9
Morning Glory didn’t look like relaxed modern cafe. The weathered red brick building looked more like an old-fashioned storefront that belonged in a Western movie. Squatting on a corner in the middle of the Art District, it faced a massive cement parking structure on one side and a well-maintained little park on the other. Without the umbrellas covering wrought-iron tables on the patio and the welcoming glow from the windows, I never would have found it.
I studied the cafe from a bench in the park. The area didn’t seem like the kind of place to find a cafe. Parked cars lined the road, making it feel almost like an alley. In the back of the cafe, a garage door opened as a truck backed in the short drive. Two men got out and began to unload their delivery under a midnight blue sky lightening to violet, with just a hint of orange. Dawn was almost here. For the hundredth time since I left the alley, I wondered if Nick would really keep our deal. He’d clearly been upset about my demand that he free me. Had he sent me here because he was serious about investigating together, or was it a trap?
Nothing outside the cafe looked suspicious. Nothing looked out of place except the glowing windows on the gritty industrial street. Even if this was a trap, I couldn’t afford to not show up. Not when my freedom hung in the balance.
I crossed the street and pushed open one of the cafe double doors. A little bell tinkled as I entered the dining area, but no one looked at me. Despite all the lights being on, only one customer sat at one of the booths lining the walls, reading a newspaper as he ate. He seemed too distracted to be an undercover cop waiting to spring a trap on me. Wood tables and chairs filled most of the room with a counter and tall barstools in the center. Footsteps sounded from beyond, probably someone coming to welcome a new customer. I hurried through the dining room, weaving through the tables to the back, where a restroom sign beckoned. If the police had seen or heard any details of my disguise, I couldn’t let anyone get a good look at me.
I made it to the women’s room just as I heard a woman call out a hesitant greeting. Flipping on the light and locking the door behind me, I looked in the mirror and got my first look at the disguise Gemma had whipped up. My hair was so knotted and tangled that it fluffed up in unnatural and unflattering ways, as if it had never seen a comb. My new jacket was relatively clean, but threadbare and worn, and the paramedic jacket underneath made me look twenty pounds heavier. The ragged skirt was stained and torn, while the bolt of black fabric wrapped around my waist added to the dumpy homeless look. My face, haggard and drawn with dark circles under my eyes, made me look older, more jaded.
I looked nothing like the woman the police were looking for, except maybe as a distant relation if they paid attention to the gold undertone in my skin and the length of my nose. Gemma had really known what she was doing. To any random human, I appeared to be a downtrodden middle-aged woman hardened by life on the street.
Part of me whispered it was a good thing the alley where Nick found me had been so dark. He wouldn’t have seen the full effect of my ugly disguise.
“Stop that,” I told my reflection. “It doesn’t matter if he saw it or not. He’s just using you. Like you’re using him.”
I nodded to myself, pushing thoughts of Nick out of my mind, and started undoing Gemma’s work. Designed to blend in with the homeless population of Skid Row, my current wardrobe would attract more attention than it deflected anywhere else. The Art District might look gritty on the surface, but underneath it was gentrified, becoming more trendy and popular.
I stripped off all my clothes and set them out on the diaper changing table. I might not be able to blend in here with what I had on hand, but at least I could not stand out.
Standing in front of the sink, naked but for the necklace of bruises around my throat, I wet my fingers and started combing through my hair, painstakingly separating every knot and smoothing every tangle. It seemed to take forever, and I hoped no one was waiting to use the women’s restroom. Next, I pulled out wads of paper towels and wet them so I could get myself as clean as possible. I got the last traces of dried blood off my hands and cuffs, wiped the dust and grit of the collapsed cell from my face and neck and arms, and then washed all the way down to my ankles. The rest of me wasn’t dirty. But it felt good to clean my skin, like I could wash away Morgan’s murder and the council’s execution order with a simple damp paper towel.
When I was finished, I tossed the soiled towels into the trash and pulled on my original clothes, the white pants and sleeveless tunic another marker of my enslavement. They weren’t truly white anymore, discolored thanks to the dust and debris of the collapsed cell. But slightly dirty pants and shirt were better than the ripped, stained skirt. That I buried in the trash, along with the paramedic jacket. I debated tossing the extra fabric I’d gotten from Oscar’s cart, since the jacket would cover my slave cuffs and that was what I really needed. But it was better to have it and not need it than the other way around, so I tied it around my waist and pulled on my jacket. The woman in the mirror looked a lot better now, though I couldn’t do much about the bags under my eyes. With one last scan to make sure my slave cuffs were hidden, I opened the door and returned to the dining room.
Another booth had filled while I’d been cleaning up, two young men enjoying breakfast with constant smiles. I slid into the first booth I came to, the most out of the way spot in the whole cafe where I could watch the door but avoid the most notice. The windows filled with pink-orange light that brightened by the minute until sunshine streamed inside the cafe. A triumphant smile stretched my lips, baring my teeth in a fierce joy.
I had survived the dawn, and the council’s execution order.
Another pair of humans entered the cafe and chose one of the booths on my side of the building, chattering happily as they debated what to order. Less than a minute later, a man entered and sauntered to the bar. My smile faded. With sunrise, business was picking up. And the more people entered the cafe, the more likely I was to be noticed. I returned my gaze to the nearest window and made my face neutral, expressionless, hopefully the kind of face no one would remember.
Footsteps approached. “Morning, what can I get you?”
I glanced at the smiling waitress, my stomach suddenly gnawing at me with desperate hunger. I had no money, but I didn’t want her to know that. I tugged on my sleeves to ensure my cuffs were hidden as I racked my brain for a response. “I’m waiting for someone,” I finally said.
Her eyes passed over me, but her smile never wavered. “Okay,” she said cheerfully. “Just let me know when you’re ready.”
I nodded, and she strode to the couple a few booths up, her auburn curls bouncing against her summery floral print dress. The bell above the door tinkled as a few more humans came in, some choosing booths, others snagging barstools at the counter. I took a deep breath, my fingers pulling at my sleeves. I had to remain calm. As long as my cuffs stayed covered, I could pass for another human. But every time the bell chimed and the person at the door wasn’t Nick, staying calm got a little harder.
The waitress soon returned, sliding a tray on my table. “Here you go.”
“But I didn’t…” The tray held a steaming mug of coffee and a plate piled high with pancakes and bacon, a little jug of syrup and packets of butter to the side. I breathed in the most delicious smells I could ever remember, and my stomach growled loudly.
“You have to take it back,” I said, as much as I didn’t want to.
“Why would I do that?” She still smiled. “The look on your face says it’s exactly what you wanted.”
I shook my head, my gut twisting. I had to tell her the truth and hope she wouldn’t kick me out and make me miss my meeting with Nick. “I can’t pay for it.”
Her smile deepened, and she winked at me. “Don’t worry about it.”
She left to check on other customers. I stared at her back, my mouth open. Had she known I couldn’t afford a meal? Maybe I still looked homeless, although I thought I’d done a decent job updating
my disguise.
The smell of bacon pulled my attention back to the food before me. I hadn’t eaten since dinner with Morgan last night, and who knew where my next meal would come from. So I dug in, slathering butter and syrup over the hot pancakes. Soon I had cleared the plate and nearly finished the coffee.
As I ate, the light outside increased, as did the noise inside. More people streamed in for breakfast, their chatting and laughter punctuated by the clink of dishes. Flat-screen TVs mounted in the corners clicked on, showing the weather forecast for the week. Soon nearly every booth, table, and stool was occupied. My heart rate started to pick up. So many people who might notice and remember me.
But still no Nick.
It was well past sunrise by now. Where was he? What would I do next if he never showed?
I gulped the last bit of coffee and started to set it down, then paused. There was a small piece of paper the size of business card where the mug had been, a brown spot on the corner where the coffee had dripped. I set the mug on the table and picked up the card, flipping it over to read the front.
Savannah House
Emergency Shelter for Women & Children
Safety and support to help women build a better future.
I swallowed and dropped the card on the tray, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. No one was. I zipped up my coat and arranged my hair to cover the bruises on my throat where Morgan had choked me. The waitress must have noticed them and assumed I was in an abusive relationship. That explained the free meal.
Callum, Gemma, now this woman. They could be kind to those like them, but how would they have treated me if they knew the truth?
I picked up the card and read it again. Part of me wished I could go there and ask for help escaping domestic violence. Maybe they would give me identity papers and help me disappear. As long as they never discovered my cuffs…
“Are you going to pay for that?”
I jumped as Nick slid into the other side of the booth, scowling at me. His leather jacket creaked faintly as he crossed his arms.
“The waitress took pity on me,” I said, jamming the business card in my pocket. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming.”
“Couldn’t break away from the search like I planned.” He glanced around the bustling dining room at all the customers like he was nervous about being overheard. But between their own conversations and the sounds of eating, not to mention the morning news on the TVs, I doubted anyone would hear us.
“So where do we start?” I said. “I’ve never investigated anything before.”
“We need to figure out who had motive to kill my uncle. Who stood to gain if he was gone.”
I nodded slowly. “Wouldn’t that put you at the top of the list? You’re his sole heir, right?”
His eyes smoldered under deeply furrowed brows. “Would I be here if I was the killer?”
The hair on the back of my neck stood up, but it wasn’t Nick’ anger that triggered my instincts. I casually scanned the cafe. The waitress watched us from behind the bar, no longer smiling.
“You might if you wanted to protect the most valuable part of your inheritance,” I said. “Morgan Music Studios is a powerhouse in the entertainment industry because of me.”
Nick opened his mouth as if to say something, then took a deep breath instead. His scowl vanished, and the smolder in his eyes sharpened to something more calculating. “There’s an easy way to solve this dilemma.”
I cocked my eyebrows, and he continued.
“Am I the person you fought with in his office?”
“No,” I said with a hint of a smile. “You’re taller.” I had known it wasn’t him, but it was nice to hear him use my experience as his alibi, even if he didn’t completely believe my story.
He rolled his eyes as if he knew exactly why I’d suggested him as a suspect. “I think we should start by going back to the office. Maybe we’ll find something the police missed. Or at least figure out why the attacker jumped out the window. That’s a long fall.”
My nerves fluttered. They had jumped rather than face my magic, but Nick could never know that. The TV screen flickered in the corner of my eye, and I looked to see my face on the screen.
“Adira?” Nick said. “You ready?”
I wished I could hear what the news anchor was saying over the noise of the bustling cafe. Just as swiftly, I was grateful I couldn’t. My face on the morning news in millions of households in the Inland Empire was bad enough without commentary.
Nick followed my gaze and stiffened. “Good thing you’re done with your breakfast,” he murmured. “Because it’s time to go.”
“We might have a problem,” I said as something else caught my eye. “Do you know the back way out of here?”
“No, why?”
I licked my lips, watching the waitress stride toward us, no longer smiling.
“Because I think someone just recognized me.”
10
“Get up,” Nick hissed, sliding out of the booth.
I followed suit as he fished his wallet out of his back pocket and pulled out a few large bills. Tension thrummed through my limbs. What was he doing? We needed to get out of here.
The waitress reached us, her smile stiff. “You’re leaving already? I was just coming over to get your order.”
“Unfortunately, we have an appointment across town we can’t miss.” Nick pressed the bills in her hand and smiled at her with warm eyes and a dimple in his cheek.
My breath caught. He’d been attractive before, but that smile completely transformed his face.
“But thank you for taking care of my girl,” he said. Then he turned that smile to me and slid an arm around my waist, pulling me closer. “Ready to go?”
I forced a smile and nodded, wrapping an arm around him.
The waitress looked pointedly at me. “You sure you don’t need anything? Don’t be afraid to ask.”
That was an odd thing to say if she was trying to stall us long enough for the authorities to arrive. But I didn’t dwell on it. “I’m fine, thank you.”
Nick guided us around her, keeping me pressed against him as we beelined for the door. Once outside, I started to pull away, but his hand tightened on my waist.
“Stay together until we get to the truck. Just in case anyone’s watching,” he murmured.
The mention of being watched made goosebumps rise on my skin, countered by the thrilling heat every time our thighs brushed. We walked around the corner to where a large black truck dominated the curb.
“I should have known,” I said as Nick broke away and opened the passenger door.
“What?”
I gestured at his dark clothes, the leather jacket, and then the truck. “Black, black, and more black. You have a theme, Nick.”
He rolled his eyes and shut the door, striding around the front to get in the other side. “For your information,” he said as he turned the key in the ignition, making the engine roar, “black is classic. You can’t go wrong with black.”
He pulled away from the curb and shot down the street. I breathed deeply and relaxed into the leather seat, grateful we’d gotten out of a potentially sticky situation without a hitch. Nick had fallen into the role of doting boyfriend quickly and with an expert touch. I could still feel his arm around me. And that smile…
I stole a sideways glance at him. The smile had disappeared, replaced by serious expression as he navigated out of the Art District toward the heart of the city.
“We need to dye your hair,” he said.
“Excuse me?” I straightened in my seat. He couldn’t be serious.
“That was too close back there. We need to change your appearance so it’s harder for people to recognize you.” He glanced over at me. “Cut and bleach will make a big difference.”
“Absolutely not.”
His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Do you want to be captured?”
“I am not changing my hair,” I spat. “Djinn o
nly have black or brown hair. I refuse to bleach out my heritage.”
“Everyone knows djinn are dark-haired, that’s the point of dyeing it.”
I crossed my arms and stared out the window as we turned a corner, hoping he would drop the subject. He wasn’t getting anywhere near my hair, no matter how much it might help me avoid being recognized.
“What about cutting it?”
I sighed. Why couldn’t he just leave this alone? “Are you deaf, Nick? I said no.”
“You said no bleach.” He held out a finger triumphantly. “They’ll be looking for woman with long dark hair. A cut would still help.”
“Touch my hair, and you will regret it.”
He slammed to a stop in the middle of the road. The seatbelt jerked painfully against my shoulder. Nick turned and glared at me. “What is your problem?”
“My problem?” I sputtered.
A car behind on us blared its horn, then dashed around us.
“Yeah, because clearly you have one.” Nick’s eyes bored into mine. “I’m trying to help you, Adira. I’m aiding and abetting a fugitive who may or may not be able to help me find my uncle’s killer, and I promised to free her from slavery to boot. Do you understand what that means?”
Another car veered around us, its horn screaming.
“If we’re caught, I go to prison for a very long time.” Nick’s voice pinned me down, held me prisoner in a way no chains could. “If we’re successful and I keep my promise to you, I face the red tape and backlash of a society built on the enslavement of a magical race. Not to mention I’ll lose the better part of my inheritance. You said it yourself, you’re the secret ingredient of Morgan Music Studios. If I free you, I wouldn’t even be able to sell the business for very much. And you can’t cut a few inches of your hair? What’s it made of, gold? Or better yet, magic?”
With a final severe scowl, he turned back to the road and jerked the truck forward again.
Heroines and Hellions: a Limited Edition Urban Fantasy Collection Page 172
