Page 2 of Playing with Fire

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.

Humans were the worst. Delays infuriated them, and I still hadn’t managed to get rid of all the cops yet. Too busy to cry, I kept on smiling, faking the good-natured spirit Mary insisted made her coffee and pixie dust taste better.

“I thought this place hired faery.” The business man glared down his nose at me, his perfect black suit and white shirt tempting me to chuck the fresh pot of coffee all over him. “Isn’t your shop called Faery Fortunes? I came here to see the faeries!”

I pointed at the nearest writhing mass of sparkling winged bodies. During the throes of their sugar high, some of them had spread dust and glitter, and I tried not to think of all the health code violations they were committing on the table. When my shift ended, I’d leave that train wreck for my boss to clean up; it’d serve her right for abandoning me. “What can I get for you, sir?”

The businessman stared at the faery, narrowed his eyes, and turned his attention back to me. “You have pixie dust here?”

“We stock C and better, sir. Our regular brews use B, but we have all other grades available.” I prayed he wouldn’t ask for the two better grades. The last thing I needed was the paperwork and having to confirm his permit.

“Espresso, A+, heavy on the dust.”

I bet the human would take flight before he made it out the door. I rang his order up and struggled to hide my shock at the amount. I smiled. I smiled so much it hurt. “That’ll be three hundred and ten dollars, sir.”

“Credit,” he barked, slapping his card on the counter.

I ran his card, handed him the payment terminal, and went to make his coffee. Anyone else who worked in the store had to wear a mask and gloves when handling the vials containing the most potent of the pixie dusts, and I was the only employee certified to handle the best of the best.

Not even my boss could.

Sometimes, immunity was as much of a curse as it was a blessing. Why couldn’t I drink my cares away like everyone else? Even the time Mary had shattered an entire vial of A++ dust, I hadn’t felt a damned thing while she and the rest of my co-workers spent the following six hours giggling over everything, unable to handle even the simplest of tasks without dissolving into a laughing fit.

I checked to confirm the transaction had been approved before measuring out the dust and adding it to his coffee. I offered it to him, my smile still fixed in place. “Have a great day, sir.”

“I better, seeing how much this garbage cost.”

I already missed the centaurs and the cops. A glance at the clock informed me I had survived through three hours with no sign of Mary. When she got back, we’d have words, and unless she had a damned good reason for abandoning me so she could take a ride with Chief Quinn on the worst Monday morning shift I’d ever seen, I knew exactly which two words I’d say.

My shift should have lasted six hours. The chaos ebbed to a trickle, but when the pixie sisters should have arrived, the shop remained quiet, the lull before the lunchtime storm. I considered killing the pair, who provided most of the shop’s dust and worked the midday hours. No one would miss Evita and Lea Anne in a city full of bubbly pink pixies, right?

The door bells tinkled, and instead of the tardy duo, I got Chief Quinn’s former brother-in-law. If I closed the shop really quickly and ran for the hills, would he go away? Before I could escape, Magnus McGee stepped to the counter.

Well, crap. At the rate I was going, my face was going to freeze into a permanent smile. “What can I get for you, sir?”

“Large coffee, black, no dust.”