Three Mages and a Margarita

Book 1: The Guild Codex: Spellbound

by Annette Marie

Genres: Humorous Fantasy; Urban Fantasy; Fantasy action & adventure; Dragons & Mythical Creatures; New Adult & College

Synopsis

Broke, almost homeless, and recently fired. Those are my official reasons for answering a wanted ad for a skeevy-looking bartender gig.

It went downhill the moment they asked me to do a trial shift instead of an interview — to see if I'd mesh with their "special" clientele. I think that part went great. Their customers were complete dickheads, and I was an asshole right back. That's the definition of fitting in, right?

I expected to get thrown out on my ass. Instead, they...offered me the job?

It turns out this place isn't a bar. It's a guild. And the three cocky guys I drenched with a margarita during my trial? Yeah, they were mages. Either I'm exactly the kind of takes-no-shit bartender this guild needs, or there's a good reason no one else wants to work here.

So what's a broke girl to do? Take the job, of course — with a pay raise.

Release date: September 14, 2018

Publisher: Dark Owl Fantasy Inc.

Print pages: 312

Sample

 

CHAPTER 1

Keeping a job involves a few simple rules: Arrive on time. Work hard. And don’t assault customers.

I forced a polite smile as the woman at table six snapped her thick fingers even though I was already hurrying toward her, a tray of drinks weighing down my arm. She jabbed fuchsia claws at her meal.

“My pasta has no meat,” she declared in the tones of an offended Victorian governess.

I looked at her plate. The pasta did in fact display a shocking lack of poultry, considering it had arrived at her table with an entire grilled chicken breast. I knew, because I’d seen the busboy carrying it. Streaks of creamy sauce smeared the plate’s edge.

I looked at her tablemate’s meal. Oh hey, more Alfredo. And wow, that was a mighty big pile of grilled chicken sitting on top, which the other woman was eating at maximum speed as though she could make it disappear before my poor waitress brain calculated the disparate mass.

“This is unacceptable.” The woman waved a hand to draw my attention away from the suspicious heap of meat. “I hope you don’t expect me to pay for a meal that’s missing the main ingredient!”

Shifting the heavy weight of my tray, I gazed at her wordlessly, then turned the same stare on her co-conspirator. Did they really think I’d never seen this scam before? When they started to squirm, I refocused on the chickenless woman and smiled brightly.

“What was the problem again, ma’am?”

“My—my meal has no chicken!”

I tsked playfully, like we were all in on the joke, and winked at the other woman. “Your friend must have a lightning-fast fork, then! You didn’t even see her swiping the chicken off your plate.”

Forcing a laugh, I stepped back, the three cokes, two beers, and iced tea wobbling on my tray. Six thirsty customers only a table away watched me with begging eyes, and I could practically see my tip shrinking the longer they waited.

The chickenless woman gawked at me, rusty gears turning behind her close-set eyes. I’d called out her stupid lie and given her an easy escape. All she had to do was shut up and steal some protein back before her friend ate it all. No free meals for her today.

But instead, she swelled like a bullfrog and pointed a pink claw at my chest.

“What are you implying?” Her voice rose, cutting through the cheerful babble of the busy café. “I told you my meal arrived without any chicken. Are you calling me a liar?”

Why yes, I was. “I must have misunderstood,” I said soothingly, lowering my voice as though that would cancel out her increased volume. “I assumed you were joking because your chicken was obviously dumped onto your friend’s plate.”

“How dare you!”

Ah, okay, I probably shouldn’t have said that. “I’d be happy to have the kitchen grill up another chicken breast for you at no charge.”

“I’m not paying for this meal. After your rudeness, we’re not paying for anything!”

“I see. In that case, I’ll have to fetch my manager.” With my free hand, I pulled the chicken extravaganza out from under the other woman’s fork.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“She said you weren’t paying for anything, so I’m—”

“I’m not finished with that!”

“Are you planning to pay for it?”

Fork still poised in the air, she looked at her furious companion. More spinning gears. These two women probably hadn’t thought this hard since kindergarten.

“Put that plate back!” the first woman barked. “And get your manager over here immediately.”

I returned her meal, my drink tray wobbling again. The imaginary tip counter hovering above the thirsty table was now in negative numbers. I’d be paying them for their drinks.

“I’ll send a manager,” I muttered as I turned away. “Don’t pig out on your free meals.”

“Did you just call me a pig?”

The offended shriek silenced every conversation in the café. Oh, hell. Grimacing, I swung back to face the woman. “You must have misheard—”

“I didn’t mishear anything!” she straight-up screamed. “You called me a pig! Where is your manager?”

“Um.” I glanced across the tables, the dinner rush halted by the spectacle. No managers in sight, but at my panicked look, another server zipped into the kitchen. “Let me just—”

“We’re leaving. I won’t pay to be mocked and insulted.” The woman shoved to her feet, frothing at the mouth with vindicated rage. Her companion shoveled one last mouthful of chicken down her gullet before scrambling up.

“If you could just wait one moment,” I tried again. “A manager will—”

“Out of my way!” Her fat hand shot out and shoved my drink tray.

It flipped up, dumping all six beverages onto my chest. Liquid drenched my white blouse and glassware shattered on the floor, spraying shards over my legs as ice cubes skittered under tables.

Anyone who’s known me for more than an hour has an inkling of my temper. And by inkling, I mean I might as well wear a flashing sign that reads, “Firecracker Redhead, Beware.” Or, if you’re my ex-boyfriend, it reads, “Don’t Stick It in Crazy Gingers.”

I try my best, okay? I keep my mouth shut, I smile real polite, and I let the managers give free meals to every scamming asshole because “the customer is always right” or whatever.

But sometimes I react before I think.

Which is why, as ice-cold liquid gushed down my front, I whipped my dripping tray right into the woman’s smirking face.

The plastic hit the side of her head with a shocking crack and she stumbled backward, then fell on her well-padded butt. Her mouth hung open, eyes bugged out, coke and beer and a hint of iced tea speckling her cheek.

If the restaurant had been quiet before, now it was silent enough to be a new dimension.

“She pushed me first,” I announced, my voice echoing in the silence. “You all saw that, right?”

At my thirsty table, a middle-aged couple gave small, hesitant nods and one guy grinned, shooting me a thumbs-up. I could feel a hundred eyes on me as, my blouse and apron dripping, I reached over the woman and picked up the two Alfredo plates, stacking them on my empty tray.

The woman stared vacantly, but I knew better than to think I’d literally tray-slapped some sense into her. Once her shock wore off, she would start howling. Or wailing. Fifty-fifty chance.

“I didn’t call you a pig,” I told her. “But I should have called you a liar. You lied about your meal, then you assaulted me. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Her face purpled, eyes bulging even more.

“On the plus side,” I added cheerfully, “you’re getting your food for free, just like you wanted. Have a nice day, and please never come again.”

With the two Alfredo plates on my tray, I waltzed past her, ignoring the ice cube lodged in my cleavage. Whispers erupted at every table as I counted in my head.

I got to three before the noise erupted. Wailing. I knew it.

A manager flew out of the kitchen, and her glare blazed hot enough to grill some chicken all on its own. Wincing, I ducked through the doors into the back. The moment I appeared, the two line cooks whooped.

“Right in the face!” Neil laughed, waving a spatula at the door’s small window where he’d no doubt plastered his nose as soon as the shouting began. “Wow, Tori, are you insane?”

“Why do people always ask me that?” I muttered as I set the tray down on the counter and checked my bare legs and sandaled feet for glass shards.

“I can’t believe you—”

“Tori.”

I flinched. The café owner stood at the end of the kitchen, her arms folded and her expression as black as her coffee. My innards melted with dread, but I straightened my shoulders and strode confidently toward her. In the dining area, the chickenless wonder had switched from wails to shrieks.

“Mrs. Blanchard, I can explain—”

“Did you hit a customer?”

“She pushed me first.”

Blanchard nudged her wire-rimmed glasses up and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Tori, I’ve told you more than once that if a customer is antagonizing you, fetch a manager.”

“I was trying to, but she—”

“I warned you last week after you called one of our regulars a half-plucked buzzard to her face—”

“She kept calling me anorexic! Every time I walked by—”

“I warned you,” Blanchard repeated, speaking over my protests, “that you were on your final chance. You’re a hard worker, and I’ve done everything I can to accommodate your … issues … but I can’t employ a server who attacks customers.”

“Customer,” I corrected in a dejected mumble. “Only one. I won’t do it again, I promise.”

“I’m sorry, Tori.”

“Mrs. Blanchard, I really need this job. Please, give me one more chance.”

She shook her head. “Leave your apron. You can pick up your last check on payday.”

“Mrs. Blanchard—”

“I need to help settle things down in the dining area.” She stepped around me. “Please use the back door on your way out.”

As she walked away, my shoulders slumped. The noise had quieted, meaning the manager had probably offered all kinds of apologies and gift cards to the poor assaulted woman. I tried not to imagine the look on chicken lady’s face when she learned the crazy server had been canned.

“Aw, man,” Neil said glumly, joining me beside the dishwasher. “Sorry, Tori. Sucks that she fired you.”

“Well,” I said heavily, “I’m not really surprised.”

I untied my apron, then fished the half-melted ice cube out of my blouse and flicked it into the sink.

“Uh, Tori? Your, um, bra … is showing.”

“Yeah, that happens. Ever hear of a wet t-shirt contest?” I scowled. “That wasn’t an invitation to stare.”

He jerked his eyes up. “Aren’t you supposed to wear white bras with white shirts?”

“Are you a fashion expert now?” I didn’t admit he was right, or explain that my white-shirt-friendly undergarments were in the laundry. Neither did I glance down to see how visible my pink bra with little black hearts was. I didn’t want to know.

After digging my tips out of my apron—a measly twenty-two bucks since I’d only been an hour into my shift—I handed the drenched fabric to Neil. “Well … guess I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah. Stop by and visit, ’kay?”

“Will do,” I lied. Like I could ever come back here after clobbering a woman with a drink tray.

With a half-hearted wave, I stopped in the breakroom to grab my purse and umbrella, then exited through the back door, as instructed. Rain pattered the asphalt, making the muddy puddles dance. Skirting the reeking dumpster, I followed a narrow alley to the main street.

Chipper music rolled out of the café as a couple entered. The brightly lit windows were warm and inviting, and everything looked back to normal as a server stopped at a table to unload steaming plates for eager customers.

The cool rain peppered my face and diluted the ugly brownish splotch on my chest, but I didn’t open my umbrella. If my pink bra was on display, then I was committing to the show, damn it. Wet shirt all the way.

Turning on my heel, I marched down the sidewalk. It was a long walk home, but at least it would delay the inevitable moment when I’d have to inform my landlord I’d lost my job … again.

--

CHAPTER 2

Unlocking the apartment door, I poked my head inside. “Justin?”

No answer. Heaving a sigh of relief, I locked the bolt, shoved my purse into the closet, and kicked my sandals onto the mat to dry. My bare feet squeaked on the linoleum as I walked down the short hall into the main room, a cramped kitchen overlooking it. The drooping blue sofa had seen better days, and carefully folded bedsheets and a blanket sat on one end.

Piled in front of the window were four battered cardboard boxes that contained all my worldly possessions. Grabbing the overflowing laundry basket off the top of the pile, I carried it to the narrow closet where the stacked washer and dryer hid. As I loaded my laundry in, I mentally reviewed my bank account. Would my last paycheck cover the rent? Maybe … if I didn’t eat for the rest of the month.

Washer loaded, I stripped off my work clothes and tossed them in, then started it up. Returning to the boxes, I selected my last clean bra—hot red with lacy embellishments, normally reserved for special occasions—then dragged out a pair of yoga pants and pulled them on.

As I lifted out a top, the clack of the bolt echoed down the hall. Yelping, I yanked the shirt down, barely getting it in place before a male head poked out from the hall, eyebrows high in surprise.

“Tori! You’re home early.”

“Hi, Justin.” I managed a smile. “How was work?”

He was still in uniform—dark blue slacks and a button-down shirt emblazoned with the police emblem on the shoulder. Normally I loved a man in uniform, but I could only appreciate it so much on Justin. Not that he wasn’t handsome with his hazel eyes and close-cropped brown hair. It’s just, you know, he’s my roommate. And my landlord. And my older brother.

“Tiring,” he admitted. “I hate the early morning shift, but I have my fingers crossed for that promotion.”

“I’m sure you’ll get it.”

He unbuttoned his uniform, stripping down to the plain black t-shirt he wore underneath. “What happened at work? Your top is on backward, by the way.”

I looked down. Crap, it was.

“How come you’re home so early? Are you sick?”

“No …” I muttered, tugging at my ponytail.

“Tori,” he groaned. “Not again. You got fired, didn’t you?”

I nodded.

He puffed out a breath. “What happened this time?”

I told him the story through his bedroom door as he changed clothes. While talking, I pulled my arms into the baggy striped t-shirt and turned it the right way around. Justin reappeared, his scowl made more severe by the short beard he’d grown at my suggestion. It had been a great call. He looked way more policeman-tough now.

“She shoved you and spilled all your drinks? They should have thrown her out!”

“They might have … if I hadn’t whacked her upside the head.”

He sat on a tall stool in front of the kitchen counter that acted as our dining table. “How do you do it, Tori? If there’s a crazy customer within ten miles, they always end up in your section.”

“Maybe I bring out the crazy in people.” I flopped onto the sofa. “Maybe it’s magic.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Or aliens,” I suggested. “Or … magic aliens!”

He snorted but didn’t argue with me. No matter how often he refused to engage in the topic, I would keep ragging on him until he got his head on straight. I couldn’t believe my own brother had become a magic conspiracy theorist. I’d believe in aliens first.

“I’m sorry, Justin,” I said more seriously. “I’ll get another job ASAP so I don’t miss any rent payments.”

“I’ve told you every month since you moved in that you don’t need to pay rent. I’m happy to have the company.”

“Living downtown is expensive as hell.” I didn’t add that my presence here over the last eight months was preventing his steady girlfriend from moving in with him. Plus, he was putting up with all my crap cluttering his one-bedroom suite.

“Cheer up, Tori. You’ve found a new job after each …” He trailed off, maybe realizing that pointing out how I’d blown six jobs in eight months wasn’t encouraging. “You’ll find another one in no time.”

“Yeah,” I agreed listlessly.

He glanced into the spotless kitchen—my small contribution to the household that I held to like a Lysol-worshipping nun—then threw me a grin. “Let’s order in tonight.”

“I should save my money since—”

“My treat.” He grabbed his phone off the counter. “The usual?”

“Sure,” I agreed guiltily. I would extra-clean the bathroom tomorrow to make up for it. He’d be able to eat out of the sink if he wanted.

While he called in the order, I unearthed my laptop from beneath a stack of socks waiting to be folded. Settling onto the sofa, I flipped it open and fired up my browser. Unsurprisingly, I had the job posting website bookmarked.

I’d lost my job, but I’d have another one within a week even if I had to sell my soul to get it.

***

Pausing in front of the display window, I took a deep breath and smiled at my reflection. Smile, relax. Smile, relax. I needed to appear perky and confident, not bedraggled and exhausted. My hazel eyes, identical to Justin’s, looked dark as coal, but the dusty glass couldn’t dull the vibrant red of my hair. I scrunched my ponytail with one hand to revive the curls, but it was hopeless.

I stepped back from the window and squinted at the sky. Bright sunlight sparkled merrily, and the breeze carried the salty tang of the ocean, only a few blocks north. People strolled up and down the charming redbrick sidewalks, passing old-fashioned streetlamps and storefronts nestled in tall Victorian-style buildings. Gastown was the oldest neighborhood in the city, a popular tourist destination full of cafés and restaurants.

Across the redbrick intersection was one such café. The yellow patio umbrellas resembled a garden of monster-sized flowers, and servers in cute periwinkle blouses bustled among the tables. The place was packed even though it was only four o’clock—too early for the dinner rush, but no one had told this café that.

Busy was good. Busy meant lots of staff.

I practiced my smile one more time, then crossed the street and entered the air-conditioned interior.

“Hi,” I greeted the hostess brightly. “Is your hiring manager in today?”

“Yeah,” the girl replied in a bored drone. “I already called her. You can wait there with the others.”

She pointed. Two girls my age, dressed in chic business casual attire, stood off to the side, holding folders just like mine. Their résumés probably weren’t full of one- and two-month server stints, with no references to show for any of them. Goddamn it.

I joined the girls anyway, and when the stocky, middle-aged manager finally appeared, looking overheated and unfriendly, I patiently waited my turn.

“Thank you so much for seeing me,” I said once the other girls had left. “I can see you’re busy and I won’t keep you. I just wanted to drop off my résumé.”

I passed her the single sheet, which she skimmed without enthusiasm.

“We do have an opening and if we’re interested, we’ll—” She squinted. “Winnie’s Café? That was your last employer?”

My stomach twisted. “Yes, that’s correct.”

“Tori Dawson …” she murmured as though digging through her memory banks. She dropped her arm, my résumé hanging at her side. “I’m sorry, I don’t have a position for you.”

“But you just said …”

The manager glanced distractedly into the café before focusing on me again. “Look, hun. Maybe you should try a different industry. I don’t think hospitality is for you.”

“What are you talking about?”

She shrugged. “You’ve got a reputation. Unless they’re living under a rock, no restaurant manager in downtown will hire you.”

I wilted. “Really?”

“Maybe you’d do better in retail.” She handed my résumé back. “Shipping/receiving might suit you.”

“But … I’m bad at retail too,” I finished under my breath since she’d already walked away. Stuffing the paper in my folder, I trudged back to the street. Passersby jostled me and I ducked into a shady spot beside a brick wall, staring blankly at the cute shops across the road. Most retail jobs were too slow-paced for me. Bored Tori got herself into a lot more trouble than Busy Tori. Another hard-learned lesson.

If no one in downtown would hire me as a server, what would I do? Either I ventured out of downtown, which would require an expensive transit pass and long commutes, or I applied for a starter position in something completely new. But with no experience—or tips—the pay would be too shitty for me to ever afford a decent place of my own. I’d be stuck on Justin’s couch for another eight months. That, or I’d have to quit college once the semester was over.

Groaning, I massaged my temples. No giving up. I’d apply at the last few places on my list and hope their managers were the rare rock-dwelling types, then head home and come up with a new game plan. I would figure this out.

As I stepped away from the wall, the cool sea breeze gusted down the street, carrying a swirl of dust, leaves, and litter. Skirts flew up and café umbrellas tottered precariously—and a sheet of paper hit me square in the face.

Swearing, I snatched the paper off my nose and examined it in case my skin required sanitation from the contact. I was about to toss it away—I know, littering is bad—when I recognized the layout of the text. It wasn’t difficult. I’d been staring at job postings all week.

Maybe one of the prim and perfect applicants from the café had dropped it. Fat chance I’d land a job anywhere they had applied, but I still scanned the paper. Only three listings graced the page. The first was an entry-level bank teller position in the heart of downtown. Yeah, no. I was many things, but “quiet” was not one of them, and every bank I’d ever set foot in had been silent as a cemetery at midnight.

The second position was for a receptionist at a law firm. Were law firms quiet? I’d never been in one—kind of surprising no one has sued me yet, come to think of it—but I was sure they fell in the same “quiet, dignified, stick-up-their-asses” category as banks. So, also a no.

I squinted at the third one. Bartender? I didn’t have much experience, but I’d manned the bar a few times at various restaurants. And bartenders, unlike servers, had more freedom to tell rude customers to shove their bad attitudes where the sun don’t shine.

But … the address. Turning eastward, I gulped. The place was firmly situated in the Downtown Eastside, a large neighborhood that half the city was too terrified to set foot in.

Pulling my phone out of my purse, I looked up the address. Hmm, okay, so it was on the west edge of the Downtown Eastside—not as bad as I’d thought. In fact, it was barely six blocks away, though outside the safe charm of Gastown. Maybe far enough away that they wouldn’t have heard about Tori Dawson, the Server of Doom and Despair. It was worth a shot, and as the saying around here goes, you miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.

Feeling hopeful, I stuffed the paper into my purse, tucked my folder under one arm, and strode east. Just follow the redbrick road.

Disappointingly, the red bricks ended after a quarter block, but the three- and four-story buildings with cute shops continued to border the street. Just when I was starting to feel pretty good about things, I passed a shopfront with empty windows. Then another. Within a block, the doors were blank and the windows covered. The number of pedestrians dwindled to a handful, and they walked quickly.

Chin held high, I lengthened my stride, my strappy but comfortable sandals slapping against the sidewalk. Could I run in these if I had to? Probably. Fear was a great motivator.

I wasn’t scared yet, but as I hurried past a heavy-duty chain-link fence with barbed wire on top, I started to doubt myself. Maybe I should go back. What shops there were had thick bars over the windows. Even if I was safe enough in broad daylight, what about late-night shifts—assuming I got the job?

I replayed the café manager’s declaration in my mind. No restaurant manager in downtown will hire you. Screw that. If I needed to carry pepper spray to and from work, then so be it.

Increasing my pace, I strode toward the next intersection. I had to be close, but all I saw was a bike shop called “BIKES” and a tattoo parlor with bars across the windows and the door. Pulling out my phone, I checked the map again, then rounded the corner, walked twenty yards up the street, and stopped.

A black door stood in front of me, tucked into a shadowy nook with no overhead light. Faded print in Ye-Old-English lettering declared, “The Crow and Hammer.” Painted beneath was a black bird with its wings spread ominously, perched on an ornate mallet.

The cube-shaped building featured barred windows on the second and third floors. Its northern neighbor was a shorter building with boarded-up windows and construction tape across the doorway. On the other side was a cramped parking lot with a dumpster and two cars. My gaze returned to the painted crow with its flared wings.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Okay. I could do this. Stepping into the shadowed alcove, I reached for the door. 

--

CHAPTER 3

Before my fingers touched the peeling paint, an overwhelming urge to turn around washed over me like a bucket of ice water. I didn’t want to be here. The need to walk away—or better yet, run away—roiled through me like a physical sickness. I wanted to be anywhere but here and if I didn’t retreat now, I would … what? Get eaten by a boogeyman on the other side of the door?

Damn, since when was I such a chicken? Teeth gritted, I grabbed the handle and yanked the door open.

My bad case of nerves passed the moment I stepped inside, but honestly? The interior wasn’t any more reassuring than the exterior. Heavy beams in the ceiling, wood finishes, and dim lights gave it that dark English pub feel, and it was much smaller than it appeared from the outside, with enough tables and bar stools to seat maybe fifty people. The chairs were cast around like a stampede had charged through the front door, and though it was clean-ish, a strange smoky smell hung over the place. Not cigarettes, not drugs, not wood smoke, but … something.

Oh, and did I mention the place was completely empty? It was early for the dinner rush, but empty was not a good sign for any business.

Since I was too tough—or too stubborn—to sneak back outside and pretend I’d never set foot here, I soldiered onward. The door wasn’t locked, so that meant they were open, right? Winding around the scattered chairs, I approached the bar at the back. Centered on the wall was a massive steel war hammer, the metal nicked and tarnished, the wooden handle dark. I eyed it warily, hoping it was firmly anchored in place.

Setting my folder on the thick wood bar top, I tried to peek through the gaps in the saloon doors behind it. “Hello?”

A muffled voice answered from somewhere beyond the saloon doors. So someone was here. Someone who was busy, apparently. I waited, shifting from foot to foot. Since I was just standing there, I nudged the nearest bar stool under the lip of the bar. Then I reached over and tucked the next one into place. And since I’d done that, I fixed the other ones too. Much better.

With a peek at the saloon doors, I straightened the nearest table. What a mess.

The doors swung open and a woman half fell out of the room beyond. Short, plump, and maybe ten years older than me, with dark hair twisted into a messy bun and bangs that were streaked with blue and red. Clutching a stack of folders so thick they threatened to disgorge paperwork, the woman looked around wildly before spotting me.

“Who are you?” she blurted.

Was that how she greeted all their customers? No wonder the place was empty.

I hitched my professional smile into place and grabbed my folder. “Hi, my name is Tori Dawson. I’m here about your bartending job opportunity.”

“You are?” She dumped her papers onto the bar top and gave me a frowning once-over. “Walk-ins aren’t usually how we …”

“Could I leave my résumé with you?” I asked, flipping open my folder.

“Clara!” someone shouted from the back. “Where’d you go? Oy!”

The glint of near panic in the woman’s eyes intensified. “Yes, yes,” she told me. “Just leave it. I really need someone, but I don’t have time to look at anything right now. Tomorrow—”

“Clara!”

“Coming!” she shouted over her shoulder. “I’m sorry—Tracey, was it?”

“Tori.”

“I’m swamped. People are arriving in less than an hour and the freezer broke last night and Cooper called in sick again—” A loud crash from the back interrupted her, followed by a man’s furious cursing. “Oh god, what now?”

She dashed back through the doors, leaving her paperwork. I winced sympathetically. I’d been in her shoes before—understaffed, everything going wrong, and what sounded like an event planned for the night.

As I laid my résumé on top of her folders, noises echoed out of the back—loud clatters and frantic conversation between Clara and the man. I studied the mess. Half the chairs were lying on their sides for crying out loud. Giving a mental shrug, I straightened the tables and picked up chairs. In ten minutes, I had the front of the house tidied up and ready to go. Nodding to myself, I returned to the bar and grabbed my résumés.

Clara reappeared, reaching for her folders. When she saw me, she jerked to a stop, brow furrowing in confusion. I pursed my lips. Awkward. I’d meant to be gone by the time she came back.

Eyes wide, she stared at the restored order. “You …?”

“Just helping out,” I explained hastily. “I’m on my way now. Good luck with your event tonight.”

“Thanks,” she mumbled.

I turned away, making a face at the cringyness, and hurried for the door.

“Wait!” Clara sped around the bar, my résumé in her hand. “Do you have bartending experience, Tori?”

“Not much,” I admitted as she joined me. “But I know my way around a bar, I learn fast, and I work hard.”

Clara nodded as she scanned my résumé. “You have no references.”

“Um … yeah.”

“Are you busy tonight?”

I blinked. “Tonight?”

--
Three Mages and a Margarita
The Guild Codex: Spellbound / Book One

Copyright © 2018 by Annette Marie
www.annettemarie.ca

All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations for review purposes.