Through it all, I smiled. Laughed at jokes. My sunshine personality never faltered, even as the familiar ache of loneliness pressed against my ribs. I watched couples holding hands over steaming mugs. Friends sharing secrets in cozy corners. Families arguing lovingly about weekend plans. Everyone connected to someone.
Everyone except me.
During a rare lull, Silas cornered me by the pastry case. "Playing boss lady again today?" His tone was light, but his eyes, completely black except for ruby pupils, were sharper than usual. "Any word from the mysterious owner about making it official?"
I wiped imaginary crumbs from the counter. "Nothing. Not a peep."
"Ridiculous." He snorted, a puff of cinnamon-scented smoke escaping his nostrils. "You're running this place single-handedly, and what, we're supposed to just wait for some absentee demon lord to notice?"
"I don't even know if the owner is a demon," I said, though I'd heard the rumors. "And I'm not running it single-handedly. I have you and Bramble."
"Speaking of our plant witch..." Silas nodded toward the window where a small, dark figure battled through the snow.
The back door burst open, bringing a swirl of snowflakes and the scent of crushed herbs. Bramble stomped in, her delicate pixie wings dusted with frost and twitching with irritation. Today she wore what I called her "goth gardener" look, black overalls over a purple sweater with dark floral embroidery, paired with combat boots that made her seem more imposing.
"These damn icy sidewalks are ruining my morning," she growled, shaking snow from her wings. The movement sent droplets flying, several hitting Silas who hissed.
"Watch the eyeliner, plant girl!"
Bramble shot him a look that could have wilted his horns. "Call me 'plant girl' again and I'll make sure every pastry you bake tastes like dirt for a week."
I slipped a steaming mug into Bramble's cold hands before she could make good on her threat. "Blackberry tea with honey and just a drop of that tincture you made for sore wings."
Her fierce expression softened slightly. "Thanks, Sim." She took a sip and sighed, some of the tension leaving her narrow shoulders. "You're too good for this place."
"Or just good enough," I replied, patting her arm.
The café hummed with conversation, laughter, and the occasional supernatural spat. I moved through it all like a pink beacon, smiling, soothing, serving. The perfect hostess to this mismatched family of regulars and misfits. No one needed to know about the hollow space behind my smile. How I watched their connections with hungry eyes and I collected scraps of belonging like a bird building a nest with borrowed twigs. Ibelonged to the café, to its customers and their needs. It was enough.
It had to be enough.
Mid-pour over a half-caf oat milk latte, I felt it before I heard it, a pressure change that made my ears pop, as if the café had suddenly been transported to a higher altitude. Then came the cold. Not the gentle winter chill that swirled in with each opening door, something more harsh that made my bones ache. The front door blasted inward with a gust of air that extinguished three floating candles and sent napkins scattering like startled birds.
He filled the doorway completely.
Krampus.
I'd never seen him before, but I knew instantly, viscerally, who and what he was. The owner. The shadow behind the café. He had to duck to enter, his curved horns nearly scraping the doorframe. They weren't cute nubs like Silas', these were proper horns, obsidian black and ridged, sweeping back from his forehead like a crown made of midnight. His face was sharp angles and harsh planes, skin the color of blood. His eyes, though, gods, his eyes. They glowed gold, not warm like honey but sharp like metal, reflective and utterly inhuman.
The café went silent as a tomb. Even the enchanted gingerbread men in the display case froze mid-dance.
He wore what might generously be called a suit, if suits were designed for creatures with shoulders broader than doorways. Black wool coat, charcoal vest, blood-red tie that made the golden accents at his cuffs gleam brighter. But from the knee down, the illusion of humanity disappeared entirely. His legs were those of a beast, furred, powerful, ending in hooves that clicked against the wooden floor with each deliberate step.
Mr. Graves's coffee cup hovered midway to his skeletal mouth. The werewolves, usually so boisterous, tucked their tails andaverted their eyes. The vampire pulled her collar higher, as if trying to disappear into her own coat.
I stood paralyzed, coffee pot still tilted, watching liquid overflow the forgotten mug and pool on the counter.
"Shit," I whispered, yanking the pot upright. My hands weren't steady anymore.
The air in the café changed, as if someone had cranked up both the heat and the gravity. Each breath felt thicker, richer, charged with an energy that prickled along my skin. Shadow seemed to follow him despite the bright morning light streaming through the windows, clinging to his form like it couldn't bear to let go.
He moved with predatory grace, his massive frame navigating between tables with unexpected delicacy. Claws, not nails, actual claws, tipped his fingers, obsidian black against red skin. A cloak of darkness draped from his shoulders, shedding snowflakes that evaporated before hitting the ground, as if even snow knew better than to linger uninvited on his person.
His gaze swept the café like searchlights, cataloguing each customer, each piece of furniture, each decoration. Assessing his domain. Judging what had been done in his absence.
Judging me.
Because suddenly, inevitably, those metallic eyes locked onto mine. The full weight of his attention hit me, driving the air from my lungs and sending heat crawling up my neck to bloom in my cheeks. I couldn't look away. Didn't want to, despite the danger radiating from him like radiation from a nuclear core.
