Scherzo (Book Two of the Muse Series)

4. A Full Cup

It was like the setup of a bad joke--"A vampire, a siren, a 200-year-old Englishman and a Jew are heading down the highway in an Audi to meet up with a werewolf."  And the punch line?  It was all true.

We'd left the apartment about ten minutes after Mills had literally broken Mike's balls, not necessarily to change the subject, although leaving the scene was helpful in that regard, but also because I had given Tristan my word that we would get back on the road as soon as Mills was accounted for.  The reason was clear--we needed protection from whatever evil was after us for whatever reason, and apparently a werewolf could afford us that protection.

So, here we were, piled in Mills' car, since we unanimously decided that my dead boyfriend's Jeep was not the optimal mode of transit for several reasons, and were now on our way to Wherever the Hell Werewolves Congregate.  To be honest, I was petrified, even though I'd just been casually examining fangs with my best friend.  I already knew from Tristan's explanation in Alaska that this order was especially dangerous--deadly was actually the term she had used--and I was not looking forward to that kind of intimidation.

On the other hand, meeting a dangerous werewolf would provide an excellent opportunity to remove myself from the thick, pissy atmosphere of this car.  Tristan, since she had set up the werewolf meet and greet, was driving, with me riding in the passenger seat, since the seat lever was broken and permanently pushed forward, and I was the shortest of the group.  The familiarity of this positioning--Tristan at the wheel and me at her side--was palpable and emotional for both of us, and there was a powerful kinetic energy flowing across the front seats that was impossible to ignore but too difficult to acknowledge.

The back seat was the polar opposite.  Mike and Mills hadn't spoken since she'd slammed him in the family jewels, and they sat crammed next to each other in complete and utter stubborn silence, like quarreling toddlers.  If this car could talk, it would be a Mexican soap opera.  I wanted to get out into the cold, fresh air and away from both types of tension, but was not really excited about walking from here into whatever biker bar or other tough-guy establishment was in store.  So, imagine my surprise when we pulled into the parking lot of the Hava Java Coffee Company.

"Ah, brilliant, Roan!" chirped Mike immediately.  "Excellent idea.  It's a bit difficult for me to extract myself from this seat, so would you mind terribly picking up for me as well?  A macchiato, please, or if not available, anything with an espresso base will do.  Just none of that sock water the Americans drink."  And with a little grin and a tip of his head to Mills and me, he added, "No offense meant, of course."

Tristan turned her body toward Mike, Mills and me wearing the type of stern expression on her face that I hadn't seen for several hours but knew all too well.

"We will meet the were inside.  I will be very clear--he is, as is any other werewolf, volatile and dangerous if provoked, and you will not," and here she glared directly at Mike and Mills, "joke or speak irreverently in his presence.  Do we understand one another?" She looked at both Mike and Mills in turn, not breaking eye contact until they each nodded their assent.  With that, our happy gang skipped off to meet the wolf.

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"Can I help?" said the twelve-year-old female barista to the customer in front of us.  "Why, yes," I snarked to myself silently, "yes you can.  You can explain to me why in the hell I'm in this situation.  You can let me know who in this packed coffee shop is the deadly werewolf who's supposed to play bodyguard for us, and you can tell me whether or not the fact that I've just uttered that sentence renders me psychologically altered.  Oh, and a chico skim latte, please." 

As I conversed with her--Delia, according to her name tag--in my head, I looked at the muffins in the deli counter and remembered that I hadn't eaten since scarfing down Tristan's gourmet feast almost 24 hours ago.  Then I moved my gaze to the room beyond, trying to determine which one was "him."  No time to survey, though--it was my turn to order.