Excerpt:

It started, like everything in my life seems to, with coffee.

It's a hazard of the profession when you work in the family coffeehouse. Coffee creates community; no matter the size of the city you live in, the barista at the local cafe will know your face, your name, and all five of the drinks you order most. If you take the time to talk to her she'll remember your kids' names, the job interview you had last week, and that you only wear the blue tie when you're in a really good mood. When your car breaks down she'll introduce you to Scott, who comes in every morning for a double espresso and also happens to be a mechanic. When a guest needs an insurance agent, she'll give them your card. If all you want is a coffee and a smile, well, she knows when to shut up too.

There was never any question for me of what I would do with my life. Coffee was as good as it got. Most kids wonder, experiment, try all sorts of bizarre paths before they figure out where they fit; I was lucky and fell straight into it. I'd been working at the Painted Door for six years and couldn't imagine ever wanting anything else. If strange things hadn't started happening, my life never would have changed. I would've grown up there, taken over when my parents retired, and died of old age knowing I'd done what I wanted with my life.

If strange things hadn't happened, I wouldn't be telling you this story.

I should point out that my definition of “strange” is a little skewed compared to most people's. The Painted Door sits three blocks north of the city's university and we're open all night. For those who've never lived in an urban university district, let me tell you – weird things happen. The students are nuts and the professors aren't always much better. We get philosophy students arguing at the tops of their lungs about alchemy; we get drunk fraternity brothers who think six shots of espresso will sober them up by class time; we get chemistry students who drop vials of oozing liquid that burns holes in the carpet; we get theater students who waltz in wearing velvet gowns and outrageously painted faces. And the things they find in their pockets when they're digging for change? You wouldn't believe me if I told you.

My sister Juniper and I used to make up stories about the strangest ones. The little girl who wore wings tied on with pink satin ribbons was a fairy princess exiled from her kingdom until she came of age. The old man with the bushy white hair and brocade waistcoat was a rich merchant come from faraway exotic lands in search of the best coffee in the world (we liked to think he'd found it at the Painted Door, because he came back often.) The woman with brightly-colored skirts and a necklace of gold coins was a Gypsy pirate come to ransack the city.

There wasn't much of anything strange about the thaumatech, though, compared to most of the other crazies we get. He was just That Guy In Line behind The Uppity Bitch Who Thinks She's Smarter Than You.

Hey, I said I like my job. I never said I was a saint.

"So that's a double small cafe latte with caramel?"

"I said tall, not small." She didn't actually say 'you idiot' but it came implied with the tone of voice. I suppressed a sigh.

"Our smallest size is twelve ounces, ma'am," I explained, holding up a cup. "Does this look like what you usually get?"

"I guess," she sniffed, like it had never occurred to her to actually look at what she was spending her money on.

I pushed on before she could draw breath for another complaint. "Anything else I can help you with today?" She shook her head and handed me her coins; Juniper ducked behind the espresso machine and gave me a sympathetic grimace. At least I managed to keep the sarcasm out of my voice when I told the woman to have a nice evening.

"Would it kill people to read the menu?" I muttered as she turned away. I pressed the heels of my palms to my eyelids, hoping the pressure would stave off the headache that was threatening to develop. "If it says 'tall' anywhere on that board, I'll eat it."

"Wouldn't be worth the indigestion," a voice said lightly, and I lowered my hands to see a man stepping up to the register in the rude woman's wake. His leather briefcase and the high collar of his tailored coat would have given him the look of a professor or a priest, but he was young – no more than 35 at a guess - and behind his wire rimmed glasses he wore an earl piercing between his green-brown eyes.
I blushed, suddenly aware that I'd probably smudged my eyeliner. "No," I agreed. "It wouldn't be."

He gave me an easy smile and ordered a mocha in a gentle accent I didn't recognize. When he slid a bill across the counter to me, I noticed the ornate compass rose tattooed on the back of his hand: red petals set against gold, outlined with bold black flourishes. A red fleur-de-lis marked the northern point at the base of his middle finger.

He saw me looking and glanced down. He seemed surprised, for an instant, almost like he'd forgotten the tattoo was there – his eyes flicked back to me, but my expression didn't seem to offer an answer that satisfied him. Confused, I held out his change. His wide smile flashed back into place.

“Thanks very much,” he said, and his nod included both me and Juniper, who'd come up beside me to give him the mocha. Then he was gone.

“Who was that?” Junie asked, cocking an eyebrow at me.

I shrugged. “No idea,” I said. “Never seen him before.”

In a normal world, that would've been the end of the story.

My world has never been a normal world.