Page 64 of The Thief

“So pour me a glass of fun.”

His eyes narrowed. “I’m not hiring a Sensor to work the bar, if that’s where this conversation is heading. This is the cheaper option.”

“If you can’t at least buy from a reliable seller who distributes Sensor magic predictably, you’re better off not selling any at all. Now, pour me a glass so I can see what we’re selling.”

I needed to sample the house drink to ascertain the strength. That would help me figure out how many alcoholic beverages I could serve them afterward, if any. Sensor-spiked drinks were popular, and bars in the big city hired experienced mixers. Some heightened emotions; others added a dash of sensuality. They all varied, but the wrong number of alcoholic drinks consumed afterward could be disastrous, so it was important to know the strength of the house drink.

Any Sensor can spike a drink or food item, but there’s talent in the craft. It requires a skilled touch to infuse the right amount in each glass. That includes Sensor pops and other candies, which are more popular in bars because the magic is diluted and predictable. Samplers are a means of advertising.

I understood why Calvin was buying them by the bottle. In a small town like Storybook with no steady flow of customers, it made sense to have fewer employees in order to keep the business afloat.

“There’s a reason bars don’t sell spiked bottles,” I told him, stating what he already knew. “Someone could commit murder and blame it on your alcohol. They might even try to rob you for them.”

“Let ’em try.” Calvin finished pouring the green liquid into a shot glass.

“What kind of alcohol is it?” I asked.

He set it in front of me. “Fuck if I know.”

I raised the glass and knocked it back.

Calvin tucked his fist beneath his chin and watched me with a twinkle in his eye.

I stuck my tongue out, wishing I could chase the alcohol down with coffee or something bitter. “That’s too sweet.”

“It’s not supposed to taste good. Otherwise, they’ll want more. One is all you get.”

“But that’s not entirely true. Virgil came in and said you sold him?—”

The magic suddenly hit me like a tidal wave. Every light in the room glimmered, like gemstones and gold in a treasure chest. The hard lines softened, and I saw colors that didn’t exist on the spectrum.

Calvin dipped his finger in the glass and licked a drop. “This will erase your inhibitions, and I don’t mean the sexual kind. Just whatever’s holding you back. Now, do not shift in my bar and make me throw you outside.”

“You’ve had it?” I covered my mouth. The voice in my head sounded like harp strings, but was I singing my words? I didn’t think so.

“Honey, I’ve tried all the drinks in here. It’s free for me. One of the perks of being the owner.”

Don’t shift in his bar. Calvin’s warning registered in my brain. But how could I shift? My wolf was running around in a virtual meadow.

I tried to dismount the saddle and struck the floor with my whole body.

“That had to hurt,” someone quipped.

“It hits everyone different,” Calvin said, looming over the bar like a fifty-foot-tall giant. “Some see spinning colors, and others want to share their darkest secrets. I once had a guy recite his personal poetry. If you want to know what’ll clear out a bar, it’s listening to a five-minute poem about a turtle born without a shell.”

“I thought that was a metaphor?” a man asked.

I stared at my black capri pants and butterfly sneakers. The butterflies flapped their wings and lifted into the air, leaving a trail of light behind them.

“Cut that out!” Calvin shouted.

He flew around the bar like a warrior rushing to battle. Sensing trouble, I forced myself to stand. When a belligerent customer kicked the jukebox, Calvin punched him.

“Whoa!” I waved my arms to calm the men but was quickly distracted by the trails of light my fingers left. How had Virgil managed two of these?

While Calvin was engaged in a fistfight with a customer, I noticed four men in a booth, drinking from a liquor bottle. We only sold beer by the bottle, so these morons had smuggled in their own liquor.

Incensed by their lack of respect, I marched over to their table, my sneakers pounding against the wood floor like two hammers. My sense of reality disintegrated when I reached the Four Horsemen. “Gentlemen, the only bottles we allow in here are the ones we sell,” I snapped.

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