Dead Rising by Debra Dunbar Page B

who these people were with their iced espresso, sugar-free caramel mochas, their double-shot dirty chai’s. What lives did they lead outside the doors of my store? What kept them awake at night? What brought them joy? They fascinated me, and for a portion of my day I got to forget all about my abandoned Templar duty, the responsibilities that had been assigned me by accident of birth.
    What if I didn’t want that life? What if I wanted something else? I hefted a box of cinnamon dolce syrup and looked down at my Templar tattoo. Branded, before I knew what this really meant. My life given over before I was even eating solid food. Yes, the research and the guarding of the Temple were important. Yes, it was essential for Templars to continue doing what they had been tasked with since the day they received their message from God. Yes, I felt like a complete loser for walking out on that. We all had burdens in this life. Every one of those people I handed a coffee cup to had their own cross to bear. Who was I to refuse mine?
    Not that taking an Oath and spending the rest of my life guarding a bunch of magical artifacts and researching dusty manuscripts was a cross to bear, especially not with the lifetime stipend all Knights received. It wasn’t the duty that bothered me, it was the lack of meaningfulness in that life. A Knight today wasn’t what the job was a thousand years ago.
    “Hey Aria, can you get down that box of Kenyan beans?”
    I hopped up and climbed the ladder. Petie had pulled his shoulder a few months back and struggled to handle boxes above his head. That, and I think he liked looking up my shirt as I reached my arms up to grab stuff. These button-down blouses they had us wear came right to the waist, which meant I showed a ton of skin every time I lifted a box. No biggie. I liked Petie. If it gave him a thrill to see less than I showed in a bikini, more power to him.
    “What the heck did you do to yourself, girl?”
    “Where?” I climbed down and sat the box to the side. Had I cut myself cleaning up the glass last night? I’d been careful, but between the wine bottle, the goblet, and the window I might have sliced myself and not noticed.
    “There.” He pointed to my left side. “Looks like a burn.”
    I’d had burns before and they weren’t anything a reasonable person could ignore. They throbbed and ached, driving every other thought from your mind. It can’t have been all that bad if I didn’t even know I’d done it.
    I lifted my shirt and squashed my boob, trying to see the spot on my waist Petie had indicated. He was of no further help, transfixed, no doubt, by the cleavage effect of me squishing my ta-tas.
    It did look like a burn—an old one. It was circular, like someone had singed me with the lit end of a big, fat cigar. I touched it and felt nothing. The skin was numb, the white scar raised and bumpy. When had I gotten that? It was summer, and I’d sported plenty of sports bras, bikinis, and halter-tops over the last month. Someone would have mentioned it before now. I should have seen this in the mirror. Although it was in an odd place, hidden from my view by my breasts, and I wasn’t exactly the sort of girl who was always examining herself in the mirror.
    “Curling iron accident?” Petie teased. Brandi was always claiming her hickeys were the result of a hair styling mishap. Nobody was that clumsy with a curling iron, and Brandi’s boyfriend clearly had a neck fetish. But this wasn’t on my neck. Admittedly it had been a long time since I’d seen any action—so long that my memory was probably a bit fuzzy on the details—but I didn’t recall getting a hickey on my waist so violent that it would leave a scar. And this was a weird shape, as if something with tentacles, or an eel had attacked me.
    And no, I’m not into being burned as a part of sex. Thanks for asking.
    “No idea,” I told Petie. “Must have been really drunk to have slept through that one, huh?”
    “Damn,