M̶a̶d̶a̶m̶e̶ M̶̶̶a̶̶̶r̶̶̶g̶̶̶h̶e̶r̶̶̶i̶̶̶t̶̶̶a̶̶̶ Isla Margherita Santangelo-Corrigan, Thirsty Thief

In my hurry to leave the scrutinizing gorgon's office, I forgot my coffee. It was still half full and hot. What a waste.

Perk of renting above a 24-hour diner is that I get to remedy this horrific mistake right away. The sun may have already set, but it was barely 'midday' by my internal clock. Necromancers tend to keep odd hours.

The South Street Diner wasn't, by its very nature, a fancy place. Dirty linoleum floors. Sticky Formica tables. Dust coated fake tiffany lamps and the perpetual smell of coffee and burnt bacon always hung in the air. Infinitely recycled holiday decorations, paper snowflakes, and an unsettling collection of singing Santas were still on display throughout the dining room, despite the calendar now being closer to Groundhog's Day than Christmas.

But, a couple of years ago, the owner must've won some kind of grant for revitalizing the block and used it to install a swanky coffee bar (which also doubled as the host stand, much to the obvious annoyance of whomever was working barista duty). Pretty sure it was meant to entice a younger crowd, beyond the regulars from the block who constantly haunted the place.

Instead of laminate, the countertops here were warm wood and the black and white backsplash tiles didn't have a trace of mildew in the grout. A state of the art espresso machine was always gleaming and always busy. A single string of red and gold garland hung from the counter. The coffee was, surprisingly, quite good too. Line for this to-go coffee bar was always longer than the line of patrons waiting to be sat.

I was lucky the coffee was good, considering I had to literally walk past it to enter my apartment. Before the grant seeking owner took over, I'm pretty sure the family that operated a previous iteration of the diner lived upstairs. Naturally, the door to the stairwell leading up to that residence was located inside the diner, just to the left of the main entrance. Since the change of hands—or maybe several changes in ownership back—the upstairs floors had been carved up into a series of studio and one bed apartments. You still needed a key to get through that stairwell door. When it wasn't broken. Then the key mattered significantly less.

"Evening, Mason," I yawned at the barista at the register. "Anybody come in looking for me?"

You know, potential customers for Madame Margherita or lost reanimated corpses or Magistrates with a warrant for my arrest.

He shrugged.

Informative.

I blew on my hands for warmth. I'd forgotten gloves earlier, and they ached at the sudden shift into the warmth of the diner. They still trembled, I noticed, from my oh-so-harrowing experience in Nazira's office. "Kay, well, the usual."

"Large extra hot black coffee coming up."

"You know how to treat a girl."

Behind me, the door opened, letting in a rush of winter air that lingered and made me shiver harder.

"By the way," said Mason, punching my order into the register with a raised brow. "After your session last week, Lavender London Fog Latte asked for Espresso Tonic's number."

"Ah, see? I told her new love was in her future."

Aside from the oblivious implication that at least one of those drink orders also belonged to one of my usual clients, I had no clue who the heck Mason was talking about.

As he pampered the espresso machine, I opened my wallet. Which was empty, of course, I used the last of my cash grabbing drinks earlier. One cup of coffee didn't meet the credit card minimum and neither did my bank account at the moment. Yeah, obviously I felt bad about swiping some bills out the tip jar, but what choice did I have? I lived upstairs. I'd just pay it back later. With interest and a generous tip. Pinky promise.

"Keep the change, Mason!" I yelled, slapping the bills onto the counter.

A man snickered. "Sneaky devil."

All the hairs on my neck stood up. Troll balls. There was somebody behind me?

I spun. Pissed. Ready to tell the creep off for not minding his own damned business.

The words died in agony in my throat as I nearly slammed face first into the prettiest man I'd ever seen. Tall, lean, perfectly tousled black coif. Eh, he could use some Vitamin D actually, but that just right amount of stubble on his square jaw more than made up for his vaguely sickly complexion.

He stood still. Perfectly still. Jaw set, hands stuffed into his leather jacket. Too still. Creepy still.

And then his gleaming blue eyes fell onto mine, and my whole body seized up as a massive chill rolled down my spine. I shuddered, hard enough for my teeth to chatter. Unable to tear my gaze from his, I felt the tingle of a phantom kiss on just the right spot on my neck to make my knees go wobbly, followed by the graze of sharp teeth over my jugular, causing my pulse to spike...

He quickly, almost guiltily, looked away, just over my head, the outline of his tongue rolling around fangs in his mouth.

Well I'll be damned and probably already was. I'd just been checked out by a vampire.

"Our little secret."

"If you say so," I oh so elegantly mumbled back.

I pulled my coat tighter around me (the zipper was long since broken and I was too lazy to fix it). Jeez, when did it get so cold in here?

Without meeting his eyes again, I scurried past the vampire to the other end of the counter. Don't look back, girl. Be cool. Be chill. Like the air in here. Ignore how nice his voice sounded ordering an iced latte January. Oh, that was just so vampire wasn't it? Iced drinks in winter.

Meanwhile, my coffee was waiting for me on the pickup counter.

"Large black coffee. Room for milk," the other barista, a girl I wasn't familiar with, the brim of her official 'South St Family' ballcap pulled low over her face, mumbled as she slid my cup into my hand.

"Thanks."

At the milk bar, I fiddled with the lid of my cup as I risked another glance over at the vampire.

What was he doing here? I'd never been checked out by a vampire before. What was that tingle on my neck? Was he hungry? Horny? Both? Did I want him to be either? He did—and trust me, I was trying to resist the temptation to stare at him—have a rather nice ass in those tight jeans. As he stood almost perfectly, frighteningly still, waiting on his drink.

I didn't think vampires had caffeine addictions, among their others.

I didn't think vampires had freckles either, but this one did, right on his nose. Faint. Very faint. I bet if he spent any time in the sun they'd be forming constellations all over his pretty face.

It really wasn't fair for him to look so pretty. So pristine. Vampires already had near perfect (and legal) means of reproduction and resurrection. The world was cruel and unjust for this vampire to have such crystal-clear baby blues while my zombies' eyes always came out so lifeless and glassy... not that I'd been practicing making zombies. Hex a troll, no. I haven't attempted to zombify any people in years. Scout's honor.

... Okay so I was never a Witch Scout and the girl the other night didn't count, alright? She's not a soulless zombie. I slapped her soul back into her body. She's alive.

She is.

The vampire didn't make any more flirty eye contact with me. Not that I was, you know, trying to get his attention by seductively stirring milk into my coffee or anything. He was very focused on Mason, actually. Maybe he was hunting? That be stupid, with me standing right over here to witness... and without any dinner plans of my own. Rude.

Ah well, I could probably tell him that he was, you know, biting into the wrong vein with Mason anyway, but, what did I care?

Or maybe he was tattling on me for nabbing the tips...

Welp, look at the time, it was almost business hours, I had to go.

I slipped out the backdoor into the stairwell, feeling the slightest chill run down my spine and settle on my ass.

Which would have been the creepiest and rudest thing I'd felt all day if I didn't come home to my apartment door unlocked.

Crap.

Sitting, no, spilling out of my favorite chair was the hulking form a werewolf errand boy clipping his toenails.

"Mother of fuck!" I screamed as one of his gnarly clippings soared at my face. I jumped. My coffee didn't stick the landing. Scalding espresso splashed up onto my sweater. Yeah. It hurt. "Fuuuuck!"

"Rent's due, chica," the werewolf growled.

"Rocco dear, listen, this isn't fair. I called Denise. Left a voicemail. Explained it was going to be a few days late." I sang, ignoring the burning hot coffee seeping through my sweater. I flung my coat over a chair, just missing hitting Rocco in the face with it, and shuffled over to my kitchenette. I found a mostly empty roll of paper towels and began blotting the wool. "A few more days is all I need," I lied.

My sweater was hopeless. It was, until very recently, one of those white, Irish sheep herding kind of sweaters. Big and warm and cozy. A gift from some from some distant cousins on the Emerald Isle a few Christmases back and I loved it. Now it was ruined.

I gave up on the sweater and just let it soak into my skin, leaning against my kitchen sink, lighting up a smoke and offering Rocco one.

He shook his head and his meaty neck cracked. Yeah, I figured Rocco's vice to be more in line with protein Milkbones. He was also the kind of Jersey Shore wolfy, muscly, white boy that wore shirts two sizes too small to show off his bulging and tattoo covered muscles. Made him look top-heavy. I think, when he was still human, mother nature intended the outcome of his puberty to be tall and lanky. You could see it his long arms and thin, albeit thickly bearded, face; made to look even smaller by his shaved scalp. The bulk, and the lycanthropy, came much later.

Pink strips of flesh forever marred his forearm where he'd been bitten, torn right through his stallion tattoo. An array of stars were added as an apparent attempt to cover up the scar tissue. Didn't work. (Though my personal favorites of his ink were the words Long Hots emblazoned across his knuckles).

For a moment Rocco looked embarrassed by the echoing pop of his neck, and it was easy to picture him as the awkward kid on the playground, with zero coordination but still first pick for basketball.

He shook off the moment of embarrassment like a dog shaking off water, plopped his feet back into his flip flops, and began to pace about the room.

"You know the deal. Jawn's due when it's due."

"Rent was due over a week ago," I took a long, shaking drag from my cigarette, but the nicotine did nothing to soothe my nerves. "But when her collector no shows, how's a girl not supposed to believe she's been given a belated Christmas present?"

Rocco tensed. He scowled at me. Mouth twisted. Fists balled like he couldn't decide if he was holding himself back from ripping my throat out or having to explain himself.

"Been busy."

Out of frustration and lack of sleep and stupidity and desperation to keep myself from becoming werewolf puppy chow on top of everything else, I clapped back. "Oh yeah? Dance card too full to give your usual partner a whirl?"

His brows furrowed.

I rolled my eyes and flicked cigarette ash into my sink. "I was robbed. Customer took my cash while I was... in a trance. Doesn't your pack pride itself on protecting their investments?" Rocco fiddled with the golden ring strangling his swollen finger. "What's keeping you too busy to do your actual job, Rocco, social calls? Your mommy in law approve of that? Last we chatted she wasn't too fond of you."

I reached into my pocket for my phone—intending to demonstrate to Rocco that this, too, was information I could easily leave Denise a voicemail regarding—except screw it all, I'd left my phone buried in my coat pocket now across the room.

And werewolves did not appreciate the finer art of... what was this, blackmail? Extorsion? Bluffing?

The one in my living room gave a low, bone shaking growl. Beyond my drafty windows, darkness blanketed the city. Philly wasn't at a full moon yet, but it fast approached. With each passing night, this mutt grew more wolfish until finally for one evening the beast would rip out from under his thinning skin. At this time of month, it appeared that Rocco was growing in some extra, extra sharp, teeth at grotesque angles. In his snarl, I noted a yellowed canine poking through a portion of his gum. Drool dangled from it.

I sighed, praying it did not reveal my anxiousness at being trapped in a 300 something square foot third-floor walk-up studio with a supernatural predator. (And not even an interesting one, honestly. Like a sensible lady I wore out my werewolf phase in high school). I snuffed out my cigarette in a tarnished teacup. My hand didn't even shake. How smooth of me.

Then I doubled down like an asshole. "Down boy. I haven't said a word to your master. Haven't exactly packed for an eviction either," I gestured to the mess of my life strewn about everywhere. "It's just, you know, you took your sweet time to check in this month. Give me the same courtesy?"

As he stood doing his very best impression of menacing, my cat had actually decided to grace us with his presence. I wasn't sure Rocco had even noticed Grumpkin creeping out from beneath the chaise, one cautious paw at a time. Tail swishing, he sniffed Rocco's bulky calf.

I was wrong of course.

Rocco had noticed the cat.

He bent down and scooped my fluffy boy. Grumpkin mewed and responded with a tiny head butt. Which Rocco returned. With force. His blow snapped the cat's neck back at a fatal angle. I jumped, falling over myself. My baby boy's cute, fuzzy wittle head bobbed backwards at me, jaw askew, gray eyes rolling back into its itty-bitty skull.

Rocco tossed Grumpkin's body onto the chaise. It bounced. The cat. Not the chaise.

I tried to calm my ragged breaths. My cat. Was he just... did he intentionally try to kill my cat?

Well. Rocco must be in a mood.

He rolled his shoulders, cracking his back and neck, before fixing his stare at me. His spare snaggle tooth protruded out over his lip as he smirked. "Few days. Or the only thing you need to worry about packing is your own coffin."

"Oh...kay..." I stared at Grumpkin, not sure if he just twitched or I was seeing things. "Um, how many is a few?"

"A few. Oh, and you look like death—shit," he fumbled over the words, not quite deciding whether I looked more like death or shit. "Like dead shit," Rocco finally muttered and stormed out, slamming my door and leaving my cat's corpse behind him.

I flipped off the empty space where Rocco was. "Fuck you too, buddy."

Grumpkin. Poor thing. Poor cute, void black, fluffy as heck little thing. With white whiskers and pink toe beans and glassy, gray eyes. I tripped my way over to the chaise and sat beside him, gently stroking his soft fur. 

"Pspssp," I cooed, "are you playing dead, Grumpy, or does mommy need to fix this again?"

Suddenly Grumpkin, yowling, jolted awake. His tiny head snapped right back into place like a cocking gun. He swiped at my nose and leapt back onto the chaise, claws digging into the cushions, body shaking. Yeah, he's usually this angry when he's killed. Don't look at me like that. Trust me, Grumpkin's first reanimation long pre-dates my arrest.

"You're fine."

A new wave of exhaustion weighed on me.

I propped my elbows onto the chaise, careful to put too much pressure onto the wobbly thing and let Grumpkin sniff my hand. He did, cautiously, tickling my knuckles with his whiskers. After a few tentative moments, my boy rubbed his cheeks against my hands, purring so loudly he was rattling the furni—

Actually, no, he wasn't.

Giving him a scratch behind the ears, I ducked my head under the chaise. Grumpkin hurried off to his litter box. I gave the chaise a gentle rock. Sturdy as a tree trunk. Well that certainly wasn't normal. The light was dim and I didn't have a flashlight handy, but I could see something was wedged beneath the broken leg. Something firmer than a wad of napkins.

Lifting the chaise slightly with my shoulder, I groped beneath it. My hand encircled something dry and chalky. It felt brittle. Cold.

I pulled it out into the light.

"Oh, come on," I moaned.

It was, you guessed it, a fingerbone. The fingerbone.

I shot Grumpkin a look. He cocked his head... and it swung down around his front as if on a pendulum.

I squeezed the fingerbone in my palm.

Tits. This really wasn't my week, was it?

Speak Philadelphian: Jawn [j-awn]. A term used to refer to anything. Like, literally anything. Pick a noun, any noun. It's a substitute slang term for any place, thing, person, event that one either need not or cannot give a specific name to. "Nah man, I don't screw with no hexed jawn."