white painting on the brick exterior of the café captured Naia’s attention.
She paused in her step to examine it. Long strands cascaded around a woman’s diamond-shaped face; her eyes were shut, embraced by pale, delicate lashes. Her head hung slightly back with one of her hands positioned beneath her chin. A gentle beauty existed in her soft, muted features, but Naia’s attention was quickly drawn to the stream of blood staining her neck. It created a chilling juxtaposition to her elegance.
Below the portrait, in what Naia hoped was merely red paint, read: The blood of our souls drench the city.
Ronin cleared his throat.
Naia swung her head to find him holding the door open for her.
The phrase toggled in her mind as she stepped inside the café, but instantly died from the overstimulating rush of what was inside.
She turned her head. A broom sweeping itself came straight for her. A light squeal escaped her as the broom swept around her.
To her right, a man sat at a table and read on what Ronin referred to as a tablet. A spoon stirred his coffee on its own.
A woman, slightly older, stood behind the register. Her lips were painted the shade of a strawberry, and her bangs were stylishly cut to the middle of her forehead. As she took orders, her eyes sparkled with a friendly smile.
The machinery behind her operated of its own accord. Mugs floated to a strange mechanism and were quickly filled with bitter-smelling liquid. It mixed with a warmth and sweetness she recognized as fresh pastries, creating an overall pleasant aroma. To-go cups magically floated like stringed puppets to the counter where customers waited for their orders. Whipped cream and a medley of spices crowned the pair of mugs as they swiftly maneuvered their way to an awaiting table.
Ronin tugged on the sleeve of her shirt, smirking. “In case you were wondering, this café may be owned by a witch.”
She was grateful for his teasing because it jolted her back to her senses.
Rolling her eyes, she took the spot beside him in the line, arms crossed. “Obviously.”
It confirmed what she already knew—this side of the city was the magical side. The side Finnian had to be on.
