Page 10 of Nine-Tenths

"I said, uh, the espresso machine is warmed up. Caffe tobio?"

"Please." He crosses his legs. There's a flash of turquoise at his ankle. I only catch it for a second, but it looks like he's wearing socks with cartoon dragons on them. Huh, okay… that’s more playful than I expected him to be.

"Coming right up."

"I appreciate it. And youarewell?" he asks, which is the longest string of words I've ever heard out of him.

"Yeah." I turn to the machine, tapping out a careful twenty-seven seconds with the toe of my chucks, timing as the espresso fills the demitasse. So I'm completely in my head, and totally not expecting it when his voice comes from somewhere much too close, just over my left shoulder.

"Oversleeping could be the sympto—"

"Gah!" I shout, andChrist no, the wand in my hand goes flying up, up, sprinkling boiling-hot grounds like freaking pixie dust.

He ducks and snaps the newspaper over his head as they rain down. The sharp clatter of the wand hitting the tile makes us both wince. In the aftermath we stare across the counter at one another, eyes wide, with what I assume are matching shocked expressions.

"Are you—" he starts again and I hold out a hand to stop him.

"I'm fine."

"I've never known you to—"

"Shit, you're chatty today," I say, and it’s accidentally catty. He flinches, stung. A glob of espresso grounds plops off his shoulder and splats on the tile floor. "Sorry, sorry! That came out wrong. I'm not… I'm not having a good morning."

"My apologies," he murmurs mournfully, and aw, no.

"I'll make you another one," I say quickly. "On the house. Just… sit, and I'll—"

"Perhaps I should go." He lowers his paper and flicks grounds off the toe of his shoe. Oh, shit, are they expensive? Am I going to have to pay for, I dunno, shoe dry cleaning?

"No, please. " That lurch in my stomach again, and it's only because a morning that has started terribly (and has only gotten worse) would really become awful if he wasn’t sitting in the sunlight, glimmering quietly. "Please stay."

It would be justwrong.

"If you are ill, you ought to be taking care of yourself first," he insists, instead of acknowledging my plea. "Don't you have a colleague who could cover—"

"I got a new alarm clock, I didn't wake up, it’s fine, it doesn’t matter."

"It does to me." He crunches the ruined paper in his hands, flexing and twisting. "In fact, I, er, perhaps it is time I confessed that… I smell something burning."

"You smell burning?" I swig another mouthful of coffee from the mug I'd left by the till, and take a deep breath to calm myself. Wait. "I smell it, too."

His gaze flicks to the door behind me, slit pupils dilating. "The kitchen."

"The scones!" I squawk and spin on the spot. I slip in spilled espresso, toppling sideways. Before I can hit the ground, he lunges across the countertop, catching my arm in a grip that's stronger than I think he realizes. It also prickles.

Trying to get my stupid feet under me, I catch the barest flash of red scale and black, long-tipped nails. Then his hand is back to a perfectly pale peach, fussily manicured, and human.

I shrug him off and push through the door. I shouldn't have gasped, that was a stupid thing to do when the air is heavy with smoke. But I do, and jerk to a stop, folding double, coughing. He runs into me. I nearly topple. That prickling grip pulls me upright again.

"What can I do to—" he starts, but the fire alarm cuts him off.

"I forgot to turn down the goddamn oven!"

"I'll get it." He reaches out with his free hand. It's covered in deep red scales, his fingertips ending in delicately curved claws.

Holy crap.

He's dexterous, able to work the knob, then swing down the oven door. Black smoke, oily with burning fats, cascades into ourfaces. I cover my mouth and nose with the edge of my Henley, eyes burning.

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