Halfway Bitten (19 page)

After my night with Wulfric, the diner was familiar but lacking. It took two hours at the grill to get my head out of the clouds, and I swore that I could feel his fingers in my hair, tugging softly to turn me for another lingering kiss. Smiling, I bent to an array of waffles in various states of completion, thinking that some ghosts are more welcome than others.

I would not have noticed anything had Gran not focused my senses the night before among the throngs in the tent. In between the comforting scents of the grill, coffee, and customers, something unquiet drifted into my recognition, like a pest at summertime dusk.

I started to stiffen, but forced my shoulders to relax as I plated eggs and sausage before ringing the worn steel bell in the pass-through window. Pat was there for her plates instantly; her ability to anticipate me tapping the bell was ninja-level psychic. I immersed myself in the arcane practice of poaching eggs for a moment when the sensation grew louder. I felt my eyes drawn up to survey for trouble. Something was wrong.

“Thanks, Hon. Back for waffles on six,” Pat squawked amiably as the plates were whisked away in a clatter of effortless motion. Today she’d chosen to wear her dyed blonde hair in a bun that looked vaguely borrowed from a Sumo wrestler. With a long nose and kind smile, it worked for her, as witnessed by the cheery responses she was getting from her section of the restaurant.

Our baker, Louis, grumbled behind me while he sliced thick bread for upcoming orders of French toast, and I felt my lips curl as I savored his unending commentary of mild complaint. He addressed the quality of his knife, the bread crumbs, and people who demanded bread products with the aplomb of a man who knew cooks and soldiers were past masters at the art of bitching. I was plating potato pancakes and eggs—Adam and Eve on a raft in Hawthorn diner code—when the bitter tang of fear cut through the aromas of my grill. I didn’t twitch or break from my smooth movements. Someone in the restaurant was scared, and it felt familiar. And off, too, but I wasn’t sure why.

With a plastic smile, I slid the plates into the warming window where Mallory’s hand was waiting. She had everyone Pat couldn’t handle, which wasn’t many, and she clucked her tongue at the food in approval as it vanished to be taken to her patrons. I settled my shoulders and kept the smile in place as I scanned the diner, letting my senses push outward to detect any magic that might be present.

Faint, but here, my power told me, but there was more than one flavor of fear reaching me, and that was when I saw them. Or, I should say, one of them saw
me
.

A tall, sallow man sat with his back to the corner, and his general appearance told me in a flash that this was one of the clowns without his makeup. He was pale, sickly looking, and radiating the kind of nervous energy that would make any Chihuahua in ten miles lunge at him with fangs bared.

“Louis, cover me. Going out front,” I said, stepping away from the grill.

Louis’ narrative of complaint shifted gears even as he slid into the space I’d been, his scowl directed at the tickets flapping on the roundabout. He was fine; we weren’t in the weeds and there was no reason a few minutes away would cause the diner to combust. I know these things; I’m young, but a veteran.

Exiting to the dining room, I caught the eyes of a few regulars who’d known me since infancy, spreading my smile around the room to indicate a sort of group hello that would preclude them from pulling me into conversation. It worked, and I weaved my way toward the corner without incident, until I felt a sharp tug at my arm.

Let me stop right here and explain a few things that cause me to fly into a near homicidal rage. I don’t like being patted on top of my head—I get it, I’m short, and it isn’t necessary to remind me with a patronizing tap like I’m a charming poodle. I don’t like unwarranted advice while I’m shopping. If I’m gazing lovingly at a tomato or a pair of jeans, that means it’s my time, not yours. I’m not a big fan of being whistled at like a dog, come to think of it, and I positively
hate
it when someone snaps their fingers at me. In fact, the more I think about it, I might have
been
a dog in a previous life, since so many of my hang-ups seem to stem from things that our canine friends have to tolerate from people who don’t understand them. Oh, and add being grabbed to the list. It might be my line of work—you know, the witchy thing—but generally when something grabs me, it’s bad. Unless it’s Wulfric, in which case it’s good. Very good.

So when the woman grabbed me with her right arm while snapping her fingers in the direction of her waffles, I felt an irrational need to roast her with a spell that would remove her fingers, hair, eyebrows, and even her smug infinity scarf which she had artfully tossed around her narrow shoulders. Brown eyes, a business hairstyle, and smoothly-botoxed face greeted me as I looked at her in mild shock, and the words I’d been preparing to unleash faded on my tongue as I noticed her two kids sitting silently next to her at the table.

I say silently, because they were both looking down, hands folded, and I knew that the
other
source of fear I’d detected was coming from both of them. One boy, one girl, both cowed by something, and neither of them even daring to look up as their mom got ready to upbraid me for something, no doubt, related to the perfect plate of waffles that sat untouched before her.

First things first. Those waffles were perfect because
I
made them. Secondly, she touched me in a manner that was verboten, and she did it in my own place of work. Thirdly, her kids were scared, and that’s something that gets the very worst of my attention. Instantly. I had the feeling that I was about to endure an unpleasant conversation, all the while watching the clown to verify he didn’t spook and leave the building.

I looked pointedly at her hand, which she removed, but not before using it to point at me like it was a weapon. Okay, add that to the list of things I hate, too.

“My children
cannot
eat flour that isn’t organic. I asked that woman if your flour was organic. It should be simple, right?” Before I could answer, she surged on, really getting into the spirit of insulting someone she saw as an underling. “And
yet
, here are the waffles I ordered, and do you know what’s missing?” She arched an overplucked brow at me as I took stock of her face. She’d been pretty but angular in her teens, and was bitterly holding onto the shadow of forty years. Her makeup was expertly applied to give her that curiously uniform look, and the strain in her neck bespoke too many hours working out. There were lines at the corner of her eyes, but they weren’t from smiling. Whatever joy had been in her life was gone, and now she was going to take it out on me. And her kids, it seemed. I noticed that her own plate bore the tortured pattern of someone at war with food, and wondered if her children were going to inherit her eating disorder. Parents can be the greatest thing in the world. Or the worst. I thought I knew what side of the argument this woman’s maternal role broke toward, and it made me sad.

I regarded her evenly as my better nature took hold. The kids were scared and subdued. It wouldn’t do to throw gas on their fire unless I knew I could help, and some basic courtesy seemed to be a good place to start.

“I’m Carlie, and I’m the cook. What’s your name, ma’am?” I asked, putting my hand out to shake hers.

Her face transitioned instantly into a smooth mask of professionalism. I was in her arena now, and I could draw some conclusion about what she did for a living. One thing was certain, she was used to getting her own way. It seemed that shaking hands with a cook was acceptable if the argument was going in the direction she wanted.

“Alice Carter-Peres,” she began, waving a fork toward me with a bite of waffle on it. “I travel extensively, and I can honestly say that this is the
worst
waffle I’ve ever seen—and you still haven’t answered my question. My children”—she pointed with her angular chin—“have specific dietary needs. Now, I understand that we might be closer to the frontier, so to speak, but that doesn’t mean that we have to dine like peasants.” It was clearly a line she’d delivered before, as it rang with a precision that pegged her as a glib practitioner of cultural superiority when it suited her. Like now.

“The frontier,” I began, rolling the words in my mouth slowly. “Interesting choice of words, Alice.” Her face flushed at my familiarity. “Our flour is of course organic, and you’re correct, we
should
have answered your question immediately. I can’t imagine what would possess any of our staff to ignore such a pertinent question.”

My answer brought her up short. She’d clearly been spoiling for a fight, but that kind of verbal sparring means no one wins. I prefer to deal with blowhards in a different manner—I use their inertia against them and let them run out of insults before I remove them from the diner. The problem here, of course, was the kids. They cut glances at the steaming waffles, so I knew they were hungry, and I hated the idea of sending them off to eat elsewhere with their mother. Who knew when they might actually get to eat, given her sour disposition?

With a glance at the clown, I made up my mind. Gran taught me a spell based in music that had, until that moment, not been terribly useful, but Alice Carter-Peres was about to be the first recipient of
slow silence
. Gran said that choirs with magic users would cast
slow silence
as a hymn ended, resulting in a beautiful, warbling end to their notes. When cast on one person, though, it would have a decidedly different effect.

“Ma’am, I’d like to buy your breakfast, and for the children, too. With our sincere apologies, of course. May I take your order at this time?” I cooed in a saccharine tone that made me hate my own voice for the moment. Overkill was the only way to deal with this kind of idiot, and in a moment it wouldn’t matter.

Alice sniffed disdainfully, but the kids brightened. I listened as she ordered for her children, nodding at her sage choices, then announced that I would return after personally preparing their orders, just to verify that everything was to her liking. She preened in triumph, making certain that other diners heard my capitulation, and I gave a half-bow to indicate her victory was complete.

And then, I flicked a lazy finger in the direction of her throat, smiled on last time, and advanced on the clown.

He recoiled slightly as I took up station in front of his table. “More coffee, sir?” I asked, opening the conversation as innocently as I could.

His terror was simmering beneath every nervous flutter of his long hands, which danced around a coffee cup that had not been touched.

“I’m fine, thank you.” His eyes danced across the room in repressed fear. I saw a man who wasn’t just scared; he was sick, and I suspected the cause was nothing of this earth. “May we speak for a moment, when you have time?” His voice was light, the accent Canadian.

“We can speak right now. Let me help you, if that isn’t too presumptuous.” I smiled at him to ease his fears. When his brow smoothed slightly, I knew he was amenable to some sort of intervention, even if he didn’t know what it might be.

“I’m listening.” His throat bobbed with nerves, but his fingers ceased their mindless tapping. Progress.

I lowered my voice and straightened his silverware. “You’re being turned by a vampire who is too old and powerful to resist. You’re sick, and you need help. You heard that I’m a witch—no, don’t speak, the source isn’t important—and I’m going to help you. My
family
is going to help you, but you must give us information openly and swiftly, or we can’t protect you. Understood?”

He granted me a brief nod as relief swept over his narrow features. His face was long, drawn, and pale, but the flicker of hope rested near his eyes when my fingers rested on the back of his hand. I wrote quickly and slipped him Gran’s address on a torn kitchen ticket. “Go here immediately. Tess will be waiting, and you’ll be safe. Do
not
delay, and don’t vary from the street once you leave here.”

His eyes brimmed with tears, only to be rubbed clean by one long hand. “Mathieu. My name is Mathieu.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mathieu. Now go to Gran. She’ll be waiting.” I urged him from his chair with a gentle pat and propelled him to the door. His shambling gait took on some normalcy, and he favored me with a winsome smile as he left.

With one hand I texted Gran before reclaiming my spot at the grill, but not before Alice Carter-Peres smirked at me as she stood to leave. I heard her clear her throat in a noisome rattle, only to squeak when she tried to direct her children to stand up.

“Nasty frog in your throat, ma’am. Might want to have a tea, or you could be three days without your voice. Sounds rough.” I smiled at her son, who hid his look of joy behind the practiced face of a child who’s heard too little praise and too many sharp reprimands. Emotion warred within me over her condition—not that I wasn’t fully to blame. My spells are designed to help, not harm, but Gran told me that magic is a lot like love; it can be complicated. I ran with that conclusion because the idea of kids getting browbeaten into silence by their mother was something that got my chili cooking, so to speak. Fast.

The daughter tugged at her brother’s arm impatiently. “Mommy can’t talk?” There was ringing triumph in her voice, and Alice flushed scarlet. If nothing else, I’d quelled her tongue for a time, and the kids might salvage something out of their trip to Halfway. I considered the spell a kind of public service, smiling as I wished them well before slipping back into the kitchen. Alice Carter-Peres croaked twice, winced, and gave up, but not before shooting me a murderous glare that would have wilted a lesser daisy. I smiled cheerily and tied my apron, thinking that
slow silence
was a spell I’d want to remember.