"She started it," the taller one grunted, wincing as her sister's teeth remained firmly locked on her flesh.
I clapped my hands once, sharply. The sound contained just enough magic, a little trick Marcel had taught me before his untimely demise, to make both goblins flinch and separate. The shorter one released her bite with a reluctant slurp that turned my stomach.
"Now then," I said, voice sweet as pie but posture straight as steel. "Fighting over pastries is simply not acceptable behavior at The Hearth. You know the rules."
They had the decency to look ashamed, ears drooping in unison.
"But she—" the taller began.
"I don't care who started it," I interrupted, maintaining my sugary tone while fixing them with a look that could have frozen flames. "I'm finishing it."
With the efficient grace of someone who'd handled far worse tantrums, I picked up the contested scone and broke it cleanly in half. One piece went onto each of their plates, served with a smile that dared them to complain about the division.
"And because you've been such regular customers," I added, producing two small paper bags from my apron pocket, "I saved you each a special cinnamon bite from this morning's batch. They're the last ones."
This was a blatant lie. The cinnamon bites were yesterday's leftovers that I'd been planning to take home. But lies were a must when goblins were gnawing on each other in your café. The sisters' eyes widened, momentary feud forgotten in the face of unexpected treats. They accepted the bags with reverent hands, quarrel dissolving as quickly as it had erupted.
Crisis averted. I smoothed my dress and turned, only to freeze at the sound of the door chime, followed by a distinctive high-pitched intake of breath that made the hairs on my arms stand at attention. A banshee had entered the café. Not just any banshee, but Mrs. Mourningveil with her toddler, Dirge. The mother waselegant as always, wrapped in flowing gray silks that whispered against the floor. Her son, clutched in her arms, was turning an alarming shade of purple.
I recognized the warning signs one second too late.
Dirge opened his tiny mouth and unleashed a shriek that could have stripped paint. The sound vibrated through the café at a frequency that made my teeth ache and my vision blur. Customers clapped hands over ears. A werewolf whined, diving under his table. The vampire hissed, fangs extending involuntarily.
The worst casualty was Silas's freshly stacked tray of ceramic mugs, which shattered in spectacular fashion, sending fragments dancing across the counter like confetti from hell.
Mrs. Mourningveil looked mortified. "I'm so sorry! He's teething, and the new incisors are particularly sensitive—"
Dirge took another breath, gearing up for round two.
I moved faster than I thought possible, ignoring the ringing in my ears. Years of banshee customer service had taught me that tiny banshees, unlike human children, responded best to direct engagement rather than distraction.
I knelt before the purple-faced toddler, meeting his silver eyes directly. From my apron pocket (the true magic of this establishment resided in those bottomless pockets), I produced a sugar skull cookie, its icing a swirl of blues and silvers that matched his mother's ensemble.
"Hello, little mourner," I said softly. "That was quite a powerful voice. Would you like to try something sweet?"
His tiny mouth closed, momentary curiosity overriding the urge to shatter more dishware. I seized the opportunity, rising to my feet and guiding mother and child toward the counter.
"Let me make him something special," I told Mrs. Mourningveil, already reaching for the milk and peppermint syrup.
With practiced hands, I created a small cup of warm milk topped with foam art, a miniature skull with peppermint candy eyes. The magic was in the swirls of herb-infused honey I added beneath the foam, Bramble's special blend that helped soothe supernatural growing pains.
Dirge's eyes widened. The dangerous purple tinge receded from his cheeks as he reached pudgy hands toward the cup.
"Careful now," I cautioned as his mother helped him take a sip. "It's a special recipe just for brave little banshees."
The effect was immediate. His tiny shoulders relaxed, and a sound like distant wind chimes, a banshee toddler's version of a giggle, escaped his lips.
"Thank you," Mrs. Mourningveil whispered, relief evident in her silver eyes. "We had an incident at the grocery store earlier... three windows and a display of melons. I wasn't sure where else to go."
"The Hearth is always open to all voices," I assured her, already leading them toward a booth in the back corner, specially enchanted with sound-dampening charms for just such occasions. "Even the exceptionally powerful ones."
As I settled them with extra napkins and a complimentary ghostberry muffin for Mom, I felt it, the weight of that gaze, heavier than before. I turned slightly and saw Krampus had risen to his full, intimidating height beside his booth. He seemed to absorb the light around him, shadows clinging to his horns and broad shoulders. He didn't speak. His expression, a slight lift of one eyebrow, the barest hint of approval at the corner of his mouth, sent a flutter through my chest that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with pride. He was impressed. The realization sent warmth blooming through me like I'd swallowed sunshine. I straightened my shoulders, tucking a wayward curl behind my ear as I returned to the counter to help Silas clean up the shattered mugs. My hands were steady now,confidence flowing back into my veins. Let him watch. Let him see exactly what I could do. This was my café, and no one knew how to run it better than I did.
The mid-morning lull hit right on schedule, that brief window after the breakfast rush but before the lunch crowd descended. For the first time since opening, I could take a full breath without someone needing a refill or a pastry or an ear for their drama. But instead of relief, the momentary quiet only gave space for my anxiety to stretch and yawn and make itself comfortable behind my ribs.
I wiped down the already spotless counter, my movements on autopilot as my mind raced. What was Krampus really doing here? If he truly intended to replace me, what would happen to everything I'd built? The community I'd nurtured? The safe haven I'd created for creatures who needed somewhere to belong?
My fingers found the edge of the counter, gripping it like an anchor in a storm. I pressed harder, needing something solid to hold onto while my thoughts spiraled. I'd held The Hearth together when Marcel's body was barely cold. When the lawyer had delivered that cryptic message about the owner "being in touch soon." When suppliers threatened to cut us off because invoices were piling up and i had no idea how to pay them but I'd learned. I'd used my own savings to cover payroll one particularly tight week, something I hadn't told anyone, not even Bramble or Silas. The accountant had quickly fixed the issue and paid me back but that wasn’t the point.
