leather belt with silver studs around her waist, and black platform boots covered in zippers, so the effect is closer to a Victorian doll that a vicious little punk girl has dressed up.
“Do you want a coffee?” Bay says, and I drag my gaze away from Fiona with effort. She’s got style, even if it’s kind of deranged.
I lean over to look into his cup. “It looks like motor oil.”
“Tastes like it, too, but it keeps you up.” He grins and points at the menu chalked in a careless scrawl. It hangs above the center island inside the square of counter, and it also looks like it was last revised before my mom was born. “They have food, too. As far as I know, it hasn’t killed anyone.”
“Cut it out, Bay,” Connie says, and wanders back from the front of the shop with the old men’s empty coffee cups. “You want a simple sandwich or a bagel or something, you’re fine. I wouldn’t suggest the meat loaf, though.”
“Good to know,” I tell her with a weak smile. “I’m not really hungry, though.”
“But you are curious,” Bay says, and I glance at Connie.
She’s not paying any attention to us, rinsing the cups before setting them in the sink, and I nod at him.
“It’s cool.” Fiona slams to a stop by grabbing the counter. “We’re not really here because of the munchies anyway, am I right?”
I glance at Connie again. I’m definitely not here for the food—I’m not sure I’ll ever be here for food—but it doesn’t seem like the stealthiest place to discuss the topic at hand, either.
“Hey, Con,” Bay calls. “How about three of the giant mugs of tea, and a big piece of the cake?” He stands up before she’s even turned around, and walks to the back corner of the shop, where a lone table for four sits with a sad, plastic daisy in a dollar-store bud vase. Fiona hops down to follow him, and I wind up scrambling behind them.
Fiona drapes her legs over the second chair on one side of the table, leaving me next to Bay. I manage to restrain a glare and sit down.
It was easy this morning. Fiona burbled and chirped at me and gave me the address of the coffee shop and that was pretty much it. Now . . . now is the part I’m less sure about.
“Fiona told me about what she saw in the tunnel,” Bay says, and he doesn’t even lower his voice. I have to clench every muscle not to glance over my shoulder at Connie. “But I guess you figured that.”
“Yeah, pretty much. Who was your friend that day?” I ask Fiona. I can’t quite dial my voice up to the normal volume, but I’m close.
“Oh, that was Neddie.” She tosses it off and shrugs. “He’s not around much.”
“He’s cool,” Bay says, and leans back against the wall, one elbow up on the table. His coat is hanging on the wall next to mine and a yellowed rabbit-fur jacket I really hope is fake. I assume it’s Fiona’s.
I don’t know what I expected Bay to wear under that dumb coat. Black pleather? A three-piece tweed suit? But he’s in a totally normal, gray button-down and faded jeans, and up close his face is friendlier and less mysterious than it had seemed after our one brief meeting.
I realize what he’s said a moment too late, and I try to sound casual. “A threat? Is anyone a threat?”
He smiles, and even though it’s simple, instantaneous, I can’t help feeling that there’s something lurking behind it. A shadow that flickers by too quickly to make out. “Not really, no. And Connie’s totally taken care of.”
Taken care of? I’m not sure I like the sound of that, but before I can steal a look at her, Fiona adds, “Simple spell. She doesn’t hear anything we say about the craft.” Her grin is pure delight.
I don’t have to make up an excuse to glance at Connie now—I can hear her shoes on the faded linoleum floor, and when I look, she’s carrying three giant mugs and a pot of steaming water.
“I’ll be right back with the tea stuff and the cake. I assume you cheapskates—oh, I mean, poor,
“Do you want a coffee?” Bay says, and I drag my gaze away from Fiona with effort. She’s got style, even if it’s kind of deranged.
I lean over to look into his cup. “It looks like motor oil.”
“Tastes like it, too, but it keeps you up.” He grins and points at the menu chalked in a careless scrawl. It hangs above the center island inside the square of counter, and it also looks like it was last revised before my mom was born. “They have food, too. As far as I know, it hasn’t killed anyone.”
“Cut it out, Bay,” Connie says, and wanders back from the front of the shop with the old men’s empty coffee cups. “You want a simple sandwich or a bagel or something, you’re fine. I wouldn’t suggest the meat loaf, though.”
“Good to know,” I tell her with a weak smile. “I’m not really hungry, though.”
“But you are curious,” Bay says, and I glance at Connie.
She’s not paying any attention to us, rinsing the cups before setting them in the sink, and I nod at him.
“It’s cool.” Fiona slams to a stop by grabbing the counter. “We’re not really here because of the munchies anyway, am I right?”
I glance at Connie again. I’m definitely not here for the food—I’m not sure I’ll ever be here for food—but it doesn’t seem like the stealthiest place to discuss the topic at hand, either.
“Hey, Con,” Bay calls. “How about three of the giant mugs of tea, and a big piece of the cake?” He stands up before she’s even turned around, and walks to the back corner of the shop, where a lone table for four sits with a sad, plastic daisy in a dollar-store bud vase. Fiona hops down to follow him, and I wind up scrambling behind them.
Fiona drapes her legs over the second chair on one side of the table, leaving me next to Bay. I manage to restrain a glare and sit down.
It was easy this morning. Fiona burbled and chirped at me and gave me the address of the coffee shop and that was pretty much it. Now . . . now is the part I’m less sure about.
“Fiona told me about what she saw in the tunnel,” Bay says, and he doesn’t even lower his voice. I have to clench every muscle not to glance over my shoulder at Connie. “But I guess you figured that.”
“Yeah, pretty much. Who was your friend that day?” I ask Fiona. I can’t quite dial my voice up to the normal volume, but I’m close.
“Oh, that was Neddie.” She tosses it off and shrugs. “He’s not around much.”
“He’s cool,” Bay says, and leans back against the wall, one elbow up on the table. His coat is hanging on the wall next to mine and a yellowed rabbit-fur jacket I really hope is fake. I assume it’s Fiona’s.
I don’t know what I expected Bay to wear under that dumb coat. Black pleather? A three-piece tweed suit? But he’s in a totally normal, gray button-down and faded jeans, and up close his face is friendlier and less mysterious than it had seemed after our one brief meeting.
I realize what he’s said a moment too late, and I try to sound casual. “A threat? Is anyone a threat?”
He smiles, and even though it’s simple, instantaneous, I can’t help feeling that there’s something lurking behind it. A shadow that flickers by too quickly to make out. “Not really, no. And Connie’s totally taken care of.”
Taken care of? I’m not sure I like the sound of that, but before I can steal a look at her, Fiona adds, “Simple spell. She doesn’t hear anything we say about the craft.” Her grin is pure delight.
I don’t have to make up an excuse to glance at Connie now—I can hear her shoes on the faded linoleum floor, and when I look, she’s carrying three giant mugs and a pot of steaming water.
“I’ll be right back with the tea stuff and the cake. I assume you cheapskates—oh, I mean, poor,
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