'i would like to buy an astonishing amount of booze, please.'
The bar looks like it's simply too stubborn to just give up, with paint peeling off the exterior and a neon sign buzzing like a fly that just won’t die, which should make me feel just at home. I push the door open and step inside. My dog stays outside, he's the smartest one of the two of us for sure.
The place is half-full. Locals, mostly, I assume. Men with faces like cracked leather, women with cigarettes glued to their fingers and a drink always in reach. A jukebox in the corner blurts out a country song nobody’s really listening to. I catch a few eyes on me as I walk to the bar. Strangers don’t get smiles around here, I suppose. But that's fine, I didn't expect it any other way.
I drop onto a stool and lean an elbow on the counter. The bartender looks me over like he’s trying to decide if I’m trouble or just broke. Well, he’s not wrong on either count.
“I would like to buy an astonishing amount of booze, please,” I say, like that's something you can just do.
That gets me a snort from a man two stools down, one of those wide-shouldered types who hasn’t let go of his high school glory days. A footballer, I'd bet all my money on that (which is not much). “What’s the matter, cowboy? Someone run off with your horse?” His friends laugh too loud, like they’ve been waiting all night for something to happen. Bet they have.
I ignore them and keep my eyes on the bartender. “Bottle of whiskey will do. Leave the cap off.”
The man hesitates, like he’s weighing the money against the risk. But apperently arguing would cost too much of his energy, so he slides the bottle over eventually. I pour a glass, let the burn settle in my chest. Doesn’t do a damn thing to quiet the voices, but at least it keeps my hands busy.
Behind me, chairs scrape. The big man’s still watching, and I can feel the air get tighter. Places like this, it doesn’t take much for a good time to turn sour very quickly.
I don’t turn around. I just take another drink and let the room press in, waiting to see which way the night breaks. And for a moment, out the corner of my eye, I think I see it ... like the room flickers, just once. A shadow that doesn’t belong here, a shape of something broken, something that feels plain wrong. When I blink, it’s gone. Maybe I imagined it. But I don't think I did ....
My gaze wanders off, until it meets the one of a woman I hadn't noticed before. Did she see the shadow as well, or is she just curious if I am about to get beaten by some jocks?
The rain pelted heavily against the thin window panes. The cool temperatures of the changing seasons were evident in the hoarfrost that framed the edges of the glass in an elliptical shape. Inside the house, it was warm and smelled faintly of pine trees. The firewood was not yet completely dry when the owner threw the logs into the flames, causing them to hiss promisingly from time to time and created an atmosphere that suggested something ominous. Candlelight flickered off the walls, bathing the surroundings in a warm orange glow and revealing that the windows were not completely sealed. A flaw that Zeev was willing to accept. No one who saw the mansion in the forest assumed it was habitable; dilapidated and crooked, the shutters hung defiantly on their last nails and the veranda sagged so heavily in the middle that stepping onto it was at one's own risk. From the inside, none of this was apparent. Solid, dark wooden floors ran through all the rooms, the walls lined with dark wallpaper, some of it decorated with floral patterns. Everywhere the eye could see, there were plants. They thrived as if the conditions could hardly be better.
Zeev sat with a cup of tea opposite a woman with auburn hair, dressed in a style that reflected her personality as clearly as her words. She did not hide behind a façade and wore her liveliness like a bird sings its unique song. The Irish woman impressed with her profound knowledge of the occult and was therefore someone Zeev enjoyed inviting into his home. What he hadn't expected was the sudden harshness of her words, even though they had previously joked and shared their knowledge with ease.
Although Zeev was someone who placed great importance on the language of touch, it was he who withdrew his hand in shock. Without a doubt, the surprise was as clear on his face as the jewellery on his hands, which suddenly felt unspeakably cold against his skin. He clenched his hand into a fist, as if to hide the realisation that Róisín had drawn from it. But what she had seen had long been in the air between them, which smelled beguilingly of lavender and sandalwood. However, the qualities of calm and serenity contained therein seemed to have no effect on Zeev. For Rose, however, it had strengthened her psychic abilities. Much to the witcher's dismay, it seemed.
His fingertips pressed firmly against the scar that marked his palm.
Of course, her statement could be interpreted to mean that sooner or later, everyone succumbs to the natural law of death. He, too, was not a creature of immortality, nor did he have any intention of changing that. However, there was such finality and poignancy in the way she said it that he couldn't help but believe that his death would not be a natural one.
It would be a lie to say that this fact surprised him. He had recently suspected that his current career path was not without its consequences. Hearing it, having it confirmed, made his blood run cold.
“What did you see?” he dared to ask, although he was unsure whether he wanted to hear the answer. His jaw tensed, yet his gaze remained fixed on the woman opposite him. As if he were afraid of recognising an answer in the fine lines of her face that she might withhold from him if he looked away.
The air outside, the first breath of Fall, hits me like another punch. I’m not sure if it’s the chill or the blood drying on my skin that makes me shiver. My ribs are screaming, my lip’s split, and every step feels like walking on glass. Doesn’t matter. I’ve been broken worse. I’ll walk it off. Always do.
I hear the sirens already, still barely a whisper in the distance, but closing in. Red and blue won’t do me any favors, not with the mess I left behind. Not with the mess I carry everywhere.
“Yeah.” I am spitting iron onto the pavement. “Talking somewhere else would be real smart.”
For half a second I think about suggesting we drive. Then I catch myself. No one in their right mind climbs into a car with a half-dead stranger who still smells of whiskey and blood.
So I whistle low, two short notes. Echo’s nails clatter against the concrete before he trots out from the shadows, tail wagging lazy like none of this fazes him. Well, he has seen me in worse shape. He plants himself right in front of the bar door, big brown eyes steady on the redhead, like he’s standing guard.
I straighten as best I can (which isn’t much) and jerk my chin down the street. “We’ll walk. Just a couple blocks. Away from lights, away from sirens. ”
My head spins when I take the first step, but I force my body forward, matching her pace even if my legs want to fold. I keep a good distance and don't step too close. Hell, I know I’m already making her skin crawl. Can’t blame her. If I were her, I’d run as far as I could.
Still, I can’t let it go. Not after what I saw. Not after seeing her see it too.
“You saw it. Didn’t you? In the bar.” I have no time for any smalltalk now.
I glance sideways, meeting her eyes for just a second, enough to let her know I’m not joking. That I am not drunk, not crazy, even though I look like it, all blood-smeared.
