EIGHT | WAYPAVERS

I smoothed down the front of my blouse. It was neat and crisp, freshly ironed, but I needed something to do with my hands. I tucked my necklace under my collar, only to pull it out again moments later. It wasn’t like me to feel this nervous, this pressured. Then again, I hadn’t been feeling much like myself lately at all.

I was stood on the high street, dithering outside the coffee shop. Waypavers, the wooden sign creaked overhead, swinging blithely to-and-fro in the cold breeze. To meet here had been my suggestion – it was my favourite coffee shop, after all, it had made sense to recommend it – but now, standing by the doorway, peering in, I regretted saying we should meet here.

The writhing pit my stomach churned again, its vigour increasing with each passing second. I was early, albeit not by much, and I was beginning to wonder if agreeing to meet Cyrus had been a good idea, after all.

Then I heard quiet, confident footsteps behind me. I wanted to turn, to ogle, but I made myself face the doorway for a moment longer. I took a deep breath, smoothed down the front of my jeans – tight and black, with chunky black lace-up boots below them – and then, only when I was ready, did I turn.

It was, of course, Cyrus. His footsteps had the same, almost out-of-place quality that he did. They were slower, smoother, with an arrogance about them that spoke of aristocracy, almost, of a straight-backed confidence that came with wealth. I had no idea if he was rich, or poor, of course, but he carried himself with a regality that suggested he was, or, at the very least, had been, once.

His tousled hair fell across his pale forehead, inky and sleek, and I felt the sudden desire to run my fingers through it, to push it back only to watch it fall forwards again. Meeting Cyrus had, most definitely, been a horrible, terrible idea.

But as he smiled at me, his bright blue eyes crinkling at the edges, the dark swathe of his eyelashes shadowing the tops of his cheekbones, I couldn’t bring myself to regret my decision. Instead, I smiled back, feeling the blood rush to the apples of my cheeks. I was glad of my brown skin, in that moment; I would appear flushed with life, rather than red-cheeked and embarrassed, as I would have looked with skin as white as his.

“Callie,” he said slowly, as though savouring the taste of my name in his mouth. He held out his hand, and I placed mine in his. He brought my knuckles to his lips and brushed the faintest of kisses across them, and my stomach clenched. The tension between us was palpable, and I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “It is lovely to see you again.”

“And you, Cyrus,” I smiled, feeling the sudden, bizarre urge to curtsy. I was wearing thick-soled stomping boots, for Christ’s sake; I didn’t curtsy. Perhaps it was the same feeling that had driven me to leave behind my faux-leather jacket, choosing instead to wear my sleek, khaki-coloured, calf-length winter trench coat. 

Its double-breasted lapels were hanging open, and I pulled them closed, the urge to move my hands striking me anew. 

“So, where is it, exactly, that you have brought me?” He asked, his gaze lingering on my lips for just a second longer than was appropriate. 

I smiled, relaxing now that we had something to discuss. I nodded to the sign, which had, for the moment, stilled. There was still a bitter chill in the air, biting at fingertips and reddening the tips of noses, frosting the edges of crisp, fallen leaves on the pavements.

“Waypavers. It’s a small family business. I thought – well, I thought that if I was going to show you Seafall, then I should show you somewhere more interesting than the Starbucks or Costa.” I gave a laconic half-shrug, my confidence surging back to me. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” he said smoothly, stepping past me to hold the door open. I ducked my head – the entryway was slightly too low for me – and breathed in deeply as the heat and smell of fresh coffee and pastries replaced the cold-air-and-petrol smell of the outdoors.

Waypavers had the quaint feel of somewhere slightly out of touch with the rest of the world. Its low ceilings were strung with bulbous lights, and an eclectic variety of lamps were stationed on every available surface. It was well-lit but cosy, with long shadows thrown across the exposed brickwork and wooden beams.

Dripping wax candles seeped onto the ancient mantelpiece above the fireplace in the back corner, though the grate itself had been removed and replaced with towering stacks of old, worn books. They wavered, climbing up at uneven angles, yet still they stood, surrounded by lamplight and candlelight; yet they were utterly untouched by it, backed into the shadows of the archaic fireplace.

I could feel Cyrus’s presence behind me. It was unusual feeling, one that I would normally attribute to Harper; the sensation that someone was close, too close, behind me. It was comforting, when it was Harper – the sort of sensation that made me want to lean backwards, to let him support my weight for a while. His arms would wind around me, keeping me close, and he’d tuck my head beneath his chin.

The only other time I felt that way was during a hunt, when an enemy, a supernatural creature, had snuck up on me. The urge to clench my hand into a fist and swing it into a right hook suddenly rose in my chest, so I jammed my hand into my coat pocket, just in case.

“Callie,” Veronica smiled in greeting from behind the bar. She tossed a sodden cloth under the counter, and wiped her hands on her apron. Her eyes roved across the cut down my face, but she didn’t comment on it. “How are you?”

“I’m great, thanks, Ver. How are you?” I asked, leaning across the counter and grinning at her. The tension ebbed away, and I hoped that, this time, it would stay gone.

“You know, you know,” she said, waving her hand blithely through the air. “I’m at work, so. Could be better, but could be much worse, too.” Her gaze shifted suddenly, her grey-blue eyes sliding from my familiar figure to Cyrus’s new one. Almost without conscious thought, she fluffed up the tumble of strawberry blonde curls framing her chubby, heart shaped face.

“Oh,” I said, scrambling, all of a sudden. “Ver, this is Cyrus. He’s new to town.”

Almost as if he’d rehearsed it, Cyrus stepped forward and offered Veronica his hand.

“Veronica, is it? It’s a pleasure to meet you. This coffee shop is nothing short of delightful.”

I had to hold back a snigger. Veronica, however, looked about ready to keel over backwards. Her hand was limp in his as he brought it to his lips, and the laughter died on my lips. It had been replaced with a stinging jealously, and I felt a rolling sickness at the realisation of what I was feeling.

“Thank you, Cyrus,” she replied, her tone overflowing with pride. “It was my Grandmother’s, first of all, and now I run it with my parents.” She nodded to the back room. “I’ll take over one day, so they say they’re training me up by letting me do most of the work.” Her tone had turned conspiratorial. “I reckon they’re just in need of a break,” she admitted, her curls bouncing across her shoulders as her head moved, full of life and enthusiasm. “But I like it here, and they deserve a rest. Anyway,” she shook her head suddenly, her hair ruffling from side to side, her block fringe swishing, “what can I get for you both?”

“Could I have an oat latte, please, Ver?” I asked. At her nod, I turned to Cyrus. “What would you like? My treat,” I smiled. It felt like a peace offering; it felt like friendship.

“I’ll have the same,” he said levelly, though he’d raised an eyebrow at my suggestion of payment. “I’ll pay for us both, though. I asked you, Callie, remember?” He added, and his eyes held a hint of teasing light that might have made a weaker girl swoon. I’d faced off ghosts and faeries and demons – a little crush was no match for me. 

I wanted to argue, but there was something about the hard, firm line of his jaw that made doing so seem impossible. Instead I nodded, a hollow, “Thanks,” tumbling from my lips.

Veronica looked between the two of us, seemingly bewildered, and then she too nodded. “Cash or card?” She asked.

“Cash, please,” Cyrus said, brushing past me and sweeping up to the till. He was dressed elegantly, I noticed, wearing a sleek, long coat that wasn’t entirely dissimilar to mine. Beneath it, however, he was wearing a normal, plain jumper and a pair of black jeans, though they were cut in a subtly different way to the clothes I was used to seeing. They looked expensive, and perhaps foreign – a little more fashionable than the charity shops Harper and I frequented.

I felt a sudden, terrible pang of longing for Harper. I could picture his burgundy jumper, worn and fraying along its hemlines, and I could see us, too, on our worn, fraying sofa cushions sat by the fire.

I was only here for coffee, I reminded myself. I was here for coffee with someone who might become a friend – and nothing more than that. Maybe he’d be interested in Veronica. She was short and stout and sweet, fluffing up her hair in a desperate attempt to appear taller. She had a perfect rosebud mouth and golden eyebrows and eyelashes, which, in the right lighting, made her look almost angelic.

But Cyrus had paid, and was dropping a generous tip into the jar on the counter. And, I noted, he wasn’t looking at Veronica. He was angled slightly, and I could see the hard line of his jaw and cheekbones, and the soft, sensual curve of his lips. His nose looked even straighter in profile, and his eyelashes fluttered as his eyes – those beautiful, bright blue eyes – flickered away.

He’d been looking at me.