A Perfect Blood

height in my soggy, muddy garden shoes. “I’m not shunned anymore. Okay?” The patrons looked up, and I lifted my chin. Squinting at him, I put my palm on the counter, making sure my band of charmed silver hit it with a small clink.
    Mark looked at it. He was a witch—I’d seen him make a circle before—and he knew what it was. But like everyone else, he probably thought that the coven of moral and ethical standards had put it on me to keep me from doing any magic.
    “I can take it off if it bothers you,” I said lightly, running a finger along the inside.
    Mark frowned and backed up a step. I figured he’d put himself in an uninvoked circle—having them behind the counter was standard practice in case of attempted armed robberies. My good mood was falling apart.
    “What do you want?”
    It was flat and hostile, but I couldn’t blame him—much. Last year, I’d almost trashed the place trying to catch a banshee and her psychotic serial-killer husband. Then just a few months ago, my ex-boyfriend Nick had caused a scene to give me time to escape a member of the coven. Mark hadn’t known it was me then, but the papers had made it public. It made me wonder if Junior’s had been built on some kind of “galactic time-warp continuum.” Everything seemed to start or end here.
    “I’d like two of the mini scones,” I said, then added, “No, make that three.” I’d take one back to Jenks and the kids. “And a grande latte, double espresso, Italian blend. Light on the froth, skim milk.” Whole milk would have been better, but the scones were rich.
    Mark was writing this all on the side of a cup, which he then tossed to another barista. “You want your scones warmed up?” he asked, his tone stiff, but at least he was civil.
    Smiling insincerely, I said, “Yes, please,” then handed him the ten I had waiting.
    He took my money and gave me my change. I hesitated, then decided against the tip.
    Watching to be sure he didn’t hex my food, I slid down the counter. From the other end of the coffeehouse came a cheerful “Double espresso, low froth, low cal. Grande. On the counter!”
    That had to be mine, but Mark was taking my scones out of the oven and shoving them in a bag. His brow was furrowed as he folded the bag over and extended it to me.
    “I got that banshee, by the way,” I said.
    His expression darkened. “I heard someone died.”
    I yanked the bag out of his grip. “Tom Bansen,” I said, since the papers hadn’t given out his name. “He was a black witch, working in the I.S. as a mole. The nice lady banshee who was sitting in your coffeehouse sucking in everyone’s aura killed him, not me. It took me a week to recover from her myself. You have a great day—Mark.”
    I turned to the tables, my good mood trashed. Yeah, that might have been a little sarcastic, but the fading adrenaline was making me depressed. Leaving chunks of dirt behind, I went back to the pickup counter for my coffee. I’d been thinking about taking it outside and into the cold sunshine, but staying in here might tick Mark off. My thoughts went back to Trent once saying that I made decisions based on what would irritate people, and I frowned.
    “Cinnamon,” I muttered, turning my back on the door to sprinkle a heavy layer on the light foam. Crap, I’d forgotten to put raspberry in it.
    Sighing, I turned back around to find a chair where I could sit and glare at Mark for a while. But then I blinked, smiled, and walked slowly to Wayde, sitting nice as you please at one of the small round tables with his back to the wall. He was scowling, and his hairy legs showed above his biker boots. He was still in his boxers, too, and he looked like a crazy man in the T-shirt that he’d slept in. Outside I could see Ivy’s bike, her helmet on the seat.
    Clearly cold, he rubbed a hand over his beard, untidy and flat on one side. I hadn’t known you could have bed beard, but that’s what it was. When he didn’t take the time to clean up, he was a raggedy man.
    Mark had noticed him, too, and was talking to the barista as if ready to call the cops. Whatever. The man had had worse in his store before than an angry Were in his pajamas.
    I set my cup down and smiled at Wayde, feeling vastly better. “Nice boots.”
    Wayde’s expression became even more sour. “You done running?” he said tightly. “Have fun this morning?”
    I sat across from him so we both could look out the window. “I wasn’t running away from you,