He leans forward and rests his hands on the mahogany. His fingers are long and elegant, ending in nails the color of black quartz. There’s a heavy gold band on his pinky, the metal stamped with a seal I don’t recognize—a sun being swallowed by a crescent moon.
“You don’t know me.” There’s no challenge in it. He sounds almost careful, as if he’s confirming something he can’t quite believe is true.
I suppose I can’t blame him. Most of the monster billionaires in the city are famous. Their faces pop up all over the billboards, in every tabloid magazine, and on every talk show. But I don’t have time for that sort of thing.
“I don’t,” I tell him, finally meeting his eyes properly. “And the name’s Iris. Are you going to order, or are you here to admire the woodwork?”
A small line appears between his brows. His gaze travels down to my hands, over my wrinkled shirt, finally landing on the coffee stain near my sleeve. “Coffee. Black.”
“A large dark roast, then. Coming up.”
I turn to the airpots, and I take a moment longer than I need to with the lid. That suit doesn’t deserve a splash on the lapel. When I turn back, he hasn’t moved. His weight is still tipped forward, his attention still on me.
“Four-fifty,” I say, sliding the cup across.
He reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and produces a wallet of some exotic leather. The card he draws out is cut from solid black metal, its only marking the same gold seal I saw on his ring.
I glance at the card, then at him.
“I don’t have a machine for whatever that is.” I gesture at the small white square plugged into my tablet. “Do you have cash? Or a regular Visa?”
He turns the card between his fingers, watching me as if my answer changes something.
“Do you know what this represents?” he asks, and there’s no boast in it. Only a kind of patience.
“I imagine quite a lot,” I tell him, drying my hands on the rag at my hip. “But it won’t go through the Square reader. I need cash or a chip card. Otherwise, I can’t open the till.”
The air around him turns warmer, and for a moment the shop smells faintly of burning sugar. I keep working. I’ve handledvampire businessmen who tried to dispute their tips, dryads who demanded the liberation of coffee beans, and sirens who tried to pay with what they calledexposure. This is nothing.
The heat in the air starts to fade into something more subdued. He reaches into a different pocket and produces, of all things, a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. He sets it on the counter with great deliberation, like a chess piece committed to the board.
“Keep the change.”
“Thanks. We appreciate your patronage.” I drop the bill into the till and push his coffee forward. “Have a nice day, Mr. …?”
He picks up his cup without looking at it. “Rakan. Rakan al-Rashid.”
“Nice to meet you, Rakan. Enjoy the coffee.”
I open my book to where I left off. He stays where he is, his attention moving from the page in front of me to the line of my shoulder.
I turn the page.
A long beat passes. Then his shoes click against the floorboards, and he walks to the door. The bell rings once on his way out, and the shop comes back to itself in stages.
Leo lets out a long breath and starts typing again, faster than before. Mary takes a careful sip of her tea and whispers a prayer to Gaia under her breath. The hum of the refrigeration unit returns. The faint scent of warm spice lingers behind the counter for another minute before it fades.
I slide the bookmark back into place and tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. Whatever that was, it isn’t my problem. I have three more chapters to get through before my shift ends, and a salt merchant from Tyre is waiting for me on page ninety-four.
The night shift left the coffee shop looking like the scene of a crime.
I let myself in just before seven and stop dead in the doorway. Eight glass mugs sit in a row by the espresso machine, each crusted with dried Transylvanian Special at the bottom. A plate of half-eaten blood scones waits on the prep counter. The dark-red interiors have gone a worrying brown around the bite marks. Three empty bottles of donor stock clutter on the under-counter fridge, blood smeared down the labels.
There’s a note in Sasha’s blocky handwriting tucked under the till.Vampire bachelor party. Came in at three. Drank us out of donor stock. Tipped HUGE. Sorry about the mess. Sorry x100 about the scone situation.—S.
I check the tip jar. She wasn’t lying. There’s a stack of fifties in there thick enough to cover my rent twice over. I tuck the cash into the till and take a deep breath. This isn’t the first time Sasha has dumped something like this on my shoulders. I will not scream.
Ten seconds later, I tie the second-best apron over my shirt and get to work.
