A line stretched from the register to the door of The Morning Grind today, which wasn’t unusual. The coffee shop was long and narrow and tucked between a restaurant and a clothing store. Along with a handful of four-top tables taking up the back, a few two-tops sat by the front window and three stools tucked under the bar closest to the entry—all of which were occupied. The owner of the D.C.-based shop had gone for a rustic industrial look in Florida, so everything had that wood and metal look to it. Not quite my style, but I didn’t hate it.
Some of my coworkers loathed the bar top stools and the closeness to the customers, complaining daily to our manager to remove them. But part of the whole barista gig was getting to know our regulars, so I took it upon myself to become the store saint by taking over the front espresso machine whenever I had a shift. Getting to know our regulars also helped me keep an ear on city happenings for my other job.
“Hey Joe,” I said to one such gentleman as I tucked my purse into a storage cube under the counter. I pulled out a black apron and tied it around my waist. “How’re Carmela and the boys?”
Joe grinned and lifted his espresso cup in a toast. “Ciao, V! They are well, of course. Just living the American dream.”
Technically, his name was Giovanni, but he preferred to go by Joe to seem more American to Americans. Not that it made a difference, and certainly not in Miami. He was Italian through and through, from his beautiful black hair down to his always-polished Amadeo Testoni oxfords. His accent didn’t help his cause either.
One of the most successful and therefore well-dressed businessmen I knew, Joe was also one of those regulars I talked about, stopping in almost every day, several times a day on occasion. By his own declaration and choice, he had become the unofficial Community Welcoming Committee of Miami. He had taken it upon himself to get to know me when I finally started venturing into el Mercado Sombra three years ago.
Joe and his wife Carmela had fled Italy after the war. Yes, the World War, but not because of Italy’s involvement with the Nazi movement. No, they fled because their kind, the fae, was outed for a brief time in the country, hunted by humans both for their magic and from fear.
Xenophobia crossed species. Technically the word was speciesism, but I thought that sounded ridiculous.
It had taken a whole lot of magic to wipe all those human memories clean of a supernatural existence, which was a part of the reason why Kit didn’t use magic anymore unless she had no other choice. Thankfully the Community had been vigilant about staying to the shadows ever since, making magic mostly unnecessary for Kit. I couldn’t even remember the last time she had cast a spell or brewed a potion, other than the wards she set up around our apartments.
Joe’s expression turned solemn, and he glanced around before leaning in. “Have you heard?”
My heart beat harder against my ribs, but I stayed nonchalant as I ground coffee beans for the next order. “Heard what?”
“Someone is killing my kind,” he said just barely above a whisper.
While the news was sad, I couldn’t help the slight release of tension in my shoulders. He wasn’t talking about the wanted bulletin, which mentioned only one person who died at the party. I was sure Joe’s mention had something to do with fae politics in the Otherworld, a topic and place I didn’t really keep up on, but his kind always seemed to be having each other killed over something.
Never confuse the actual fae with friendly fairies.
I poured the ground coffee into the portafilter and tapped it to settle the grounds. “That’s terrible. What happened?”
“A man like me,” he said, with an emphatic gesture towards himself, meaning fae, “was killed at a Star Island mansion.”
Well, fuck. Joe did mean the bulletin about me; he just didn’t know it was about me yet. Wrongly so, I might add.
My skin prickled as goosebumps spread along my arms. Not only had they all but placed the murder on my head as the primary suspect, but now the victim turned out to be fae. I hadn’t even noticed that fact earlier—if it was mentioned at all—thanks to the shock of seeing my face attached to the crime. And why did Joe make it seem like the death wasn’t a one-off deal? Maybe he had a lingering fear after the genocide he and his family fled. I hoped that was the case and there weren’t more murders I hadn’t heard about yet.
I had enough on my plate trying to track down this jewelry box before I became my client’s sex slave or some shit if he caught up to me first. Now I would have the whole DEA looking for me, and if there were even more murders…?
I didn’t want to go there.
After tamping the grounds into the filter, I raised it toward the machine with a shaking hand. It took three goddamn tries to get it locked into place.
Joe must have noticed, because he reached out a hand to cover mine. Having been raised in the human realm, Joe was a bit of an anomaly to the fae kind. Not the typical brooding, drag-young-maidens-to-bed-and-ravage-them-to-death kind I grew up learning about. Perhaps his Summer Court lineage played a part in his friendly nature. I’d have to ask him sometime when I wasn’t distracted with unwarranted murder charges.
“Stai attento,” he said, giving my hand a quick squeeze.
I gave him a small nod as I steamed a pitcher of milk, waiting for the espresso shots to finish pouring, unable to say anything for fear of letting out a string of obscenities. Isaac, my boss, wouldn’t approve, and he was only two feet away at the register.
After picking up his phone from the counter, Joe slid off the stool. “My clients await. Arrivederci, bella.”
I smooched the air twice in his direction as if kissing his cheeks from afar, then turned my attention to the steamed milk. The heart I made out of the foam was terrible, and it was one of the most effortless designs to learn. This whole murder situation had me spooked, and now it was affecting my day job. Goddamn it.
Do you know how hard it is to create art when you’ve nearly been outed to the Community and named a murderer? It’s hard, even if it is just coffee art.
The rest of my shift didn’t go much better. I dropped a mug full of steamed milk, breaking it and sending all its bubbling contents onto the counter in front of a customer. You can imagine how that went. After several more calamities, Isaac sent me home early.
My cheeks burned as I hurled open the shop’s front door. In just over three years of working there, I hadn’t had an off day. Not one. And this clusterfuck of a situation I found myself in had created the first. I rubbed my face, hoping the act would rub away the blush. I never blushed, and I never got embarrassed, and here I was, doing both like a prepubescent kid whose mom just kissed her in public.
After checking to make sure the street was clear, I jogged across to the other sidewalk, heading back to my apartment three blocks away. I needed to shower the stench of sour milk from my skin and change clothes before heading over to Kit’s place to do some research. Her computer system and network were nearly as secure as the market’s, but only by human standards. It would have to be enough for now, though, because I didn’t trust going back to the lab just yet.
“Excuse me, Ms. Neill?” a deep voice I knew stopped me in my tracks. A voice that sent shivers up my spine as I remembered the delightful heat of his hand pressed against my back. I turned to face the reaper from the party.