My boyfriend must be dead-set on getting this trip over and done with, because he’s sailing inside the deli. My heart stutters, and my blood chills. I wasn’t going to head in, much less with a mortal sidekick, but what choice do I have now?
Before the deli’s glass door settles, I lunge after him, remembering to yank off my hair tie since Holy Hunters don’t mistake our runes for body art.
Two patrons share a table—a woman with the most crumpled face I’ve ever seen, and a skinny man with an apron, who I assume must be the cook.
The old lady apparently didn’t get the memo about the cigarette ban in restaurants, because she’s tapping the ash off the tip of her tobacco wand in an ashtray overflowing with lipstick-smudged butts.
“They’re closed.” Cillian shrills like he’s yet to hit puberty. He places his hand on my lower back and leans over to whisper, “Even the atheist in me believes this is a sign of God that we’re not supposed to consume food from this establishment.”
“What was that?” the smoker rasps.
“Nothing,” Cillian mutters, ushering me toward the door.
I twist around before he can steer me through it and whisper. “Go wait in the car. I’ll be out in a minute.”
His Adam’s apple jostles as though he’s fighting my compulsion. For a beat, I wonder if his anguish to leave me behind will defeat my demand, since strong emotions can hinder the effect of our magic. But the pressure on the small of my back vanishes, and he steps out.
“Place is closed, girlie,” the woman tells me just as the door settles in its frame.
I keep my gaze trained on Cillian until he’s tucked safely inside the station wagon. “I’d like a sandwich.”
“What part of?—”
“It’s okay, Luce.” The man stands, rubbing his palms on his apron that’s streaked with Gaea only knows what. The stains run the gamut from yellow to green to pink to burgundy. “What do you want on your roll?”
“Tuna fish,” I say, since Cillian thinks that’s what I drove halfway across the city for.
As he sets about making it, Luce drapes an arm on the back of her chair, observing me from underneath her mascara-laden lashes. “How’d you hear about this here deli?”
“Word of mouth,” I tell her.
“Word out ofwhosemouth?” she asks.
“A friend’s.”
“The one in the car?”
She obviously missed Cillian’s disgust-kinked lips. “No. Another friend.”
When her eyes flick to the cook, mine go there too. The man is dutifully slicing open a roll with a long serrated knife. I drum my fingers against my thigh, magic at the ready in case?—
The jingle of the front door has my pulse ratcheting.
Cillian stalks back in. “The engine won’t start. Wouldn’t happen to have any jumper cables and a car with a working battery?”
“Jumper cables…?” Luce’s thin eyebrows arch.
“I got some in my truck,” the cook says, smothering the cut sides of the roll with a hearty dose of tuna salad. “It’s parked out back.” He digs a key fob out of his apron. “Here.”
“I’ll just wait until you’re done.” Cillian doesn’t just grip my hand, he throttles it. “How much for the sandwich?”
“The rate’s double outside of business hours, so twenty,” he says.
Though Cillian’s eyes all but bug out of his skull, he flattens two tens on the countertop.
“You don’t have to pay for Gael,” I murmur.
“Can we just get back in the car?” he grumbles.
