Black Coffee, Lemon Scone
Qiturah
Roadkill never used to bother Qiturah.
Now, as she walks, incense burner swaying back and forth, Qiturah tries her best to look away from the deer lying on the sidewalk.
It’s body is covered in fresh snow, and it’s eyes are glassy white. This is the third morning in a row she’s walked past it.
She has no reaction until she gets home, where she sits in the shower and cries.
It’s just one deer, she tells herself, there’s hundreds more out there.
But it’s not the deer she’s thinking about anymore. She sees horses lying in the dirt, too still to be alive, and dogs with matted fur, bones showing. Hope feels years away now. But Qiturah pushes those images out of her mind, and rubs her face dry with a towel.
The nearby call to prayer refocuses her thoughts, and she quickly sits to pray, eyes still red.
When she’s finished, Qiturah checks the fridge. Empty. So she goes for the next best thing, instant coffee.
Also gone.
Qiturah sucks her teeth, considering her options.
After a good long minute of deliberation and vacant staring at the wall, Qiturah decides on the coffee shop.
Headache already setting in, Qiturah locks the door behind her and starts walking.
The winter sun still has an hour to arrive, but most coffee shops are open by now. Not many people work the graveyard shift in Bellwether, Qiturah’s noticed. Around here, people start locking their doors as soon as the moon rises.
Black Salt is a massive coffee shop tucked away deep in the city neighborhood, far from the bustle of downtown.
Qiturah likes it because it’s not very busy, and the baristas aren’t very interested in chatting her up.
She usually shows up before noon, orders a black coffee and lemon scone, and sits to read a book. Sometimes the baristas give her weird looks, but Qiturah figures it’s because she’s from out of town.
Today is no different from any other day. She walks in, the barista, an older man, frowns, squints at her and says:
“Black coffee and scone?”
“Please, thank you.”
He gives her a curt nod and Qiturah sits down and waits.
Casimir
When Casimir walks through the kitchen door, everyone wants a piece of him.
“We’ve got a new problem.” Says Hek, the pack’s Aide-de-camp. The rest of the Black Salt pack members crowd around, listening to the briefing.
“Just what I wanted to hear at 7 in the morning.” Replies Casimir.
“Dovin brothers. Showed up two days ago.”
“Am I supposed to know who they are?” Casimir asks.
“Some survivalist hunter types who have it out for Beast-folk. Especially wolves. And apparently they have a knack for being slippery too. Now bear in mind, this is just something I heard from my cousin. But whether it’s true or not, I need everyone to be on high alert and play it safe. You know the deal. Don’t go out alone, be aware, and don’t think you’re too good to get an ass kicking from life if you’re not careful.”
Casimir wants to listen, but his attention is wandering, and out of the corner of his eye he sees a girl sitting alone at one of the tables.
She’s fiddling with the black fabric of her hijab and trying to focus on a horse handling textbook, only her gaze keeps drifting out the window every time a car passes by.
“Who’s that?” He turns around, completely ignoring Hek and the others now.
“Qiturah? I though she was with you?” Hek says.
“A man could only hope.” He replies.
“Well then who the hell is she with?” Hek sounds baffled. Hek looks at the crowd of employees and they all look equally confused.
“Is that for her?” Casimir points to the tray Hek has prepared.
“Yeah?”
“I’ll get it.”
Casimir grins and walks out of the kitchen, leaving Hek in a state of confusion.
No one wants to be questioned about Qiturah, so they quickly find something else to do.
