Ever After (Rachel Morgan)

echoing against the flat places. It was weird standing so far underground and feeling as if you were outside, but the demons had had thousands of years to build their pretend.
    Trent eyed me askance—making me wonder if he was checking out my aura for smut—then fixed his gaze firmly ahead to the shop sign visible through the wall, THE COFFEE VAULT. Someone had a sense of humor.
    “We can turn the magnet on at fifteen-minute intervals,” Trent said; then we both turned at a scuff at the door.
    “Sa’han,” Quen protested, out of breath but clearly having heard him. “The risk . . .”
    Trent’s pleasant expression never changed. “We can turn the magnet on at fifteen-minute intervals,” he said again, and Quen nodded reluctantly. Satisfied, Trent turned to the humming ley line.
    The sour whine to the ley lines throughout Cincinnati was getting worse. Seeming to hear it as well, Jenks hovered before the line, hands on his hips and glaring at an oblivious man behind the coffeehouse windows. There was no reason for the familiar to be using his second sight, and unless he did, we would be invisible.
    I stepped forward, dipping a hand through the line and deciding it felt okay even if it sounded bad, the flow even and smooth. Perhaps Trent’s dad had had a deeper relationship with demonkind than Trent wanted to admit. Being able to step through a ley line and into the demon mall and coffee shop was a little too convenient—even if it was going to save both our asses.
    Ready to go, I ran my hands down my linen blouse. It was going to stink to high heaven when I got back. “Quen, don’t let him follow me,” I said as I took a step forward into the line.
    “Rachel, wait!”
    Trent’s voice stopped me cold, and I turned, still in reality even if I was in the ley line. He was digging in his pocket, and I warmed when I realized I’d almost left without the rings. He held them out, and a spark of magic jumped between us as the rings fell into my hand. It was the ley line, not him, but I still shivered. “Thanks,” I said sheepishly. Nodding, he stepped back with a quick, sharp motion, gesturing for me to go. Jenks’s wings clattered, and with a final thin smile, I willed myself into the ever-after.
    Nose wrinkling, I took three steps within the line, walking through the wall in reality and into the demon coffeehouse. I jerked as the muggy stink of ever-after and the echoing sound of a European band singing about red balloons hit me. What is it with demons and the ’80s? I wondered, not for the first time.
    The familiar looked up from behind the counter. “By the two worlds colliding, don’t jump into reality in here!” he berated me, perhaps not even knowing about the door and thinking I’d jumped in. He looked oddly familiar with his green apron and cap. “I don’t care how much of a hurry your demon is in for his coffee, if you mesh with the wall, I’m not paying for it.”
    I gave the guy a quick smile, backpedaling for the door. “Sorry, wrong store.”
    “Use the circles at the fountain,” he said, eyes narrowed. “Stupid-ass newbie.”
    He looked like a Scottish lord from a romance novel, the bushy sideburns and thick blocky muscles not doing a thing for me, but as my scrabbling hand found the doorknob, he muttered an oath. “Hey, wait. You’re Rachel Morgan, right?” he said, dropping his rag. “Hold on. I got something for you.”
    My hand slipped from the knob, and I turned. “Me?”
    His head was down and he was rummaging in a bin behind the counter. “Yeah. My boss has a proposition you might be interested in.”
    Shoulders slumping, I sighed. Trent, Quen, and Jenks were probably watching with their second sight, and I did have a timetable. “Sorry,” I said as I yanked the door open and the music got louder. “I’m not making tulpas right now. Saving the world, you know.” Again.
    “No, wait! Just take it. I’ll give you a coffee on the house!”
    I couldn’t care less about the nasty coffee, but the guy at the fountain’s jump-spot might, and I reluctantly took the envelope he was eagerly extending. It was thick, contract thick, and I shoved it in a back pocket to look at later. An ever-after job might be advantageous if Al and I ended up being strapped for cash. Again . . . Was my life truly this predictable, or did I just keep making the same mistakes over and over?
    “Straight up black, right?” the guy was saying, hustling behind the counter for a to-go cup