Tempted by the Djinn: Monster Moguls

Iris

The hiss of the espresso machine is the heartbeat of my morning. It is a steady, rhythmic sound that drowns out the low hum of the city outside. I like the steam. I like the way it clouds my glasses and smells like roasted earth and dark chocolate. To most people, this is just a job, a way to pay the rent while they wait for their real lives to start. To me, it is a ritual. It is predictable. In a world that feels like it is constantly trying to shout in my face, the coffee shop is the one place where I can control the volume.

“You like your silence too much for a barista,” Camille once told me. It is probably true. But somehow, I make it work.

Using a damp cloth, I wipe the mahogany counter in a slow, wide circle. The wood is worn smooth in the center from years of cups sliding and coins clinking. It is ten in the morning on a Tuesday. The early rush of office workers has faded into a quiet lull. The only people left are a student in the corner staring at a laptop, and a nymph calling herself Mary, who is slowly nursing a chamomile tea.

I pick up my book from the shelf under the register. It is a thick paperback with a creased spine and yellowed pages. I have read it three times already, but the familiarity is what I crave. I find a seat on the tall stool behind the counter and let my eyes drift over the words. I don’t need to be entertained by something new. I just need something that stays the same.

The bell above the door rings. It lets out a sharp, clear chime that seems to vibrate through the floorboards. I do not look up immediately. I finish the paragraph I am reading, mark my place with a torn slip of paper, and then lift my head.

The air in the shop changes instantly. It feels thick, like those moments right before a massive summer storm when the sky turns a bruised purple and the wind stops breathing.

A man stands in the doorway.

He is not just a man. He is tall, much taller than the average person. He fills the frame of the entrance as if the building itself were an afterthought constructed around him. His skin is the color of polished obsidian, a black so deep it seems to drink the light from the room. Beneath the surface of that dark skin, I can see thin, glowing lines, veins of living fire that pulse with a steady amber light. His horns are dark and curved, rising from his thick black hair like crown points made of volcanic glass. They look sharp enough to cut the air itself.

The student in the corner drops his pen. Mary stops mid-sip, her tea splashing slightly over the rim of her cup. The entire shop goes silent. It is the kind of silence that feels like a physical weight, a collective holding of breath.

“Good morning,” I say. My voice is flat and professional. “What can I get for you?”

The man freezes. His gold eyes fix on mine, and for a second, a flicker of something like confusion passes through them. He walks toward the counter. Every step he takes makes the floorboards groan, not from his weight, but from the sheer pressure of his presence.

He is wearing a suit that looks like it costs more than my entire education. It is a deep blood-red silk that shimmers when he moves, tailored so perfectly it fits like a second skin. He carries himself with a terrifying kind of grace, the kind of walk that belongs to someone who has never been told ‘no’ in three thousand years.

He stops a few feet away from me. Up close, he smells like cedarwood, expensive tobacco, and the sharp scent of ozone after a lightning strike.

“You speak to me as if I were a common traveler,” he says. His voice is a low, resonant thrum that vibrates in my chest. It sounds like stones grinding together at the bottom of a deep well.

“You’re a customer in a coffee shop,” I reply, leaning my elbows on the counter. “Unless you’re here to fix the plumbing, I assume you want a drink. Do you need a minute to look at the menu?”

He stares at the chalkboard behind me as if it were written in a dead language. His eyes are the most striking part of him. They are solid gold, no pupils, no whites, just two glowing coins set into a face that is far too handsome to be human. “I do not require a menu. I require… sustenance.”

I blink once. I adjust my glasses, which have slipped slightly down the bridge of my nose. He is certainly the most interesting thing I have seen all week, but I have a degree to finish and a rent check to write. Being impressed by a monster does not pay the bills.

Besides, it’s not unusual to see such beings in the city. They drive past often in their expensive cars, always heading toward their lavish buildings. Some, like Mary, like to pretend they’re just like us. Human. But for all that we share a world, we have very little in common.

“We have muffins, but they’re from yesterday. I’d recommend the lemon loaf if you’re hungry,” I say, reaching for a clean paper cup. “But for drinks, we have coffee, tea, and espresso. If you want something simple, I can do a black coffee. If you want something fancy, you’ll have to be more specific.”

The man leans forward, resting his large, dark hands on the mahogany. His fingers are long and elegant, ending in nails that look like black quartz. I notice he isn’t wearing a wedding ring, but on his pinky finger is a heavy gold band with a seal I don’t recognize.

“Do you know who I am, miss?” he asks. It isn’t a threat. It’s a genuine question, as if he is worried I might have a vision problem.

“I don’t,” I say, clicking my pen. “And the name’s Iris. Now, do you want a coffee, or are you just admiring the woodwork?”

A slow, puzzled look spreads across his face. He looks at my hands, which are steady as I hold the cup. He looks at my messy hair, which I’ve tied back with a rubber band because I couldn’t find a clip this morning. He looks at my faded T-shirt that has a coffee stain near the hem.

I am nothing special. I am a twenty-five-year-old woman who is tired and wants to get back to her book. I think that is what is bothering him. To him, I am a speck of dust. But I am a speck of dust that isn’t blowing away when he breathes on me.

“Coffee,” he says finally. The word sounds strange coming from him, as if the concept itself is completely foreign. “Black. Like the void between stars.”

“So, a large dark roast. Got it,” I say. I turn away from him and head to the airpots.

I can feel his gaze on my back. It is hot, like a physical heat lamp directed at my spine. Most people would find it intimidating. I just find it a bit distracting. I pour the coffee, the dark liquid steaming as it fills the cup. I take my time, making sure the lid is snapped on tight so he doesn’t spill any on that expensive suit.

I walk back to the register and set the cup down on the counter.

“That will be four dollars and fifty cents,” I say.

He reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and produces a wallet. It is made of some kind of exotic leather that I don’t want to think too much about. He slides out a card. It isn’t a normal credit card. It is heavy, made of solid black metal with no numbers on it, just a gold symbol in the center, a sun being swallowed by a crescent moon.

“We don’t have a machine for… whatever that is,” I say, gesturing to the metal card. “Do you have cash? Or a normal Visa?”

He stares at the card in his hand, then at me. “This card can buy this city. It can buy the air you breathe.”

“That’s great, but it won’t go through my Square reader,” I tell him, pointing to the small white plastic device attached to my tablet. “I need five dollars or a standard card. Otherwise, I can’t open the till.”

He looks like he is about to say something explosive. The veins in his arms flare a bright, angry red. The air in the shop suddenly smells like burning sugar. I don’t flinch. I just wait, holding his gaze with a bored expression. I’ve dealt with angry vampire businessmen, tree spirits who demanded the liberation of coffee beans, and sirens who think they can pay with ‘exposure’. Last week, a centaur foal almost destroyed my cupcake display. I refuse to be rattled by a fire-veined… whatever he is, no matter how much money he has on his sophisticated card.

After a long moment, the heat in the air recedes. He reaches into his pocket again and pulls out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. He drops it on the counter.

“Keep the change,” he says, his voice tight.

“Thanks. We appreciate your patronage,” I say. I ring him up, slide the twenty into the drawer, and push his coffee toward him. “Have a nice day, Mr…?”

“Rakan,” he says. He takes the cup, but he doesn’t leave. He wraps his large fingers around the cardboard sleeve, his touch making the paper hiss slightly. “Rakan Al-Rashid.”

“Nice to meet you, Rakan. Enjoy the coffee.”

I pick up my book and open it back to the page I was on. I don’t look up. I can feel him standing there, a mountain of power and ancient history, waiting for me to do something else. Maybe he wants a thank-you. Maybe he wants me to ask for his autograph. Maybe he wants me to fall to my knees.

He stays there for a full minute. The silence in the shop is absolute. Even the refrigerator’s hum seems to have stopped out of respect for him.

Finally, his shoes click against the floorboards. He walks to the door. The bell rings again, that same clear, haunting chime, and then he is gone.

The moment the door closes, the weight lifts. The student lets out a long, shaky breath and starts typing furiously, probably tweeting about what he just saw. Mary takes a large gulp of her tea and whispers a prayer to Gaia under her breath.

I look up from my book and glance at the door. “That was interesting,” I mutter to myself.

The air is still a little warm, and there is a faint scent of cedar lingering in the room. I sigh, tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and go back to my reading. I have three more chapters to finish before my shift ends, and I don’t plan on letting a well-dressed monster ruin my afternoon.

Chapter I. An Uncommon Traveler

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The next morning, I follow my routine exactly. I wake up at five, drink a glass of water, and walk to the shop. I unlock the door, turn on the lights, and start the espresso machine. The smell of coffee fills the air, and I feel that familiar sense of peace settle over me.

At ten o’clock, the bell rings.

It isn’t the normal bell. It is that clear, vibrating chime. Again.

I don’t even have to look up to know who it is. The temperature in the room rises ten degrees. The shadows on the floor seem to stretch and darken, crawling toward the counter like they’re trying to reach me.

I finish wiping the counter and look up.

Rakan is standing in the exact same spot as yesterday. He is wearing a different suit. This one is a shimmering charcoal grey that looks like it was woven from smoke. His gold eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that would make most people’s hearts stop. He looks like he hasn’t slept, though I doubt beings like him need sleep.

“Back again?” I ask, reaching for a paper cup. “The black coffee wasn’t that good, was it?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. He walks to the counter, his movements slower today, more deliberate. He looks at me as if I were a riddle he is trying to solve. He looks at my glasses, my messy hair, and the way I’m already writing his name on the cup.

“It was… adequate,” he says. His voice is a rumble that makes the spoons in the ceramic jar vibrate.

“Adequate. High praise,” I say, moving to the coffee pot. “Same thing today? Large black?”

“Yes,” he says.

I pour the coffee. I snap the lid on. I set it on the counter.

“Four-fifty,” I say.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out another twenty-dollar bill. He doesn’t use the metal card this time. He lays the bill flat on the mahogany, his eyes never leaving mine.

“You are still here,” he says. It sounds like a statement of fact, but there is a hint of wonder in it.

“I work here, Rakan. I’ll be here until four,” I say. I take the money and give him his change, fifteen dollars and fifty cents. I hold it out to him, but he refuses it.

“Keep it,” he says. “I have no use for paper.”

He picks up his coffee, but he doesn’t leave. He leans against the counter, his massive frame making the heavy mahogany look like dollhouse furniture. “Tell me, Iris. Is there something that you wish?”

I lean back, crossing my arms over my chest. “To finish my book, maybe? Though Mary said last week that I should be a little friendlier. So maybe… that.”

He tilts his head. One of his obsidian horns catches the light from the window. “She’s not wrong. I have ended empires for less than the tone you are using with me.”

“Well, this isn’t an empire. It’s a small business,” I say. “And honestly, I’ve had a very long week. If you’re going to do something ancient and terrible, could you do it after my shift? I’d hate to have to clean up the mess before I go home.”

Rakan stares at me. A small, flickering flame appears at the corner of his mouth, then vanishes. He doesn’t look angry. He looks… fascinated. It is the expression of a man who has seen everything in the world and has suddenly found a door he can’t open.

“You are a strange creature,” he says.

“I’m just a barista,” I reply. “And you’re blocking the line.”

There is no one behind him. The shop is empty except for us. He knows this, and I know this, but I say it anyway.

He looks around the empty shop, then back at me. A very small, very sharp smile touches his dark lips. It is the first time I’ve seen him look almost human. Almost.

“Until tomorrow, Iris,” he says.

He turns and walks out. The bell rings, the air cools, and the shadows return to their normal places.

I stand there for a moment, looking at the door. My heart is beating a little faster than usual, but only a little. I pick up my book, but I don’t start reading. I can't stop thinking about the name I wrote on the cup he just took.

Rakan.

I have a feeling my routine is about to get a lot less predictable. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I like my quiet life. I like my books and my dying ivy. But as I look at the empty space where he was standing, the shop feels a little too quiet now. A little too cold.

I shake my head and open my book. I have a degree to finish. I have rent to pay. And apparently, I have an ancient monster to serve coffee to.

I can handle that. I think.