Devon Monk - Magic In the Blood

Grant didn’t do anything else, didn’t move any closer.

I pushed off the chain-link fence and was happy that my legs held me. I ached in my joints, ached where Trager had stuck a needle in my thigh, and my skin felt tight and sunburned.

“You’re shaking,” he said. “How about a cup of coffee to warm you up? Come on inside. It will be okay.”

I lowered my hand, breaking the Hold glyph as I did so. Magic seemed a little dimmer in me, a little smaller. And my heart was still pumping too hard, like I’d been running or had just come out of a fight.

No surprise there.

But other than that, everything was fine. Normal. Fine. I was fine. Normal. Fine.

Oh, who was I kidding?

“I’ve had a really bad morning,” I said, my voice catching at the end.

Grant nodded, like maybe he already had that figured out. He strolled over to me, all sweet and brotherly-if I had a brother who was a hot-looking cowboy coffee roaster-and put one large, warm, coffee-scented hand on my shoulder. “Let’s get you inside. You can tell me all about it.”

When all I did was stand there and shake, he slid over next to me and rested his arm across my shoulders. Then he gently propelled me forward toward the doors of Get Mugged.

The smell of hot coffee and baked scones wrapped around me like a hug as we walked into Get Mugged. Grant’s employee, Jula, was behind the counter, moving scones out of the oven and into the glass case below the counter.

There were about a dozen people seated at the mismatched wood tables and chairs, reading papers, their laptops, phones, handhelds. Get Mugged was bigger than it looked from the outside, and open up to the second-floor ceiling, with an overlooking loft at the back half of the shop. Ceiling-to-floor windows and strings of track lighting on the pipes across the rafters lit up the place, while the brick and wood walls made that light feel warm.

“Hey, Jula,” Grant called out. “Get me a Shot in the Dark, would ya? And a towel?”

She looked up, the piercing in her eyebrow flashing blue and then pink as she looked from Grant to me. “Oh. Sure.” She put down the tray of scones and reached for a big mug from the shelf behind her.

Grant, his arm still over my shoulder, steered me farther into the shop, back to a table nestled against a narrow window on the other side of the counter. It was far away from the door and out of sight from most of the people in the shop but close enough to the counter that Grant or Jula could keep an eye on whoever sat there.

I had the distinct impression Grant didn’t think I was doing so hot.

“Here now,” he said. “Best seat in the house.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m okay.” The heat of the place was working wonders for me, easing some of the ache. Even the intense sunburn sting from the watercolor people touching me was fading some. I was soaked through my coat, but still cold enough that I didn’t want to take it off. Once I got home I really would have to wring out my underwear.

I tugged my hat off and ran my gloved fingers through my hair. Another good thing about short hair is it handles the wet pretty well. I tucked it back behind my left ear, but kept it loose on the right so it would swing forward and cover the whorls of colors that licked beneath my jaw and up to the corner of my right eye. I was feeling a little touchy about the whole marked-by-magic thing at the moment.

Grant sat across the small table from me.

“Rough morning, huh?” he asked.

“I’ve had better,” I said.

Jula stopped by the table. “Here you go.” She placed a mug of coffee and a plate with a hot scone in front of me. “The towel?” she asked.

Grant pointed to me.

She handed me the towel. “Anything else I can get you?”

“No,” I said. “Thanks.”

She looked over at Grant again. He was leaning back in his chair, his own short hair wet enough that it looked as black as mine instead of the light brown I knew it was. Drips of rain caught on the edge of his spiky bangs and ran a wet line down his temple and jaw. Grant had dark, dark blue eyes and that sort of rough and ready look that always made me imagine him in a cowboy hat.

Even though all I wanted to do was dive into that cup of coffee, I took the towel, pulled off my gloves, and inspected my hands. Black bands on all my left knuckles, whorls of metallic colors over every inch of my right hand. The black bands looked a little swollen, like they were bruising beneath, and the whorls of colors were darker than normal, dull, like someone had sanded the metallic shine off of them.

Or several someones.

I dried my hands carefully, though they weren’t really hurting. The ache and sunburn had faded fast, leaving me cold. Just cold. And wet. I wiped my face. The towel was white, soft, and smelled of lemon dish soap.

“Thanks,” I said again, lifting the towel a little before handing it to Grant. He rubbed it over his face, wadded it up, and put it on the table.

“You had me worried.”

“Sorry.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Oh, I so did not. I didn’t like telling people I was going crazy.

“That’s really nice. But trust me, you don’t want to get involved in my troubles.”

“I don’t know. Everyone needs a little trouble now and then. Keeps things spicy.”

“Running the coffee shop isn’t spicy enough?”

He shrugged. “Business is business. But I want my friends to know I’ll do what I can to help. Be there if they need me.”

I shook my head but smiled despite myself. I’d been coming to Get Mugged for years, and I didn’t know Grant considered our casual morning talks the basis for a friendship.

“Friends?” I asked.

“Anyone who gives me tickets to the Schnitz for my birthday two years in a row is officially my friend.”

“I did that?”

Grant gave me a funny look. I knew that look-it happened when I had forgotten something in my past but the person I was with had not. Fantastic. I’d not only forgotten I was friends with Grant, but had also forgotten I’d given him tickets to the opera.

“You sure you’re feeling okay?” he asked.

I rubbed at my eyes. “Sorry, Grant. Things… The coma did weird things to my memory. I have a lot more holes. I think I lost your birthday.” And damned if that didn’t make me feel like a heel.

“Hey, that’s okay. I’ll remind you. The Phantom of the Opera ’s coming to town, and I do like me some Phantom .” He patted the edge of the table and it suddenly felt like we’d just sealed a deal. We were officially still friends.

“So, tell all, girl. What’s going on?”

I am not the kind of gal who falls for every nice smile she sees. But Grant’s smile was like the shop- warm, friendly, comfortable. I smiled back, and for the first time in what must be years regretted not putting on at least a little mascara.

Not that it would matter with Grant. Women weren’t his thing.

“I just, well, I took a new job-”

“Hounding?”

“Right, for the police, and I guess my mind’s on that.”

“So, you’re not hurt?”

“No.”

“Not in trouble-No, let me rephrase that. Don’t need me to call the police for you?”

“No.”

“And you’re feeling a little better now that we got you out of the rain and wind?”

“Uh-huh,” I agreed. I took a drink of coffee and closed my eyes as it rolled hot all the way down to my belly. Hot, dark, rich. Heaven.

“Trust me,” I said. “After a cup of this, I’ll be perfect.” I took a bite of scone. “Wait,” I said around a mouthful of pumpkin spice goodness. “I’ll be perfect after the coffee and the scone.”