Robyn Bachar: Blood, Smoke and Mirrors

Copyright © 2010 by Robyn Bachar

Warning: This book contains one tough and snarky witch, one gorgeous guardian, explicit blood drinking, magician sex, gratuitous violence against vampires and troublemaking Shakespearean faeries.

I hate after-midnight meetings. Anyone who wants to talk to a witch after the witching hour doesn’t want to chat about the weather, and my boss wouldn’t call this late unless something was wrong. Bad news should be heard after I’ve had a good night’s sleep and a cup of coffee, not after I’ve worked a ten-hour shift that featured lousy tips and three of the loudest screaming babies I’d ever encountered during my restaurant career. Already I wished I’d done the smart thing and hung up, turned off my cell phone, crawled into bed and hidden under the safety of the covers.

The anxious feeling in my gut made me indulge in my first cigarette in over a month as I left my apartment building. I’d dug the half-empty pack out of the bottom of a purse I hadn’t used since winter, and the cigarette tasted stale and bitter. This was my tenth failed attempt to quit-I’d have to remember to cuss Mac out for it first thing at this meeting of his, because it was clearly all his fault. Maxwell “Mac” MacInnes is my boss, the owner and manager of the Three Willows Café. He’s also my friend, and has been for several years now-one of the few I have left.

Though it was a warm, muggy summer night, the air outside was much more comfortable than my stuffy apartment. I puffed away on my smoke as I headed down the sidewalk, and the streetlight closest to my building flickered as the bulb exploded with a loud, angry pop. Feeling guilty, I ignored it and picked up my pace.

Most of the windows were dark in the houses I passed, the occupants fast asleep at this hour as they rested up for another day of work. My neighborhood is a nice place in general, though I don’t recommend walking through it alone at night, particularly if you’re a woman. Of course I don’t follow my own advice, but my case is…unique. Sure, I look as threatening as a grade-school librarian. I’m on the overweight side, I wear glasses, and my mouse-brown hair is most often pulled back into a messy braid or ponytail. My wardrobe consists of T-shirts, blue jeans, and unintimidating white running shoes. I might as well have “Mug me” stamped in the middle of my forehead.

The last idiot who attacked me is locked up in a mental hospital in a room with padded walls, still raving about the bruja who cursed him with her demon magic. The official explanation is he suffered some sort of psychotic break. The truth is I hit him with a sort of karmic whammy and turned his own evil against him. It allowed me to escape, but did come with the side effect of leaving my attacker permanently insane. I didn’t feel bad about it. I did, however, feel bad that my witch brethren felt I needed to be punished for defending myself.

I turned to head east toward the city as I reached the end of my block, where busy train tracks run through the heart of town. The tracks are generally used by Metra trains as they zip back and forth from Chicago to the western suburbs, though we do get several ridiculously long freight trains that rumble through and back up traffic. Flicking the butt of my cigarette into the street, I checked my watch. Right on time so far. I quickened my pace a bit, eager to reach my destination. I didn’t know why he’d called me back into work-he knows I don’t like to be at the café this late because I don’t approve of the sort of people he lets in after hours. The two nearest streetlights flared and then winked out, and I shook my head and sighed.

“Great.” If I didn’t get a handle on my temper soon, Public Works was going to have a long night too.

The Three Willows Café closes to the public at ten o’clock on weeknights, eleven on the weekends. We get our most interesting customers after midnight, though. The ones who are allowed in by invitation only and look out of place surrounded by the cheery silk flower arrangements and paisley upholstery. Those’d be the customers I don’t generally associate with. I’d rather spend my evenings curled up with a good book and my two cats, not serving drinks to the creepy crowd.

As I approached the café I spotted a tall, wiry figure standing outside the front door, his back to me as he stared toward the Chicago skyline. It was the fedora that gave Mac away. He always wears a hat of some sort in an attempt to hide his hair loss. The clear night allowed a good view of the bright city lights, but I knew the scenery hadn’t drawn Mac’s attention. He stood with his arms folded across his chest, tension obvious in his posture, and I crept up behind him.

“What are we watching?” I asked in a loud stage whisper. Mac’s shoulders pinched in response, but he didn’t turn toward me, keeping his attention focused in the distance.

“Hi, Cat. Just wait.”

“Uh-huh. What am I waiting for?” I playfully poked him in the ribs, but he ignored me. Not a good sign. I turned and studied the area, curious as to what had caught his eye. We stood together, straining to hear the undefined trouble in the relative silence of the night. In the distance a car blasted down a side street, rattling windows and waking the residents with its booming music. Though the offender was being an ass, I doubted disturbance of the peace was Mac’s main concern.

My lungs began to burn and I realized I’d been holding my breath. With an annoyed roll of my eyes I turned away toward the café doors, but before I took a step I finally heard the sound Mac had been waiting for. Somewhere to the east a long eerie howl echoed through the city, and then I glared at him.

“Oh, please. You called me out here because of those idiots? What do you want to do, pretend like we’re the supernatural animal cops and arrest them?”

“One of them got caught by a news camera last week,” he grumbled.

“Whatever. A blurry shot of a fat coyote running through someone’s backyard is hardly newsworthy. Their environment’s endangered, you know, I saw a special about it on one of the nature channels.” Honestly, I could care less what the shapeshifters did with their free time. If they got liquored up and pranced their furry tails around in front of the ten o’clock news, that was their problem, not mine.

“It’s still a risk.”

“Not our kind, not our problem, Mac,” I quipped. Shifters are the second-class citizens of magiciankind, and not worth raising a fuss over, in my humble opinion. I moved toward the doors of the café, but Mac’s hand shot out and gripped my arm. I frowned down at it. “Hey, what gives?”

“Cat, you know I wouldn’t have asked you here if it wasn’t important.”

“Yeah, and I’m seriously disappointed in your idea of important.”

“Wait. Before you go in there, I want to say I’m sorry. This wasn’t my idea.” Mac looked down at me with sincere sorrow in his eyes, and my stomach did a queasy flip-flop. Tugging my arm free, I pushed through the doors.

Glancing around the room, I surveyed the state it’d been left in. I hate coming in and finding the café in disarray. It feels almost as though someone had thrown a wild party in my apartment while I was gone on vacation for a few days. Tonight the place had been left in a sorry mess. Mac’s closer must have skipped out early again. Most of the tabletops were littered with dirty plates, sweaty half-empty water glasses and wrinkled, stained napkins.