Random Acts of Sorcery (The Familiar Series Book 3) Page 5

  A little while later, the subject of his musings entered the shop; Cassie had a four-hour afternoon shift, after which she would be coming with him. He noticed immediately that she was wearing one of those sweaters that he liked, and he wasn’t sure if he was pleased or not.

  Chapter Seven

  Cassie thought that she would be a nervous wreck at work, dropping plates and maybe even hot coffee all over the customers in her nervousness. Instead, the opposite was true; she was in the Barista Zone, if such a thing existed. She repeated back complex orders without missing a beat, found time to clean the condiment bar so regularly that not even a tiny splash of skim milk dirtied it, and rang up orders so fast that the customers were visibly impressed.

  Once, she even grabbed a drink that was teetering over before it could spill. The customer, who had accidentally knocked the cup over with his elbow not a half-second before, let out a low whistle.

  “Whew, nice reflexes girl!”

  “No problem.”

  “You an athlete?”

  “No, I just didn’t want to waste good coffee,” she said with a laugh. “Have a nice day.”

  “You too, sweetheart.” The man took his drink and scone and walked away, after a little tip of his hat to her. After he had left, Cassie’s smile faded.

  I have good reflexes? Since when?

  She wasn’t clumsy exactly, and she had been pretty good at sports when she was little, but she wasn’t particularly fast or graceful; she never had been. Would she have been able to catch that coffee cup six months ago? What had changed?

  Cassie frowned; she had a gut feeling that the answer to that question was somehow very important, and she probably wouldn’t figure it out until it was too late.

  Dwight interrupted her revelry. “Cassie, can you run in the back and grab me some more UBB packets?”

  “Sure,” she said, moving for the break room door.

  “After you do that, punch out,” he said, wiping down counters absentmindedly as he talked.

  She suppressed a cough as she entered the break room. Was it 7 p.m. already? It felt like her shift had flown by.

  There were no loose packets of the beverage mix on the shelf, so she knelt and used a boxcutter to open a fresh box of the stuff. They always had a few boxcutters around in the back, if you knew where to look, but now that she thought about it, maybe keeping them around wasn’t such a wise practice. Ethan was in this room periodically, and a child could really hurt himself with a sharp blade. Granted, the kid was smart and would probably never cut himself, but why take the risk? Keeping the things in a locked locker or drawer would get annoying every time she needed to open a box, but she was going to suggest it to Dwight anyway.

  Taking a fistful of the white packets, she left the breakroom and put the beverage mix in the appropriate place behind the counter. Jay had already taken over her register, so she had to nudge him aside so she could punch out. As she did so, Khalil walked by and stooped to whisper in her ear:

  “Just lie back, and think of Narnia.”

  “Khalil!” she yelped, but he was gone before she could retaliate.

  “Sam, stop stalling and punch out already,” said Dwight from behind her.

  “I’m not stalling,” Sam said, wiping his hand on a wet cloth and walking slowly to the opposite register to punch out. When he was done, he turned to her, his expression blank. “Are you ready to go?”

  “I just need to get my coat,” she said quickly. He nodded, and she went to the back to get it. Before putting her coat on, she untied her work apron and put it in her locker; no need to start the evening smelling like steamed milk.

  Well, no more than she already did.

  When she was back in the main room, Dwight finally glanced up from his clipboard and looked at both of them. He popped his gum once, then looked back down. “Be safe, you two.”

  It was the kind of thing Dwight typically said to his employees when they left at night, but the connotations of the word “safe” made Cassie’s cheeks burn.

  “Call me if you get a rush you can’t handle,” said Sam over his shoulder.

  “If I can’t handle it, you would be useless, my friend,” said Khalil solemnly.

  When the two of them were outside the shop, Cassie stopped suddenly. “Oh, oops.”

  “What?” said Sam, sounding guarded.

  “I forgot to mention the boxcutters to Dwight. We shouldn’t be keeping them loose. I’ll tell him next shift.”

  “Why’s that?” he said, heading off to the right with the expectation that she would follow.

  She fell into step with him. “Isn’t it obvious? Someone could hurt themselves with one of those things.”

  “An idiot, maybe,” said Sam. “Everyone retracts the blades when they put them back on the shelf. It’s common sense.”

  “You think that anyone who makes any kind of mistake must be an idiot,” said Cassie, then flinched slightly when she realized how accusatory she sounded. Did she really want to start this evening off by bickering with him?

  “Sorry, force of habit. Where to?” She was following him, but wasn’t sure where they were headed.

  “My apartment, if that’s alright with you,” he said quietly.

  “Oh. So we’re going in, instead of going out.”

  He stopped suddenly. “If that’s not what you want, we can go to a restaurant, whatever you like. Only, when I talked to you about it yesterday, it didn’t seem to matter to you where we went, so –”

  “It’s fine, it’s fine,” she said hurriedly. “I was just making conversation.”

  They walked for a few moments in silence. Cassie figured that they were probably walking to the 110th street bus stop, since there were few apartment buildings in the direction Sam was taking them. She cleared her throat.

  “Are you going to…cook? Do you know how?”

  He looked as though he was about to snap at her, then changed his mind. They were working on it, this not-bickering-constantly thing. “Well enough. I can’t make too many things, but what I do make, I make very well. Or so I’ve been told.”

  “What are you making tonight?”

  “Chicken parmigiana,” he said, then his eyes widened. “Wait, you’re not lactose-intolerant, are you? If you are, I can change it and do a—”

  “No no, it’s fine. I like chicken parmigiana actually,” she said, flustered. It wasn’t like it was unusual for him to check that she would like what he was making, but the words sounded odd coming out of his mouth. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about her, but it had always seemed like little details like what she liked to eat and drink were completely beneath his notice. Being in a situation where he was expected to care about her tastes felt weird.

  As they reached the bus shelter, a cold breeze ruffled her bangs, lifting them off her forehead for a moment. Before she realized what was happening, Sam was in front of her, tilting her chin up to look at her face. She almost gasped.

  “What is that?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

  “What’s what?” she said, then remembered when she saw his eyes focus on the left side of her face. In the harsh light of the bus shelter, it probably stood out far more than it had in the relatively dim shop. “Oh, Hunter threw something at my face. It’s okay, doesn’t hurt.”

  He frowned. “It was your brother?”

  “Yeah, and I need to talk to you about that, but maybe not here,” she said, shifting her eyes. There were several people milling around the bus station, and a few of them were glancing their way.

  He let go of her. “Okay. As long as you’re alright,” he said, and put his hands in his pockets. Cassie stared: was he…disappointed?

  Yes, of course he is. He wanted someone to have done something bad to me so he could hurt them for it. That’s what I am to him: an excuse to take out his rage in the guise of protecting me. I’m the perfect excuse.

  She knew the thought was unfair, because the fact was that she did need protecting and he really didn’t hav
e a choice. But still; as they waited for the bus silently, she wondered how much of whatever regard for her he had was due to the fact that she gave him reasons to use his powers without guilt. She felt pretty confident that he would never use a really nasty spell on her—and had for a while, actually—but in some ways, that only made it worse.

  He wouldn’t hurt her because he needed her too badly, and the depth of that need scared her. She frowned; could he even see her as a person, when what she really was to him was a walking Get Out of Jail Free card?

  Chapter Eight

  When the two got off the bus near Sam’s new apartment, his nerves were already tested, and the night hadn’t even started yet. It wasn’t Cassie’s fault; he could tell she was trying to be laid back and agreeable, which he did appreciate. It was just that knowing how their night was supposed to end seemed to color everything around them. On the bus, he noticed that some men were looking at Cassie, clearly wondering what kind of a figure she had under her bulky coat. It angered him, but he knew he had no reason to be angry; they weren’t being aggressive, weren’t obviously leering, just subtly appreciating the sight of a pretty girl nearby. They were harmless, so why did he have a strong urge to smash their faces in?

  He had ridden on a bus with Cassie once before, back in the fall when he needed to curse her house to protect her from being familiar-napped. Back then, if any men had been looking at her, he hadn’t noticed or cared. Even before she was his familiar, he did get irritated on the frequent occasions when male customers at the shop addressed their orders to her chest and not to her, but he thought that was just common decency; he would have been offended for anyone being disrespected that way. When did he become so hyper-sensitive to her?

  What does it matter? He thought as he took his keycard out of his back pocket. You are, whether you like it or not. Learn to deal with it, or make a fool of yourself. Those are the only two choices.

  “This is an old one,” said Cassie behind him, breaking the silence. She took a generous step back and craned her neck to see the top of the building. “I’ll bet this is one of the originals, from when the city was first built. It even has gargoyles. That’s pretty cool,” she said with appreciation.

  Sam smiled as he ran his card through the reader. “Actually, that’s Vladmira and some of her friends up there.”

  “Really? No way!” she said.

  She was quiet as they made their way through the lobby, taking in the sight of the building’s antique furniture and trimmings. Frankly, it was all a bit too upscale for Sam’s tastes, but as Khalil had pointed out, it was certainly much better than having to take the poor girl to the likes of Bob’s Motel.

  “So how many bats do you have now?” she finally asked in the elevator.

  “Well, I only really have Vladmira,” he said. “She’s the only one who flies in and out of the apartment. The others just seem to like being on the roof for some reason.”

  “Kind of adds to the whole gothic-charm thing this building has going on.”

  “I suppose.”

  The elevator binged, and they got off. This is great, if we can just keep talking about bats all night, it probably won’t end with her screaming.

  He got out his keys and went to open the door to Apartment 12B, feeling strangely vulnerable with his back to her. For some reason, he wanted to be able to see her face at all times.

  He opened the door and gestured for her to enter. She did slowly, taking in the sight of his living room. Despite the building’s aged façade the apartments—or at least Sam’s apartment—were modern in style. He had sleek black furniture, a big, flatscreen TV fixed to one wall, and a nice-sized eat-in, open kitchen overlooking the rest of the apartment. The furnishings were a little sparse, since he really hadn’t added anything to what had already been there when he arrived, but what was there was quality.

  Cassie took a few steps forward, her large blue eyes taking measure of the place. She came to stop just in front of his low mica coffee table. “Pretty nice. Could use some rugs though.”

  “I like the hardwood floors. But I can’t take credit, Eugene set it all up,” he said gesturing to the furnishings with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Let me take your coat.”

  As she slipped out of it, he realized that he probably should have walked over to her and helped her off with her coat in proper gentlemanly fashion, but it was too late now. She tossed it to him and he caught it with one hand, then went to hang it up in the closet next to his sole winter jacket. The two jackets looked almost companionable together, all alone in the closet….

  I need to stop thinking so much before I lose my everloving mind.

  “Can I sit down?” she asked, pointing to his leather couch.

  “No Cassie, I expect you to stand at attention for several hours. Of course you can sit down.”

  “I was just being polite.”

  “It’s a bad habit,” he said, then turned toward the kitchen and stopped. “I have to make the food now, but um, you can…you’re free to….” he trailed off. He really hadn’t thought this part out.

  Luckily for him, Cassie had found the TV remote and wasn’t even looking at him. “It’s fine, I’m busy, go be a kitchen demon,” she said, waving him away.

  “Are you sure? I can get you a book, or something.”

  “Shhhh! Cupcake Empire is on, go cook food,” she said, seemingly enraptured by all the colored frosting on screen. He didn’t know if she was really as captivated by the show as she was pretending to be, but having her occupied was a relief.

  He actually didn’t go directly to the kitchen, instead stopping in his bedroom quickly to change. He didn’t want to spend the whole night smelling of coffee and milk if he could help it. He briefly entertained the idea of putting on his black suit for court, and smiled at the thought of it. He would look ridiculous, puttering around his kitchen in satin and white gloves while bread crumbs got everywhere. He settled on tan slacks and a black T-shirt, then hesitated and changed to a black button-down shirt. He was on a date, wasn’t he? He was pretty sure that shirts with collars were generally preferred on dates.

  He also changed his briefs and undershirt; it was amazing, how deep that coffee smell could penetrate.

  In the kitchen, making dinner went smoothly, the innocuous babble from the TV in the living room mixing well with the sizzling sounds from his pots and pans. He had made chicken parmigiana at least 100 times before, which was why he was making it tonight; he had enough to worry about without screwing up some complicated recipe in an attempt to impress her.

  It probably wouldn’t work anyway, he thought. Didn’t she say once that her favorite food is hamburgers? Not a lady of particularly refined tastes, my familiar. But I like that about her.

  The forty-five minutes it took him to cook seemed to fly. “Food,” he called, confident she would hear him over the TV. It sounded uncouth, even to him. But what was he supposed to say?

  Milady, I have finished preparing our most sumptuous repast. Now, if you would be so kind as to join me in the dining room at your leisure…

  Cassie entered the kitchen, then stopped short when she saw the spread on the table, which included the chicken, a bowl of pasta, and freshly-baked garlic bread. “Wow, that looks good. I’m impressed.”

  He smiled, motioning for her to sit. “I told you I can make a few things. You shouldn’t be so surprised.”

  “Yeah, but I thought that the people who told you that your cooking was good might have just been afraid of you. No offense,” she shrugged as she sat.

  He considered how to respond to that as he took his seat. “I know this may come as a shock to you, but most of the people I associate with have no idea what I am. Until recently.”

  She began cutting the golden-brown chicken breast on her plate. “Yeah, but you’re pretty scary even when people don’t know what you are.”

  He paused, knife and fork in hand. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  She shrugged again. “Just what
I said. We were all a little scared of you, you know. Before we knew anything. We just didn’t know why we were scared.”

  Hearing that hurt. He’d took pride in his cultivated ability to blend in, to be unremarkable. He’d thought for years that he never gave his coworkers at most jobs any inkling of what he was, but maybe he’d just been seeing what he wanted to see.

  As Cassie began bolting down the chicken, a more immediately pressing thought occurred to him. “Oh wait…I forgot to make the salad,” he said, feeling foolish. “I knew I forgot something.”

  “Oh, I’m so heartbroken,” Cassie deadpanned as she chewed. “This is so yummy, why ruin it with vegetables?”

  Chapter Nine

  They talked mostly of work while they ate: the new byzantine cleaning standards that corporate was imposing, the new spring-themed pastries that no one was buying, and the usual rogues’ gallery of customers that all the employees hated. Cassie felt as close to relaxed as she had all day, in no small part because dinner was so good.

  It was the perfect chicken parmigiana: crispy and crunchy on the outside, moist on the inside, and with just enough cheese to feel indulgent without crossing the line into greasiness. She knew it was probably so delicious because Sam had made it a billion times rather than learn to cook something else, but still, tasty was tasty.

  After dinner, she sank back down onto the comfy living room couch while Sam cleaned up, amused to find that another episode of Cupcake Empire was on. The channel seemed to be having some kind of cupcake marathon. When Sam emerged from the kitchen, he set a large black mug down in front of her on the coffee table.

  “What’s this?”

  “Chamomile tea. I know we’ve both had enough coffee today, but a heavy meal like this goes down better with a hot drink at the end.”

  She cradled the mug in her hands and smelled the steam rising out of it. She briefly had an absurd thought that maybe Sam had put some kind of love potion in it, but that was ridiculous. Why would he even need a potion? She was his familiar; if he commanded her to do anything, she couldn’t say no.