“Morning, Rakan.” I reach for a clean cup without looking at the airpot. I’ve been pouring his coffee at the same temperature for three weeks now, and I can do it without turning my head. I pull the marker from my apron pocket and write his name on the side. Rakan. The novelty of it should have worn off by now, but somehow it hasn’t.
Camille goes entirely still, which is something I haven’t seen her do in roughly twenty years. “Oh,” she says. The single syllable carries an unreasonable amount of meaning. She lowers her tablet onto the counter without taking her eyes off the door. “Oh, Iris. You and I are going to have a long and detailed conversation about this later.”
Rakan finally acknowledges her. His gold eyes move from me to Camille and back, and he gives her a small nod. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize I was interrupting.”
Camille has recovered enough to stand up from her stool. She extends her hand across the counter, her smile widening into an almost predatory grin. “Camille Thorn. I’ve been Iris’s best friend for twenty years. As of approximately forty-five seconds ago, I discovered she’s been keeping rather significant secrets from me. We’ll address the friendship implications later.”
“Rakan al-Rashid.” He takes her hand and squeezes it, the same way he might greet a monster mogul. “I hope I’m not the reason for the omission.”
“That remains to be seen,” Camille replies. “I read the business pages, Mr. al-Rashid. I confess I hadn’t expected to find you in a coffee shop in this particular stretch of the borough on a Tuesday morning.”
Rakan remains perfectly pleasant, a tiny, meaningless smile resting on his lips. “The coffee is excellent, and Iris has been kind enough to tolerate my presence for the better part of a month. How could I resist?”
I finish his coffee and snap the lid on with a little more force than necessary. He’s already produced the twenty by the time I slide the cup across. The change ends up in the tip jar without me even having to deposit it there. Rakan just… randomly drops it there himself, using his djinn powers. Because that’s apparently something he can do at will.
Camille is still watching us, though knowing her, I’m sure she’s drawn the correct conclusions by now. “I can’t say I disagree,” she offers, “but I am rather surprised a billionaire of your caliber would have discovered this little gem of a place.”
Rakan lets out a small laugh. A wisp of smoke leaves his lips. “You know, Ms. Thorn, I’ve recently heard that people can be terrible at telling real gems from fake ones. But djinn? We’re very good at finding things that are priceless.”
My face flames, and I can practically see Camille vibrating from here.
But she purses her lips and says nothing more. “The wisdom of the ancients, I suppose.” She pulls her sunglasses off her tablet and slides them onto her face. “And on that note, my dear Iris, as much as I appreciate your passion for history, I will not take no for an answer. Remember. Friday at eight, no negotiation. I’ll drop off something you can wear.”
She slings her bags over her shoulder with impressive ease and turns toward the door. Her eyes catch Rakan’s one last time. “Mr. al-Rashid. A pleasure. I’m sure I’ll see you again.”
“I’m sure you will. I’m not going anywhere—”
Camille rushes out of The Daily Grind before Rakan can even finish the phrase. The door swings shut behind her.
Rakan moves to the small table by the window, which I’ve mentally assigned to him. He sets the coffee down but doesn’t sit yet. He looks at me with a mix of amusement and fondness.
“Ms. Thorn is interesting,” he says. “She reminds me of a friend’s sister. Though, granted, that friend is a minotaur.”
I start to clean up the counter, even though it’s virtually spotless. Camille has a way of eating that leaves zero crumbs. Maybe Rakan is right, and my friend has some kind of monster blood in her veins. “If I know Camille, she’d take your words as a challenge,” I tell him.
“I expect she would,” he answers. “She might even win, if the afternoon were long enough. Ariadne Stavros is a wonderful woman, but she has no patience.”
He sits down at his table and picks up his cup. He seems completely unaware that he just compared my best friend to the family she’s been complaining about for half an hour.
It’s strange, but until this moment, I haven’t really made the connection between Rakan the billionaire and Rakan the man who orders dark roasts. It’s not like I didn’t realize he’s filthy rich and powerful. Of course I did. But he—and the strange little thing we shared—seemed to exist in a bubble that had nothing to do with the outside world.
It was foolish of me. Rakan is three thousand years old. He runs a global business that owns a not insignificant fraction of the world. I’m twenty-five and work in a coffee shop. In between shifts, I struggle to meet deadlines for a degree that may very well be useless.
Our lives couldn’t be more different. He called The Daily Grind priceless… But is it really?
The notion that a creature like him would arrange his entire morning around a simple barista is ridiculous.
Camille was right. I’ve been spending too much time with my head buried in history texts. Clearly, I had been reading into things that simply weren’t there.
I’ll go out with her on Friday. I’ll put on the no doubt ridiculous dress she’ll provide for me. Maybe, just maybe, that’ll stop me from thinking about Rakan al-Rashid.
4
Dancing with the Djinn
Iris
The line outside The Obsidian Lounge stretches for half a block, full of partygoers excited to visit the city’s most infamous club. Camille walks past it as if it doesn’t exist. I follow her along the sidewalk, taking careful steps in the heels she’s put me in.
