Read Online At the Behest of the Dead by Timothy W. Long - Free Book Online

address. It was also in an alley near a big green dumpster that reeked of refuse. I repeated the process, wishing I had some of that crap the cops put on their nose to cover the smell.
    There was no residue at thi s location either. I stood up with creaking knees and walked out of the alley. It was now full dark and I needed a little energy, so I strolled into a Starbucks, of which there are just about one on every corner.
    The place was qui et. Music piped in that sounded like some Diana Kroll. It’s always a good idea to keep the caffeine addicts sated while they sip. Play some Metallica and there might be a riot.
    Figures sat behind laptops, faces obscu red while they surfed the free wi-fi or worked on the next great American novel. I have a friend named Jonathan that writes books. He said he camps out at a coffee shop four to six hours a day. I wonder what they would say if I came in here with my parchment paged books and drew in charcoal and blood for a few hours.
    There were three people in line so I joined them. The person in front of me turned, looked me up and down, glanced at hi s watch and then strolled out. Warlocks, chasing people out of coffee shops since 1993.
    The woman asked what the guy ahead of me was interested in. He rattled off a complicated drink and she made marks on the side of the cup that would make an arcanist proud. I took in the muffins and donuts in the glass enclosure.
    When I stepped up to the counter , I already had a couple of bucks in hand. The barista’s nametag said Ashley but the last three letters were struck out with a ballpoint pen. She tried not to stare but her eyes failed that little challenge and they drifted over the belt of potions, pouches, and instruments of witchcraft that adorned my robe under the unzipped leather jacket.
    I had watched a documentary a few months ago about people that dr essed up like superheroes and patrolled the street. They had complicated outfits complete with masks and tools. I looked at my gear and choked back a laugh.
    “Um. Can I help you?” She continued to look my gear up and down. I sure knew how to impress the ladies.
    “Thanks. I’m trying to get into a fraternity.”
    “You look a little bit old to be in college.” She smirked.
    “Okay. I’m a sofa repairman. I make house calls.”
    “That I almost believe.” Ashley’s hair was a shade of auburn that bordered on red. She had a dash of sprinkles across her nose. No face rings to speak off, no tattoos. What was a girl like this doing working at a Starbucks?
    She continued to stare with the most amazing emerald eyes I had ever seen.
    “Right. Tall Americano, but put it in a big cup. I’m flying tonight.”
    “So you make house calls in other states?” she asked as she wrote on the side of a cup.
    She gently swayed to the music. It was customary to enter any coffee shop in Seattle and be greeted by either surly hipsters or college students with noses studiously buried in books. Ashley wasn’t eighteen. She looked young but her cool confidence had to put her closer to thirty.
    I handed over a few bucks and she handed back some change. I didn’t want to look like a cheap ass so I dropped a dollar in the tip box.
    “That’s right. There’s an emergency in Denver. A chaise lounge is in danger of being left in a previous decade.”
    “Sounds thrilling. Do you have your own jet?”
    Ashley bumped the male barista out of the way and arched her eyes at the cash register. He sighed and rubbed at his quarter inch of facial stubble. His hair looked like he’s spent half an hour making it appear as if he had just woken up.
    “I do as a matter of fact. But it barely seats two.”
    “Worst pickup line ever. ” She looked up from under her auburn curls.
    M y face flushed.
    “No, I wasn’t trying to be smooth.” I tried to recover.
    “Clearly.” She grinned and finished my drink.
    “Pardon me?”
    “Do you want room – in the cup?” She pointed at it and stared pointedly at