Page 18 of An Espresso Machine’s Guide to Love & Mischief

“Ohhh,” he says as it dawns on him.

He crouches down to slip the money off my back. “I had a pet rat when I was a kid. Tried to give him a dollar bill once, but he tore it apart and ate the pieces. I always did think he was a smart little guy, though.”

“He wasn’t a shifter,” I tell him. He doesn’t speak rat or understand me, but it seems like the polite thing to do. Better than standing here and staring at the fellow.

“Here you are.” He places the pizza box on the floor and takes a step back. “Would you like me to carry it somewhere else for you?”

I shake my head no.

“Okay then.” He watches me to see what I’ll do next.

“Aero?” I call.

My second scurries over, and we each grab a side of the box in our mouths and drag it to the edge of the platform. Letting go, we push its side with our noses until it drops onto the tracks.

“So that’s how you do it,” the pizza fellow comments.

Aero and I race down after the box, grab it again, and drag it into the tunnel, where our Mischief safely awaits to help carry it back to our home.

As they take over lugging the box, I pause to stare down the tracks towards King Station, where the train had gone. My stomach twists, and I sigh. Even though I know leaving the espresso machine was the correct choice, some part of me dissents.

I have always trusted my instincts in the past. Should I have done so this time?

“King Rollo, King Rollo!” One of the little pups scampers past. He has hopeful, beady eyes that remind me of me when I was a youngin. He lost his dad, just like I lost mine. I know from experience how that changes a rat. “Is it true that there’s a general meeting happening now? The tunnels are quiet, and there’s a rumor going around that almost every rat who’s of shifting age is required to attend.”

I give his head a quick lick to comfort him. “You are years away from shifting, Smartie. You should not be thinking of such things.” And yet here we are.

“All the kids are talking about it, sire. They say there are posters in the subway declaring that the humans want us all dead. Is it true, sire?”

“We’ll keep you safe,” I tell him. Not much else I can say. “I promise.”

Smartie stares at me with trusting eyes that I’ve done nothing to deserve. This month alone, our Mischief lost nine rats, including his father. If we don’t come up with a plan, we may lose a whole lot more.

Smartie joins our small procession, and we head toward the meeting hall. The little rat veers toward the nursery in the children’s wing, while we turn right and keep going.

Our realm is a part of the subway that the humans started on but never completed. The rooms must have been used for storage at some point—but we’ve repurposed them for our needs.

We keep part of Union Station and all of King Station clean—picking up human litter and lost items and bringing them here to decorate our rooms. Abandoned coffee cups, boxes, gloves, and miscellaneous items found on the tracks serve as seating, bedding, and decoration.

Inside the meeting room, pizza boxes stacked almost as high as my six-foot human form serve as my makeshift throne. Over a hundred rats are in attendance—almost every adult, minus those who remain in the tunnels to stand guard or watch over the pups.

“What are we doing about the murders?” one of the rats in the crowd shouts.

A roar goes up, everyone starts shouting questions, and I take a deep breath. “You’re not going to like what I’m about to tell you, but we don’t have any choice.”

Chapter 9

Fletcher

My dick twitches as Nephrite and I carry Diva out of the subway. If she was a person, I wouldn’t be surprised—but she’s an espresso machine. I’ve seen some weird things as a ChorePossum, but this is something else.

We shuffle our way down King Street, careful not to crash into pedestrians. The crowd keeps our conversation to a minimum, which gives me a chance to process.

But by the time we reach the office building where Diva and Nephrite plan to interview the talking mug, I’ve come to a conclusion: I have the hots for a fucking espresso machine.

“I demand to see Milan Del Ray!” Diva declares a bit too dramatically as Nephrite and I carry her into the building lobby.

That must be the mug’s name. Oooh, he must be made in Italy. Fancy.