Page 6 of The Lone Wolf Café
I took a few steps closer and craned my neck. The glass on the front door was frosted, and the windows had the curtains drawn, so I couldn’t see inside. The werewolves wouldn’t want a stray hanging around for long, but I figured there was no harm in stopping in and asking a few questions. Since they lived on the mainland, they probably knew far more about the wider world than I did.
A brassy bell tinkled above the wooden door as I walked in. I was immediately hit by two strong scents – the pleasantly smoky smell of the lit fireplace in the back corner, and the significantly less pleasant smell of a very strong black tea brewing behind the counter.
Despite the bitter tea scent, the café was warm and inviting. The bottom half of the walls were white wood paneling, while the top was painted a dark sage green with silver-and-gold leaf patterned stencils. The space was very small, with only three round tables, each flanked by a pair of rustic wooden chairs, and a pair of high-backed, light tan loungers that faced the fireplace.
Crammed in the far-right corner, around the entrance to what I assumed was the kitchen, was a wraparound counter with the same dark sage trim. An old, clunky register sat on the end facing the front windows, next to a glass pastry case that was,surprisingly, empty. On the back wall was a little kitchenette, consisting of a hot plate with a large, ornate teapot boiling on top, multiple rows of dried herbs with individual labels written in chalk, and several containers of jarred honey in a range of colors and hues.
“Hello?” My voice was small, as if shouting could shatter the walls of this place. It was so peaceful, so serene… and yet sosilent. Where were the customers? More importantly, where were the staff? Shouldn’t someone be managing the front counter? After all,someonehad to have set the teapot on to boil.
Frustrated and a bit scared, I slumped down into one of the empty tan loungers by the fireplace.Maybe this isn’t a werewolf town,I pondered as I pulled out my pastry bag and took a large bite of a day-old blueberry scone.Maybe it’s inhabited by some other type of magical being. Ghosts would make sense. But can ghosts lift material objects? Are they able to drink tea?
Maybe that’s why the pastry case is empty…
As I sat alone, warm and comfortable and able to collect my thoughts, I realized how precarious of a situation I was in. First, I had run away from home without the barest skeleton of a plan, wandered aimlessly around a human tourist town, and stolen a cloak from a witch. Now I was in an unknown magical village, full ofgods-knew-whatkinds of beings, where I could be discovered – and possibly captured – at any moment. Yet I had plopped myself in front of the fireplace in a strange café, eating scones like I didn’t have a care in the world.
What was I thinking?
Self-scolding was replaced with fear, which felt both burning hot and freezing cold in my stomach as it made my eyes sting. I took several deep breaths to calm myself.
No. I will not cry.
Werewolves didn’t cry. We were capableof it, but showing such a cowardly emotion was frowned upon in our society. Ithought of the times my father barked at me when I was young for bursting into tears.
Crying isn’t going to do you any good, child,he would say to me.Whatever the problem is, get up, go out there, and fix it.
I forced a hard swallow, and the burning sensation in the corners of my eyes stopped. It may have been callous advice, but it was still true. Crying wouldn’t fix my situation.
But what should I do next?
I didn’t have time to ponder answers to that question. The door to the kitchen swung open, and out marched a pale, petite woman with shaggy, shoulder-length black hair. She had thick bangs that fell in her eyes, and her dark eyebrows were furrowed in a tight line. She looked upset, and I immediately scrambled to tuck myself behind the high-backed lounge chair.
She was in a bad mood, and I prayed it wasn’t because of me.
“Get up.”
I gulped, craning my neck upwards. A slender hand was perched on the top of the chair, with fingers topped by sharp nails painted a deep poison-purple.
Yup. She’s definitely upset with me.
I scrambled out of the chair, struggling not to fall in my panic. As I stood, I made sure my cloak was pulled firmly over my head and my lower back was concealed. Right now, I looked like an ordinary human. I wanted to keep it that way.
As soon as we locked eyes, her nose twitched, and she recoiled like she’d been shocked by electricity. It allowed me a few seconds to get a glimpse at her features. In addition to the choppy black hair and purple nails, she wore a long black dress with sheer, elbow-length sleeves topped with a fitted purple corset. Her eyes were deep brown, almost black, which made her glowering stare look even more menacing.
To top it off, perched on her head was a wide-brimmed purple hat with a pointy tip.
A witch.
This is a witch village.
I am completely and utterly screwed.
Of all the magical beings for me to come across, witches were the absolute worst option. Witches and werewolves had a long history of not getting along. Witches viewed werewolves as bloodthirsty murderers, and werewolves viewed witches as wild spirits with no structure and the tendency to let their magic get out of control. Both magical races were prone to getting in trouble with humans once every few hundred years, which caused the feuding and blame games to continue in a never-ending cycle.
Plus, this witch didn’t even know I was a werewolf, and she was already angry. Things could only get worse from here.
“You’re a bold human.” She practically hissed the words. “And a stupid one. You think it’s okay to wander into a witch village, plop yourself down in a café that isn’t open yet, and chow down on outside food? You’ve left crumbs all over my lounge chair!”
The witch swept past me, brushing a few crumbs of scone off the plush lounger and onto the floor. Her glowering stare returned to me, and I knew she was probably confused as to why I looked so relieved.
