According to the clock on the wall, it's just past ten o'clock. The night is young. So are these people. And they deserve to live longer than this night. "So," I say, a little too loudly. "How about that coffee?"
***
The injured waitress is named Dinah. She took the bullet ten minutes before I walked through the door, when she tried to sneak out through the back. She's lucky he only shot her in the shoulder. Two other members of the staff--the other waitress and the busboy, a teenage kid who only took the job to pay for repairs to his death-trap of a pickup truck--were already dead by the time she tried to make a break for it. I learn this while she walks me through the process of making coffee on a machine that I could operate in my sleep. That's fine. I'm happy to let our rogue gunman think I'm a few sandwiches short of a picnic, especially if it gets Dinah off her feet.
"He came in here just a few minutes after the sun went down," she says dully. That's the shock speaking, the voice of a witness at an accident scene. "Josie went over to take his order. He put a bullet right between her eyes. Right...right between her eyes." A wondering note overcomes the shock, and she sounds almost childlike as she finishes, "Bang."
"That's charming." The coffee is thick and hot and doesn't smell like anything when I pour it into an industrial white diner mug. I made it, I poured it; nobody gave it to me, and I have no right to it. Coffee is reserved for the living. "Where do you keep the cream and sugar?"
"Counter," says Dinah, voice still soft and somehow childish. I can't be angry at her, although I try to be.
"Thanks. I'll try to get him to let us take a look at your shoulder." I offer her a sliver of a smile, not as encouraging as I'd like it to be, but better than nothing. I pour a second mug of coffee, place them both on a tray, and then I'm gone, heading for the door by way of the counter.
The man with the gun is still standing there, one eye trained on the room, the other keeping watch through the front window. He stiffens at my approach, trying to look relaxed as he turns to face me. He's thinking now. He sees how big a risk he's taken by taking this diner--and I still don't know why he's done it.
"Coffee's ready," I say, holding up the tray. "I didn't know how you take it, so I brought cream and sugar."
He eyes the second cup and sneers, "So what, you think you get whatever I get?"
"No. I just thought you'd want to be sure it wasn't poisoned before you drank any." I shrug a little, doing my best to look unconcerned. If he were alive, I wouldn't be worried at all. No living man has scared me since the night I did. Dead men, on the other hand... "If you want to drink them both, that's fine, too."
"Right." Another flicker of disquiet crosses his face. Maybe he doesn't know why he's doing this. "Fix them both, bitch. Three sugars, two creams."
"Got it." I put the tray on the nearest table, start doctoring the coffee, keep running through lists in my head. He's not einherjar; they like to fight, but they don't take hostages, they don't abuse the innocent. He's not deogen. They can turn visible, they can make their presence known, but they can't touch the living, and they don't like to interact when they can just watch. He could be working for the deogen...but it's a clear night. There would be fog if the deogen were near here, a heavy fog, and there's nothing.
"Hurry up."
"I'm done." I lift the tray. "You get first choice."
His jaw juts with pride that barely masks his fear. "Damn right I do." He grabs a mug, jerks his chin toward the other. "Better enjoy that, bitch. It could be your last."
Enjoy it? Not likely. I put down the tray, wrap my hands around the second mug to steal its heat, and sip the liquid that tastes like nothing but ashes. It doesn't even burn my lips or throat. It isn't mine.
The man with the gun watches until I've finished my third sip. Then he thrusts his untouched mug out toward me, commanding, "Trade."
"What?" I make doe's-eyes at him, looking as confused as I can.
"Gimme your coffee, bitch. I know that one's clean."
No, you don't; you know I'm willing to drink poison if it takes you out. The thought barely has time to finish before I realize something a lot more important. I hold out my mug, asking slowly, "Does that mean you're giving me yours?"
"Damn right." Coffee slops onto the side of my hand as he jerks my mug away, replacing it with his. The scalding sting is almost sweet, because it comes with the smell of sugared coffee, and the knowledge that when I take my next sip, I'll taste it. "Got a problem with that?"
"No," I say. The list of the dead has stopped running. I know something he doesn't. I know what he is. He doesn't know. How is it that he doesn't know? How do you not notice something like that? He's looking at me sidelong, suspicion in his eyes. I take a sip of coffee flavored with cream, sugar, and paradise. "No problem."