Marcus did a slow, aimless lap of the diner, pacing the perimeter like a caged animal. He needed to keep his legs moving. If he stopped, his brain would start looping on the tactical nightmare of his situation: Hunters, coins that pulsed with heat, interdimensional portals in his doorway.
It was mid-morning now. The Texas sun, relentless and bright, pushed through the front windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. The light was harsh enough to make the neon sign look tired and faded. The CLOSED side still faced the street, a small plastic shield against the world, but inside, The Slipgate felt strangely, vibrantly alive.
Liri was at the front near the entrance. She was standing on her tiptoes, stretching to reach the top corner of the plate glass, polishing little concentric circles into it with a rag she'd found.
She was wearing the black T-shirt he'd given her the night before. It hung loose on her frame, the hem hitting just above her knees, swallowing her travel skirt. Her bare calves were visible below, pale and slender. Every so often she leaned close to the glass, fogged a tiny patch with her breath—hah—and wiped again with intense, furrowed-brow concentration.
From behind, she almost passed for a normal small-town girl helping her dad open up for the Sunday rush.
Almost.
Her ears gave her away completely.
They stuck out through her golden hair, elegant and sharply pointed, catching the sunlight like polished shell. They twitched independently whenever a car drove by outside, tracking sound with an animalistic precision.
Marcus stopped a few feet back, his hand going automatically to his forehead to rub a tension headache that was starting to bloom behind his eyes.
"Oh man," he muttered to himself. "That's going to be a conversation. 'So, are the elves on the menu, or just the staff?'"
Liri felt his eyes on her. She turned, her face brightening instantly.
"Good morning again, Uncle Marcus," she chirped. "I am making the clear wall cleaner. People must see our cave is not sad. Sad caves have no meat."
"Our cave," he echoed, amused despite the anxiety gnawing at his gut. "Yeah. About that."
He pointed vaguely at his own head, tapping his temple. "You remember how we said other people might not be used to your ears? How they might... stare?"
She reached up and touched the tip of one ear lightly, as if she'd honestly forgotten they were unusual. "They are attached," she said simply. "They hear the wind. What can we do? Cut them off?"
He sighed. "No cutting. We cover them up a bit when we have visitors, is what we do. Camouflage."
He headed behind the bar, his boots crunching faintly on a stray piece of grit. He crouched down, digging through one of the lower cabinets where he kept the junk that didn't fit anywhere else—spare lightbulbs, rolls of tape, and old promotional gear. His hand closed on old cotton and stiff brims.
He came up with a battered army-green ball cap. Across the front, embroidered in slightly crooked white letters, it read THE SLIPGATE.
"Here." He walked back over and held it out toward her. "Put this on. It's a hat."
She took it carefully, holding it by the brim as if it might be another boom wand or a trap. She inspected the stitching. "Hat," she repeated, testing the word.
He stepped closer, invading her personal space gently. He pantomimed the motion. "See, you put it on your head. Like a helmet. Like armor against the sun. And nosy people."
Understanding lit up her face. "Head armor," she said, nodding sagely. "Good. Sun is angry here."
She slipped the cap onto her head. Her first attempt landed crooked, half-sideways, the brim smashing her ears down uncomfortably.
"Close," Marcus said. "Let me."
He reached out gently. He adjusted the fit, pulling it down snug. He used his thumbs to tuck a stray strand of gold hair behind one pointed ear, then carefully tucked the tip of the ear itself under the band of the cap so the brim sat lower.
From the front now, her ears were mostly hidden. Just a hint of a point peeked out near the back, easily mistaken for a weird hair clip or just a trick of the light.
"There," he said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "Now you look like you're ready to steal tips and sass customers. You blend right in."
She preened at her reflection in the dark glass, turning her head left and right to see the profile. "I look like local?" she asked, striking a pose.
"You look like trouble," he said, grinning. "That's close enough for Weedfield."
She grinned back at her reflection, then at him.
"Eira needs head armor too," she decided firmly. "So the hunters cannot see her thoughts. And so the sun does not burn her wisdom."
"I was thinking more of the locals not calling the feds," he said, "but sure. Wisdom protection. Two hats it is."
He patted the brim of her cap lightly. "You're on window duty. If anyone comes by and peers in, just smile and look human. Don't hiss at them."
She nodded solemnly, then broke the mood by crossing her eyes at her own reflection until she giggled.
Marcus shook his head, smiling despite himself. He headed toward the back hallway.
The extra hats lived in a cardboard box in the little storage alcove past his room, near the employee bathroom. He'd ordered a dozen of them in a burst of optimistic branding before the grand opening. Half still had the tags on them.
He walked down the short hallway, his thoughts already racing ahead of him. What do I tell the first real customer? How much English can the sisters handle before they slip up? Do I start training them on "coffee refill?" before lunch or after?
The soft hiss of running water barely registered in his distracted brain until his hand was already on the doorknob of the bathroom.
He pushed it open on autopilot, expecting an empty room.
"Hey, I'm just grabbing a—"
Steam rolled out at him in a warm, damp wave, smelling of his own soap.
Eira stood under the showerhead.
She was turned half away from the door, water pouring over her like a curtain of liquid glass. There was no shower curtain. The cheap plastic rod he'd meant to fix last week was still leaning unused against the wall in the corner.
For one suspended, heart-stopping second, Marcus's brain soaked in too much data.
The Most Visually Perfect Woman He'd Ever Seen
Wet hair, dark with water, slicked down her back in a heavy rope. Long, elegant lines of muscle and curve. Strong thighs, feet braced on the tile. Faint, silvery marks along her side that could have been old scars from blades or shadows from the steam. The water cascaded over her shoulders, tracing the line of her spine.
She turned her head toward the door at the sound of the latch. Her eyes went wide. Her lips parted in surprise, droplets catching on her eyelashes.
Marcus's heart slammed into his ribs like a fist.
His brain finally rebooted.
"Jesus. Sorry."
He yanked the door shut so fast the frame rattled in the wall. He pressed his back against the painted wood, staring at the opposite wall of the hallway, breathing hard.
His pulse pounded a frantic rhythm in his ears. Heat climbed his neck that had nothing to do with the steam.
Smooth, Hale, he told himself savagely. Real smooth. Just barge in on the magical refugee while she's naked.
From the other side of the door came the rush of water and, after a heartbeat, Eira's voice. It wasn't angry. It sounded curious.
"Marcus?" she called.
"Yeah," he croaked. He cleared his throat, trying to find his command voice. "Yeah. Right here. Very not looking. Staying right here in the hall."
There was a pause. Then the water shut off with a squeak of the faucet. The silence was loud.
"What are you sorry for?" she asked through the wood.
He blinked. "Uh. For walking in on you. For not knocking."
The door opened a crack.
Eira peered out. Her wet hair clung to her shoulders and neck. She had wrapped a thin white towel hastily around her body, tucking it under her arms. Steam billowed out into the cool hallway, framing her like a mist.
Her cheeks were flushed a deep, healthy pink from the heat of the water, not from embarrassment.
"You are sorry you saw me like this?" she asked, genuinely puzzled. Her brow furrowed. "Or sorry that I saw you seeing me?"
He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly very aware of the coin hanging under his shirt and the way his own T-shirt clung to his chest.
"Both?" he said, feeling like an idiot. "Mostly I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable. In my world, we knock. Privacy is a thing. That's on me."
She tilted her head, water dripping from her earlobe to her shoulder. "Did seeing me hurt you?" she asked. "Did it offend your eyes?"
His mouth went dry for half a second. The image of her standing in the water was burned onto his retinas.
"Not even a little," he admitted, his voice rough. "That part was definitely not the problem."
Something sparked in Eira's eyes. It wasn't anger, and it wasn't shame. It was a sharp, piercing curiosity, mixed with the ancient, terrifying logic of her people.
"Then why is it wrong?" she asked, her voice low and steady, cutting through the steam. "You are my sky-bond. You carry my mark burned into the coin against your chest. You saved my life when the dark things came. My body is not a shame to me, Marcus. It is just flesh and blood and function. Why should it be a shame to you?"