Emma shivered and held her purse close. She rushed through the narrow alley, her boot soles clapping the hard pavers. In the daylight, the walls towering over her would have been crumbling, unpainted red brick. But at night they were nothing at all, a void blocking out the stars. The only illumination came from a small flashlight that Emma held in her numb, ungloved hand. Its dim beam swept over the alley, providing barely enough light for her to see. It flickered.
“I can’t believe it,” Emma mumbled with steamy breath. She’d been meaning to change the stupid flashlight’s batteries for the past week. She’d made notes, set reminders on her phone, and even placed a fresh box of new D cells by the door with a sign pointing to it saying Don’t Forget.
But she’d forgotten.
Should she go back home? No, she couldn’t. She had to get out of there, had to get away. She needed to go somewhere to distract herself so she could stop thinking about… him.
From ahead came a crash, then the drawn-out sound of a glass bottle rolling across the pavement. Slowly, she trained her flashlight in the direction of the noise. Two tiny eyes reflected its glare. Emma froze, heart racing, her mind flashing back to the summer night almost two years ago when she’d faced down a hoard of magical rats in this same alley. Her limbs felt electric, aching to spring into action, to run.
No.
She was being silly.
The rats were gone, and the man who made them and controlled them was locked in a cell. These alleys were no longer the cursed and confused mazes leading to the hollowed-out, abandoned core inhabited only by ghosts and madmen.
They were just alleys. She’d seen to that.
She kept walking, past the spilled trash can, until her flashlight was joined by a second point of light. It was a dancing gaslight tongue fastened to the wall and enclosed by a glass sphere. It cast a living, breathing light onto the surrounding red brick, a small staircase, and a hand-lettered sign reading: Deadtown Coffee Roasters est. 1998.
Emma skipped down the steps and pulled the heavy steel door open. Warmth and light spilled onto the landing along with the murmur of conversation and the heavenly scent of freshly roasted coffee. All these sensations wrapped around her like a blanket. Her mouth lifted into a contented smile.
The coffee shop was crowded. Half a dozen groups of five or six people clustered around pushed-together tables. All of them hunched, pens poised, over piles of paperwork, although from the way they smiled and laughed and jostled one another, they appeared to enjoy it.
Viv stood behind the counter, absorbed in polishing the chrome espresso machine. She was a strong woman, middle-aged, with cropped platinum hair. Under her black barista apron, she wore a green tank top and jeans. It would have been freezing outside, but in the warm shop, surrounded by steaming coffee equipment, it was perfect.
Viv glanced up. The skin around her eyes creased as she smiled broadly. “This is a surprise,” she said. “You hardly ever come out for a late-night cup of joe these days.”
“Late night? It’s only eight o’clock.”
“Is it?” Viv glanced at her watch. “I went outside on break, and it looked like midnight. We’ve been slammed. I thought I lost track of time.”
“The streetlights aren’t working.”
“That must be it,” Viv said. “Just like the old days, huh?”
She meant the days when her café was an oasis of light perched on the edge of the abyss, before Emma came to town, before they became roommates. The café echoed with the sound of dice rolling across a polished wood tabletop. Someone cheered. “Why is it so busy anyway? Isn’t Wednesday night usually quieter?”
“Not really.” Viv stopped polishing the espresso machine and tossed the white towel over her right shoulder. “Wednesdays are game night. Everyone brings their friends, and they play their favorite tabletop games.”
“That’s a great idea.”
“That’s what you said when I told you about it last week.”
“Last week?” Emma’s mind went blank. “I guess I’m a pretty bad friend.”
“Oh, shut up, Em. You’re a great friend. You’ve just been preoccupied. Have you talked with him yet?”
“No. I thought about it, but I just had to get away to clear my head.”
“What’ll it be then? Our seasonal ginger latte just came back on the menu.”
“Yes please. Decaf.” The ginger latte was so good she’d dreamed about it for months after it went off the menu last year.
“Coming right up.” Viv pressed a button on the grinder, a tall machine with a clear, conical top filled with dark coffee beans. It made a whirring noise. When she turned back to Emma, her eyes had a softness to them. She looked concerned. “You know you can’t put it off forever.”
“I know, I know. It’s not what you signed up for when you moved in. You pay rent, and it’s not fair—”
“That’s not what I meant. I don’t care if your dad stays with us.” Viv tamped the coffee in the portafilter, twisted it onto the espresso machine, and turned a knob. “The guy’s had a rough couple of years.”
“Decades.”
“It’s not even like he was locked up in prison, where he could watch TV or read. He was kidnapped, shipped over to that creepy fae palace, and turned into a zombie butler. I’m not going to be the one to tell him he can’t lie around on the couch all day watching reruns of Bonanza.”
“Then why do I need to talk with him?”
“I might not care if he hangs out at our place, but it’s pretty obvious you care.”
“Why do you always have to be so perceptive?”
“What can I say? I’m a Pisces.”
“It’s just… It doesn’t seem fair. I figured out he was trapped in the fae realm. I made a deal with that awful fae prince to get him home. When he showed up on my doorstep, I thought I’d done it. I’d finally fixed the part of my life that had always been broken. For a day or two, it almost felt like I had.”
“I remember.” Viv poured cold milk into a metal cup and placed it under a hissing steam wand. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you so happy. What changed?”
“He’s not like I thought he would be.”
“That’s the problem with most people.”
“You don’t understand. I spent my whole life imagining that my dad would show up one day. He’d tell me he never meant to leave. He’d take me fishing, and I’d tell him about my life, and just when we were about to leave empty-handed, we’d catch a trout. Then I’d feel bad for it, and we’d let it go. Then we’d pack up and get ice cream.”
“That’s a very specific fantasy. Didn’t he take you to ice cream yesterday?”
“I took him!”
“Oh.”
“I just wanted a dad.” A lump formed in Emma’s throat, and the corners of her eyes felt misty. “But what I got was an old man who leaves his dirty clothes on the floor for me to wash, who expects me to cook and clean for him, who still thinks the world is the way it was back in the eighties when he disappeared.”
“What about your mom? She’s retired. Maybe she could come help and, you know, rekindle the old flame?” Viv poured the espresso into a wide ceramic mug, added a glug of clear syrup, and poured in the steamed milk.
“She won’t answer the phone.”
“Well, then…”
“What?”
“You’re doomed.” Viv slid the frothy ginger latte across the brass countertop to Emma.
“Shut up.” Emma tried to keep her mouth from lifting into a grin. She picked up the giant mug and tried not to spill it. Glancing over her shoulder, she scanned the room for an open table, but there weren’t any. All of them, even the tiny tarnished-copper two-seater, had been pressed into service by the gamers. Even the green velvet sofa by the fireplace overflowed with customers.
Emma’s heart sank. What now? Would she have to get a to-go cup and sip her latte by the trash can? Or worse, take it home and pretend not to hear her dad snoring on the couch while Wild West gunfights played on the TV?
“Hey, Em,” Viv said, tapping her on the shoulder. “Why don’t you use the VIP table in back? Riley’s already there.”
Emma stood in front of the dusty black curtain, holding her latte like a sacrament. It was full to the brim. Any sudden movement, any tremor, would cause its precious contents to slosh over the side and onto the polished concrete floor. The cup felt warm against her hands. Its rising steam offered hints of the warm ginger bliss soon to come. She parted the curtains with one hand and pushed through.
Quiet, cool air surrounded Emma as she entered the back room. Dust and the spicy aroma of green coffee hung in the air. Emma got goose bumps and her nose prickled. Fluorescent lights shone overhead. It wasn’t nearly as cozy as the café, but it was a good place to hide.
The back room walls were stacked to the ceiling with brown cardboard boxes full of cups, lids, and everything else needed to keep Deadtown slinging coffee. At the far end of the room, a desk held an ancient computer monitor. An orange sofa sat next to it, along with a honey-walnut dinner table that looked like it had been scavenged from the side of the road. The VIP table.
Riley sat facing away from Emma, clacking the keys on a laptop. Its screen displayed the cartography program Riley and their students used to map the extensive tunnel system running beneath Undertown. Emma sat, fighting the urge to say hello. When Riley was engrossed in work, like they were now, conversation was a losing battle.
Emma cupped the latte in both hands and enjoyed the feeling of warmth on her cold fingers and palms. She lifted it to her mouth and paused, allowing the fragrant steam to envelop her for a moment. She sipped. The ginger went off like a firework on her taste buds, a spicy high note that was the perfect complement to the darker chocolate notes from the coffee. She swallowed and felt the warm liquid travel down and out, warming and soothing every part of her. This was exactly what she needed. To drink her coffee and scroll through her phone and forget about the dad-sized anvil hanging over her head.
“Done.” Riley closed their laptop. “How’s your father?”
The string snapped. The anvil fell. Her blissful moment smashed flatter than Wile E. Coyote. “Fine.”
“I’ve been meaning to come by and deliver his test results,” Riley said, not seeming to notice Emma’s tone. The fae had a reputation for replacing the people they kidnapped with changelings, who looked human but weren’t. Riley had insisted on doing all kinds of tests to make sure he was totally human.
Emma had written it off at the time, but what if it was true? If the fae had returned a changeling instead of her dad, that would explain why he lay around all day, why he couldn’t take care of himself. Emma leaned in. “What did the tests find?”
Riley pushed their long glasses up to the bridge of their pointy nose. They shuffled through some papers and spent an entire minute quietly reading. They glanced up. “Totally human.”
“Shoot.”
“I thought you’d be happy.”
“So did I— Sorry, sorry.” Emma took another sip of her drink. It was pleasant, but the coffee had cooled. It wasn’t the same. “I came here to get away, and all anyone wants to ask about is my dad. How’s he doing? Why aren’t you happy now that you’ve gotten everything you’ve ever wanted?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s not you.” Emma sighed. “You’re a good friend.”
“Thanks,” Riley said. Several long seconds of silence passed between them. “Are you entering the sewing competition tomorrow?”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s a topic of conversation that’s not your dad.” Riley reached into their bag and took out a piece of yellow copy paper, passing it to Emma.
Emma read the flier. “103rd Causeway Sewing Bee? Tomorrow at the museum? What the heck is a sewing bee?”
“An old tradition from when people had to sew their own clothes. Every year, the women in neighboring villages would get together and have a contest to see who was best. Most of them were outlawed several hundred years ago during one of the witch panics. Back then, if more than three old ladies got together, they had to be doing witchcraft. It’s neat that someone revived the old tradition. So are you going?”
Emma let out a single loud hoot. “Not likely. My mom tried to get me to help her make curtains once. She showed me how to use the sewing machine, and all I got out of it was a trip to the emergency room for a needle-ectomy.”
“How’s that even possible? With modern sewing machines—”
“All I know is that I have a scar on my right index finger from where they stitched me up.” Emma thrust her finger out for Riley to inspect it. “That was when I learned something about myself. No matter what other talents I might have, sewing is not one of them.”
“It seems a little precipitate after just one accident—”
“I’m not a sewer.”
“Good. That means you can come and cheer me on.” The corners of Riley’s mouth curled into a mischievous grin.
“You’re a sewer?” Emma wasn’t sure how to take this information.
“Of course! I’m in the community theater, aren’t I? Do you think those costumes sew themselves?”
“I’ve never thought about it.”
“That’s the category I’m competing in. Theatrical sewing. They give you a bunch of materials as well as the name of a famous character in a famous play. You have a couple of hours to develop and sew a costume for the part.”
“And people watch you?” It sounded about as fun as watching paint dry.
“That’s the whole point. So will you come root for me? My event is at two in the afternoon on the top floor of the museum.”
Emma tried to think of a decent reason not to go, but she came up blank. Besides, Riley deserved someone to cheer them on. “I’ll be there. It’s at the museum? Does Clarence know about it?” The museum was Clarence’s baby. Under his leadership, the Friends of the Museum had practically gone to war with the Friends of the Library and the Friends of the Theater, as the three organizations battled to win the most customers to their bake sale.
“Deidre convinced him.”
“I didn’t know she was back in town.” Deidre lived in Undertown. She ran a clothing boutique but came and went as she pleased. More than once had Emma hoofed it down to the Tigress to buy a new top or have her pants hemmed, only to be met with a sticky note reading Back Next Week.
Deidre had her finger in every pie, knew everybody’s business, and traveled seemingly everywhere. It would be a fascinating life for anyone to lead, but it was even more fascinating because Deidre was so old. At least a hundred years, and she didn’t look a day over sixty-five.
If Deidre could live such an active life, why couldn’t Emma’s dad? Maybe he just needed a push.
It was a chilly, drizzly walk home across Undertown Square. The streetlights were still out, but the moon was bright enough to light her way across the crunchy dead grass. To her left, the library loomed, a dark hulk in the distance. To her right, the museum blazed with light, and small silhouetted figures moved in and out through its front door, likely preparing for tomorrow’s sewing bee.
She knew what she would say. She’d rehearsed in her mind. First, she’d hit him with an empathy bomb. He had been through hell. Was it any surprise he’d had a hard time adjusting? He’d have to be superhuman not to get stuck in a rut.
Her second step would be to acknowledge the rut. Whatever her dad imagined a happy, healthy life looked like, it probably didn’t involve lying on the couch all day, eating bag after bag of potato chips. Even if he loved watching Bonanza with all his heart, there had to be other things he wanted to do. The old pictures showed him riding motorcycles and at the beach.
That would lead smoothly to the third and final step: collaborative problem solving. They’d put their heads together and come up with one or two realistic steps to ease her dad back into a normal life.
It was all so clear. Emma and her dad were both adults and could work things out in a calm, rational, respectful manner.
Emma was glad to see her front porch light shining. The wooden front steps boomed as she ran up them. She put the key in the latch, turned it, opened the door, and entered.
The house smelled like potato chips mixed with something weirdly floral. The theme song of Bonanza played quietly in the distance. Her dad was probably sleeping in the den. Emma had shrugged off her coat and hung it on the hook when she noticed she had goose bumps and her heart was pounding. Something in the house was different.
Something was wrong.
Emma scanned the front hallway. Nothing. She glanced up the steep stairs to her right. Normal. But the living room flickered with shadowy firelight. Emma distinctly remembered shutting the gas fireplace off before she left. Her dad didn’t know how to operate it. Her roommate, Viv, was at work. Who, then, had turned on the fireplace?
A dark figure rose from the sofa. “Emma, we need to talk.”
