Rainy Morning at the Café

Here’s the opening of my yet untitled demon/band/ghost novel.

The two men appeared at the counter moments after the doors were unlocked at 6 a.m. The barista jumped when he turned to find them in the café that had been empty seconds earlier. The familiar creak of the old wooden door hadn’t warned him of their arrival, and the men’s appearance set his nerves on edge. They were both dressed in the style of well-to-do gentlemen who had stepped out to the opera a century ago and had been wandering cobblestone streets since then.

One must have been almost seven feet tall. He held a polished black walking stick with a silver snake’s head affixed to the top. As he flexed his wrist back and forth, the stick swung gently, clearly not long enough to touch the ground and therefore of dubious purpose. His black tuxedo jacket had tails, and he wore a pair of cardboard 3D glasses, the kind with one red lens and one blue.

The tall one stood in deference to the other, about half a step behind and to the side. The shorter one’s black hair was slicked back with a single lock hanging loose over his forehead. He also wore a tuxedo, with a red cape over his shoulders, fastened with a metal of honor conceivably presented by a foreign dignitary.

They both smiled with bright, vampiric teeth.

Regaining his composure, the barista swallowed and forced a smile in return to their silent greeting. “Good morning. How can I help you?” His eyes shifted toward the kitchen door.

“We’ll have two cinnamon macchiatos,” the shorter one said. “For the patio.”

The barista glanced out the front window. “It’s raining.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

The wind plastered a soggy newspaper against the window for a few seconds until another gust blew it away. The men’s shiny grins never wavered.

“Anything else for you?”

Their eyes traveled to the menu board. “I’ll have a ham and egg croissant.” The shorter one turned to the one with the 3D glasses. “And you, Gilpin?”

“A blueberry scone, sir.”

“A blueberry scone.” He repeated the order to make it official.

They took their food and drinks to a round metal table outside. Rain pattered on the large black umbrella stuck through the center of the table. Gilpin straightened the edges of the stacked napkins. A crumpled fast food bag whipped down the street in the breeze. The men’s breakfast remained undisturbed.

Lord Anzelm removed the clasp of his red cloak, which loosened itself from his shoulders and reformed itself in a third chair.

“After all this time, I don’t see why I can’t travel by my own power.” A gravelly voice growled from the cape.

“My darling, it’s nothing personal,” Anzelm said to the dark opening in the hood where a face should have been. “The mortals don’t know how to react to you because you haven’t the ability to smile as Gilpin and I have.”

On cue, they both flashed their blindingly white teeth at her. The cloak sunk lower in the chair.

“Smiling shows them you mean no harm, at least not yet.”