Cult of the Crescent Curse
“There’s my favorite heathen.”
I snorted despite myself.
Leon stood behind the counter, tall and broad and very pleased with himself. His dark eyes sparkled with mischief, gray threaded through his hair and beard. He’d told me once he was from the Dominican Republic, and in the months I’d been coming through here, he’d adopted me like some kind of mildly concerning stray.
“Shhhh,” I whispered dramatically. “You’ll get me excommunicated.”
He barked out a laugh.
“Mami,” he said, scanning my drink, voice gentler now, “you should do that for yourself. I see the freedom you chase but won’t commit to.”
Bab Populer