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Once she’d hung up and the impending sunrise blanketed the kitchen with a preternatural stillness, Molly sat there, wishing like hell all the stainless steel around her would stop reflecting so damn much of herself back at her.
Chapter 6
Brass could count on zero hands the number of times his nerves had rattled so violently within his frame. Oh, fear had certainly been an inevitable companion, ruthlessly popping up throughout his existence like a rabid wolf. Over the eons, however, he’d learned to temper that darling emotion into something useful: inscrutable and merciless battle tactics, the thrum and pump of terror fueling each blow, even a well-timed display of destruction born of desperation.
Nerves, on the other hand? The kind that altered one’s gait and tossed logical thoughts to the wind like so much dandelion fluff?
They were as foreign as a fish attempting to live topside, yet there he stood, hand gripping the cool brass of the door handle and boots frozen to the sidewalk, waiting for the precise moment when his internal clock would throw up its skirts and announce the top of the early-morning hour.
Apparently, his nerves manifested as a French cancan dancer. Lovely. What a comfort to know that his circumstances not only lured the madness and rage closer but a maniacal delirium as well.
He truly was in the weeds.
What other reason could there be for him standing outside a not-yet-open-for-business breakfast spot at five in the morning, freezing his balls way the hell off, all while shifting his boots against the pavement so as not to appear too eager?
Eager. A derisive snort colored the air before him, clouding his vision with the white mist of his impatient breath. The memory of Molly on her knees scooping up ceramic shards beneath the feet of a greasy giant was strong enough to obliterate any semblance of nervous energy or unanswered queries. Oh, he was eager, all right, for more things than the honorable part of him cared to admit. And yet . . .
He jerked his hand away from the door handle and forced his feet to retreat a step. Was he really about to bring this to her doorstep? This blinding haze of berserker-like fury that he risked setting off like a shot whenever a customer behaved as entitled mortals were wont to do?
No. No, he couldn’t do this to her. He already had a regrettably long list of lost souls he’d been responsible for, but he’d sooner carve his own heart out and feed it to Cyro, the ruler of the demon charmers, than add her to the list.
He made to go, but a sharp wind stirred at his back, pressing against the high collar of his trench coat, urging him with a strange serene calmness to take that final step across the threshold.
There was no fighting it, no turning away, and to his lamentable shock, the beast within didn’t want him to. The damn thing practically preened as Brass’s choice solidified into action. How strange. Though, did he ever really have a choice?
As if that woman’s relentless brilliance and inviting warmth hadn’t lured him to her with some invisible magnetism. Along with something . . . more.
He wrenched the door open. Crisp, chilly air subtly scented with dried maple and the mustiness of wet leaves followed his footsteps into the restaurant. The dining room was dark as the door shut slowly behind him. The only source of illumination was the faint light peeking through the two rectangular panels on the swinging door that led to the kitchen. It was enough to afford him a proper look at the space, one unmarred by boisterous diners, clanking dishes, and far too many bodies for his taste but still well within the limits of the room’s legal occupancy.
If there had ever been a more devoted love letter to New England, he’d not seen it. Rather than hitting diners over the head with effusive log cabin décor and belching out dark wood paneling, the walls were adorned with a textured granite-colored wallpaper made to look like wood grain but more elevated. The effect was rustic and immersive and a wonderful backdrop to the cozy environs of the dining space. Outlining the room’s perimeter, in the center of the wall, was an endless banner of lilacs sporadically dotting a snaking evergreen vine that encircled the entirety of the restaurant.
As he stepped farther into the room, a delicate smell greeted him. He dipped his head toward the wall to his right, following the fragrance until his nose met the nearest bundle of painted lilacs. To his surprise, the flowers were not painted at all but dried and pressed. A quick test with his finger revealed textured petals beneath the translucent overlay, and he caught himself almost smiling at the utter humanness of the decoration.
In a world of digital devices and whatever the hell cryptocurrency was, did appreciation for something so simple as lilacs truly still exist as a part of the mortal condition, or just Molly’s?
Brass marked the floral scent and how it mingled with her lingering essence, the one that always had his head snapping in her direction no matter where he was. Had she pressed these flowers herself? He lifted that intoxicating fragrance from the wall and deposited it directly into his lungs, battening it down into that secret protective part of him his curse had not yet managed to mangle, and resumed his quiet inspection.
Fifteen wooden tables of various sizes, adorned with russet-brown and hunter-green table runners, filled out the floor, while wicker baskets of winter wood sat huddled around a small stone fireplace. Judging by the clean hearth and even cleaner air surrounding it, the thing served more as decoration than a decided source of heat. Not surprising, given the perilous purview of building inspectors tasked with ensuring the welfare and safety of occupants in structures older than the majority of roads in the town.
Shelves interspersed throughout were all decorated with regional mementos, while tabletops featured baskets of local maple syrup, small stuffed ornaments stitched with balsam fir needles, and satchels of cinnamon sticks tied together with dried apple peels.
It was as cozy a New England dining experience as one could ask for. Perfect for the tourists, as well as the locals, right down to the plump tufted cushions atop each chair.
A brilliant bit of business all around. Amid the hazy shadows that followed him through the small space, Brass couldn’t help but be impressed, especially when very few things could claim the distinction.
“Oh, you’re here! I thought I heard the door.” Wall sconces burnished in gold and decorated with acanthus leaves flared to life, putting an end to his silent perusal.
Molly was just as he’d left her, though, judging by the rich, roasted aroma she brought with her into the dining room, the brightness in her eyes hailed not from stress and adrenaline but from—he sniffed again—what he’d guess were several shots of ristretto. A light flush tinted the pale skin of her cheeks a peachy hue and was nearly kissed by two tendrils of dark hair at her temples, which hung lower than the rest of her clipped bangs. It was almost as if the brackets of brunette had been called into service, perpetually lifting the apples of her cheeks to ensure she always had a smile on her face.
“I made a list.” She produced a folded piece of paper from within her apron and unpeeled it before jabbing it under his nose with a force better used for pounding meat. “It outlines the important stuff, basic hours of operation, expected duties, all subject to change as needed, of course, general building and seating layouts, and the types of equipment we use here. Oh!” She stepped forward, using the pause in her barrage of information to take a breath and point a finger at some of the text on the bottom she hadn’t read yet. “And here I list out all our delivery days and inventory procedures. Most of the food we get delivered, obviously, but some specialty items we have to pick up, like our breads and desserts. Also, there’s the garbage schedule and recycling regulations. The sanitation department has a whole list of their own rules, but despite my, ahem, frequent requests, I’ve never actually seen them. Probably because they know their recycling dumpster isn’t fully seated on the cement pad in the back alley as it’s supposed to be and is a major hazard, but do you think they’ve returned my calls? Nope.” Her resounding pop of the P jerked any nerve in his body that hadn’t given her mouth its full attention and yanked it front and center.
How, of all the creatures in the mortal realm, did one manage to cram so much into so few breaths? It was as if her mind and mouth were in concert, having trained for years in a 2x100 relay race that they were just now being called upon to win lest they let down an entire nation of fans.
Brass tried to hide his smirk of amusement as her verbal tumult continued, seemingly unimpeded by her tangential storytelling.
“Oh, and just so there’s absolutely nothing weird about any of this,” she said, taking a step back and swiping her hands to the side to encompass all of the aforementioned invisible weirdness, “I talked to Chrome and Drea this morning. Your brother might have mentioned that this isn’t exactly your favorite time of year, and I completely hear you on that one, though maybe only a little bit because I do really love the winter, especially in New Hampshire. The White Mountains are so stunning when everything’s snowcapped.”
“You spoke to my brother? At five in the morning?” he snapped. Before the Fall, Chrome had served as the Empyrean’s intelligence master, and some habits died hard in that regard. Chiefly, his bigmouthed brother’s ability to peddle secrets like silver, especially when that angel’s soul bond was involved. “And what, pray tell, did the two of them have to share?” Brass fought to keep the snarl off his lips, though based on the war Molly’s features were engaged in, he’d done a piss-poor job of it. With a furtive swallow of self-restraint, he wrestled back the rage heating his blood.
