The bell on the door gives its innocuous ding-a-ling, alerting to me to the fourth eldritch horror that's come in for espresso this morning.
"How did it get to this point," I wonder as I set down the carafe I've been polishing blood and mystery goo off of for the last five minutes.
"Good morning..." I cock my head to the side as I size up my new customer, "madam?" I'm usually pretty good at estimating who and what has come in my shop, but lately its not just fairies, dragons, and cryptids. They've been getting weirder. The old timers are starting to enjoy the delicacies of the modern coffee shop - the myths, the primal, the forgotten ones. "What can I get started for you?"
There's no sound. Even the regular dim clatter of cups, spoons, and bones seems to be sucked out of the room. A ragged find scans down the menu of seasonal specials. The room gets colder and fills with the uneasiness of impatiences and frustration. "We also have some more traditional options if that's what you're looking for, "I offer. Silence. Then, without an answer, somehow I know. "Can I have a name for the order?" Somehow I know the answer that, too.
I raise an eyebrow. "That's a new one, " I mumble to myself.
I get started on the order. My life was so much different five years ago. If you had told me that, when I moved to this quiet New England town to start over and open a cozy coffee shop, hiring Tom as a barista would have led to this, I would have thought you were crazy. Apparently immortal tricksters don't typically come clean about being fae demigods on their resumes, though.
I thought his friends were a little odd, but they were bringing business; and who am I to judge? But then I over heard him offering some "secret menu" add ins to a latte a couple times. Gold dust, nectar, shamrocks - little things. Unicorn blood was where I tried to draw the line and started asking questions. But it was too late. More and more business from stranger and stranger things kept flow in. And most the time, our normal human customers either didn't notice or weren't bothered. So I looked the other way when someone paid with silver coins or asked for Tom's Secret Specials.
Sometimes the customers seem friendly. Sometimes...less so. And they usually don't make a mess. And if they do they ask to "speak to Tom in the conference room". I've never been in the "conference room", but the cafe music usually covers up the screams that echo from that back chamber (which, by the way, definitely was not there when I bought this building). And I have an unspoken deal with Tom that as long as he takes care of it, I won't ask too many questions.
My hands tremble slightly as the impatient cold grows in the room, and the glass on the bakery case frosts over. "I'll be done with this soon, but it will be easier if its not quite as chilly in here," I calmly but firmly look over my shoulder at the monster that's craning over my counter.
It warms slightly, as the fell creature backs up somewhat apologetically. I walk to counter with steely eyes. "Sorry for the wait, I don't usually have anyone order drip coffee these days. I had to do a pour over. Would you like cream?"
Somehow I know - Tartarus takes it black.
