Wicked Brews got a mix of clientele, everything from witches to shifters and human tourists, hoping to get a glimpse of how the other half lived. It was a good neighborhood, the cafe nicely situated in a complex of other small local shops. Bay, my brother, had a shop next door called Ritual Ink, which specialized in magic-infused tattooing and arcane piercing. The block also boasted a small bookshop, a barber, and a few restaurants. Family Familiar sat at the far end, making me feel very at home here.

I was a trifle biased towards Wicked Brews, since my roommate, Vanessa, worked there. But I loved its high open ceilings, the walls painted with warm earth tones, and a big stone fireplace at one end. There were wooden tables and chairs, but also big, overstuffed chairs scattered around for more casual gatherings. On the same wall as the fireplace a set of saloon doors opened and took you into the attached pub, because let’s face it, alcohol could be magic when used properly.

When I walked in, Van was stocking one of the glass pastry cases, her gloved hands carefully arranging them on the small silver trays. Inside were an assortment of consumables—many of them actually quite disgusting, but packing a magical wallop worth the horse sweat aftertaste.

Magical edibles came in a lot of varieties, but when it came down to it, they were medicine. You didn’t want medicine to look like candy. But Van’s bosses had a whimsical bent—the edibles looked like acorns, grass-green bars, or a pressed block of what looked like flower petals. Pretty, but not necessarily delicious. Which was good, because that would be false advertising. The last edible I’d had tasted like grass clippings and talcum powder.

The other case was already full of muffins and scones for people who just wanted a snack. I spotted the cinnamon rolls that had probably given the young Fawn that smear of icing. Dammit chirruped, and I smiled. No cinnamon rolls for you, little one.

They kept the tinctures, potions, and other liquid medicinals safely behind the counter under the little framed piece of paper that distinguished Wicked Brews as more than a coffee shop. The license proclaimed that Thea and Emma were accredited and bonded hedge witches and as such were legally allowed to sell the heady and potent potions they brewed.

The potionary was currently experiencing a rare lull between rushes, my roommate Trick the only customer besides myself. Noah, one of the baristas, was behind the counter stocking the milks. I liked Noah—he picked up shifts to work around his classes at Seattle Uncanny University, and besides Van, was one of my favorite baristas at Wicked Brews. I didn’t spot the shop’s owners, Thea and her wife, Emma, so they were probably in the back crafting their magical wares.

Van and Trick were using this lull to bicker like siblings. Trick sat in his usual place, the set of overstuffed chairs close enough to the espresso machine that Van didn’t have to shout at him. I took the empty one across from him, a low, square wooden coffee table between us.