Something I Don't Know

8: pixies don't really have flowers for brains

       

On Monday, I resume life. Or start it, I guess. I don't know. As Midge said, I resume being a member of functioning society, which means that at eight in the morning, after having been shaken awake by Jamie two hours earlier (I needed thirty minutes to get ready, max, which I told him, but Jamie only hears what he wants to hear), I step into the tearoom I interviewed in about a week ago, the bell jingling above my head as I do. It's called, unsurprisingly, Rob's Tea, and its white stucco and wooden beams, along with the pretty little blue door with an open sign hanging from its knob, make it kinda feel like—just by walking a block past Tenth—I have somehow time-travelled.

    Robert is stationed behind the counter, and as I come in, he neither smiles nor waves at me. I'm not sure what I was expecting as a greeting, but this cool, blank stare is certainly not it. "Greyson," he says.

    "Oh, it's just Grey, it's not really—"

    "You're on time, Greyson," Robert continues, as if I hadn't spoken. I shut my mouth, and somehow, I know that as long as I am within these walls, I suppose I'll just have to be this Greyson guy. Whoever he is. He sounds like an asshole, though. "That's good, because the morning wave is about to come in. We should start your training right away."

    The word training has never frightened me before, but something about the low lighting of the tearoom and the eerie shadows of the 16th century teacups and 16th century furniture and 16th century everything and the general weirdness of Robert's presence makes it seem like a bit of a threat. I want to step out, but I don't, because I am not a coward, because (mostly) I need some goddamn money.

    Robert turns away from me a moment, and gestures towards someone I can't see. I hear his name before I see him: "Come here, River."

    All thoughts in my brain dissolve into two words: Oh, shit.

    The pixie rounds the corner, pointed ears sticking up from around his mass of curly black hair, golden skin still somehow golden in this faded lighting. He's wearing an apron around his waist and a smile on his face and suddenly—well, not suddenly, as I have been thinking this since Jamie drop-kicked me this morning to wake me up, and maybe even before that—I am regretting just about everything.

    River's emerald eyes light up with recognition. "Oh, Grey, this is a surprise," he says, and nudges Robert. "When you said we had a new guy, you didn't mention he was Alvanor's son."

    Robert makes a face. "This guy is Alvanor's kid? Are we thinking of the same Alvanor?"

    "I believe there's only one, sir."

    I don't like this, how they're talking about me as if I'm not standing right here—well, across the room from them, but still here—and I don't like the pleased look on River's face and I don't like the furniture and I don't like how it smells like sandalwood in here and, honestly, I should've just stayed in bed.

    "Why do you sound so surprised?" I manage to ask, though I know. Being his kid, I am well acquainted with the reputation Alvanor has in the city, in the world. He's fearsome, supposedly, this demon that came out of hell for the sole reason of causing trouble aboveground. What they don't know is that my father ascended solely because he was bored out of his mind. "There's drama up here, Grey," he told me once. "In hell, all anyone ever wants to discuss is the weather, which is always the same, anyway."

    He added later: "Also, the Kardashians are up here."

    Now, Robert shrugs. "I'd expect a demon hybrid to be more...terrifying."