Legion of the Lost (Witchfire 3)

Chapter 5 - The Pitstop Cafe

The wind was cold as the blade of a kitchen knife, cutting between the streets with the crude strokes of a homicidal maniac. Pedestrians with red noses and bloodless cheeks huddled in their coats, scarves wound tight as bandages, auras smattered with little flickers of darkness that marked their minor irritations. It was only dawn, but the city was flush with of all the fools who'd committed to a career or decided to further their education. Nasally phone calls, rumbling engines, distant jackhammers and blaring horns all meshed into a persistent drone of misery that was music to my ears.

Ruben braved each strike of the cold with an indifference that offended me. My scowl deepened as my hands refused to warm no matter how hard I rubbed them, losing colour by the second. I planted my feet in the middle of the sidewalk, searching the shopfronts for a sign that didn't regretfully inform me that the store beyond was closed.

Something pulled at my attention, like a strain of my favourite song playing over the shopping centre speakers. I followed the tug, eyes landing on a derelict corner shop — a cafe, if the peeling paint on the windows was to be believed. It read something along the lines of The Pitstop, though it looked more like a place to have one's organs harvested than to relax with a cup of joe. The outdoor umbrellas were moth-eaten and sagging, all but welcoming the rain to come and wash years of accumulated bird refuse off the splintering wooden tables.

Feet moving of their own accord, I pushed open the door, straining against the rusted hinges. Ruben must have heard them squealing, because all of a sudden he was closing the door behind me, politely requesting that I shout him a flat white.

Too cold to protest, I scooted past a lonely cluster of tables and chairs, all empty save for the one in the corner. A woman with motley piercings and hair sat in the booth, picking apart a bagel and popping the tiny crumbs in her mouth as she scrolled through her phone. A stained apron sat crumpled on the table.

The fact that their only patron was an employee didn't bode well, but I refused to back down now. The counter doubled as a bar, and the coffee machine looked curiously like a vintage car engine. I was surprised by how lovingly polished it was, considering the grimy state of everything else in the store.

A wiry boy emerged from behind the coffee machine with a cloth in hand, wearing the carefully schooled expression of someone bracing themselves for social interaction.

"A tall mocha and a small flat white," I said. Something about Ruben's presence in the background made me add: "Please."

"A tall flat white," Ruben corrected.

"Make it a tall, then," I muttered, shooting a scathing look at the presumptuous bastard over my shoulder. He'd taken a seat by the door, and appeared to be reading emails on his phone.

Leaning over the counter, I lowered my voice and said: "... with seven sugars."

"No sugar," Ruben said firmly.

Damn it.

The barista grunted and set about his task. I left ten bucks on the counter and proceeded to walk around Ruben's table, circling him like a shark while I hummed the Jaws tune. In spite of my antics, he remained entirely focussed on his phone, aura clear and unpolluted as a mountain stream.

"Your indifference is infuriating," I complained.

"So I've heard."

Growing bored with the monotony of circles, I stopped pacing and starting kicking at the legs of his chair instead.

Still nothing. Would it kill him to react?

"Why are you even here?" I asked abruptly. "Aren't you just a bartender?

Ruben shrugged. I kicked his chair, harder than the last few times, and it moved an entire centimetre to the left..

"I'm not going anywhere with you unless you start answering some questions," I snapped, knowing full well that I was bluffing. This wasn't a hill I was willing to die on, should my mother follow through on her threat. "Are you a member of the task-force or my glorified baby-sitter?

"Both," he said. "I'm on Midna's list, but Chance Nightshade has also personally charged me with chaperoning you between task-force training sessions. She said, and I quote, that anyone else would simply be unable to tolerate your presence."

I took great satisfaction in the knowledge that I'd gotten under the City Alpha's skin. "What are we supposed to be training for, exactly? Chance said something about an enemy legion, but didn't give me any specifics."

"I'm not exactly sure," Ruben said, rising from his chair.

Sensing that our time in the Pitstop cafe had come to an end, I looked over my shoulder. Sure enough, the barista was in the process of pushing lids on our takeaway cups. After making a few quick strokes on the lids with a gold sharpie, he tucked my entire ten dollar bill into his apron pocket and disappeared through a door behind the counter. It swung wildly before shutting, back and forth in a futile attempt to delay the inevitable close.

Swiping my mocha from the counter (and pointedly leaving the flat white where it sat, for Ruben to collect himself), I decided that it didn't matter. There was plenty of change in my life at the moment as it was, and there was no need to add five-cent shrapnel to the mix.