The store manager grovels at our feet, which is horrible and humiliating for him, since I’m to blame. All our bills for that day are paid. But when we go home, Will won’t let the subject go. He’s curious. Of course he’s curious.
In the end, I lie to him, as I’ve done since the day I met him. Because what would he think he if he knew his best friend was the kind of person who destroys things when she gets upset?
“May I help you?”
The man sitting at the counter is fairly nondescript: tall and lean, with mousy brown hair and matching eyes. His face is pockmarked and aged by sunlight. Head tilted slightly to the side, he’s studying me.
He may be nondescript, but he’s also an Elf, which sends my freak-out-sensor into high gear.
Rationally, I’m aware that there are Elves living on the Human plane, including non-Magical Elves who know nothing about Magicals. Or Creators. Especially Creators who, just a week before, destroyed the laundry aisle of a big box store. It’d been in the news, which left me stumbling on uneven ground.
When the Elf doesn’t answer, I’m tempted to turn around and get the hell out of here. But then his head snaps back to normal position and he smiles, teeth crooked on the bottom row. “Sh-sure. Do you h-have coffee?”
Seriously. He says this in a diner, with a coffee pot brewing right behind me. “Decaf? Regular?”
“Decaf is f-fine,” he says. “Got to keep my senses f-focused, you know?”
Like the junkie I apparently am nowadays, I use Magic to will the shield I built around me all those months ago to become tighter, stronger so that, even if this Elf is a Magical, he’ll have no clue who I am. Excepting, of course, if he’s carrying a picture of me; blonde hair and blue eyes aside, it’s not like I had plastic surgery. “What is it that you do?”
He blinks a few times, like he’s shocked I would question him.
“Your job,” I clarify, leaning against the counter. I tuck a strand of my hair behind an ear. “That requires you to be alert?”
“Oh.” He fingers the menu I’ve handed over. “It’s, hmm . . .” He rubs at his forehead, flipping his lanky, greasy hair to the side. “C-complicated.”
I don’t recognize the guy, but then, Annar is a large place, and even a first tier Council member doesn’t know all the main players, even ones who stutter. But if I had to guess, this guy, this Elf, is a Tracker for the Guard.
Part of me wants to run, like now. Hit the road, rework all my shields, and find a new place to hide. But another part insists I’ve done good work. I’ve got roots growing. I can’t leave Cameron and Will behind—not yet, at least.
I burned a lot of bridges to get to where I’m standing. There isn’t a lot left of Chloe Lilywhite that exists outside of Annar. But if I run right now, he’d be at my heels within seconds. I wonder if he carries handcuffs. Would he arrest me? Exactly how would he drag me back to Annar?
Worse yet, what if he tells somebody?
My heartbeat is deafening. I give the Elf what I think is a smile and ask, “You’re not from around here, are you?”
He takes a couple of deep breaths, nostrils flaring. He’s breathing my scent in which leaves me no longer in doubt—he’s a Tracker. I’ve seen enough Trackers in my time to know they do this. “No.”
No kidding. “What brings you to Anchorage?”
He clears his throat. “I’m here for a j-job.”
Is he testing me? “The so-called complicated job?”
He nods, his fingers tracing over the rim of the cup I’ve slid over.
I’d been told, a year or so back, that the Guard’s Trackers can assume roles easily, become whoever and whatever it takes to find their quarry. I’d be willing to bet my life savings that this nervousness and that stutter are fake.
So, as freaked out as I am, I’m also pissed off. I issue my own challenge. “How long are you in town?”
If he senses my anger, he doesn’t show his hand. “Oh, not . . . uh . . . well, as l-long as it t-takes, I guess. I mean, as long as the job t-takes.”
I bet. “Have you found what you’re looking for?”
His eyes narrow for the briefest of moments before resembling a lost puppy dog’s. “Huh?”
Asshole. I tap his menu. “Do you know what you’d like to order?”
“Oh! What’s g-good here?”
“The pancakes,” I tell him truthfully.
“It’s n-nine o’clock at n-n-night!”
I fake grin. “There’s always time for pancakes.” Like the bastard deserves Will’s pancakes.
He orders them, though. I force myself to go about my normal duties. I hang the order up at the kitchen window. I fill a few other customers’ cups with coffee. I take another order. Hang that one up. Get the pancakes. Give them to the Tracker. Tell him to let me know if he needs anything else. Watch him the entire time out of the corner of my eye.
The nervousness fades away when he doesn’t think I’m watching. He fingers the menu, the silverware I placed in front of him, the mug I held. His fingers slide across the plate in the exact spot mine laid.