“Damien,” Amma hissed then smiled at the man. “We didn’t mean to bother you, sir.”
“Well, you did!” he pushed out into the already cramped hall.
Amma tried once more to placate him, but Damien cut her off, “Then what’s done is done, old man. Or would you prefer to be further inconvenienced by death?”
“You sound like that mad son of a bitch who killed the Stormwings. Look like him too!” Unafraid, the slip of a man shook both of his fists now, sleeves falling back to reveal skinny, liver-spotted arms.
Amma laid a hand on Damien’s forearm, sensing it was about to raise. “Again, so sorry. We’ll be going.”
“Stormwings?” Damien held fast to the spot. “What do you know of the Stormwings?”
“Nothing I’d tell you!” He was spitting mad now, and another door farther back in the hall opened. A woman popped her head out and shouted for everyone to keep it down.
“Tell me, or I’ll have your head.” With the cold precision that said he meant it, Damien leaned down and bore right into him.
“Bah! My tongue won’t work if it’s not connected to the rest of me, will it? Piss off, you moody, little shit!” Throwing a hand in his face, the old man stomped back through his door.
Damien went to go after him, but Amma still had a grip on his arm and pulled back just as the door was slammed in his face. “Hey, just because you’re in a bad mood doesn’t mean you have to make everyone else be in one too.”
“But he has information I need.” Damien whipped around to her, gesturing to the door.
The woman a few doors down had stepped out fully, hands on her hips. “Excuse me, but can you have your little spat downstairs?”
Damien raised his other hand, and Amma felt the familiar crackle of magic. “Oh, you stop that,” she said, giving his arm a tug.
He ended up allowing her to pull him to the tavern below, quiet in the late morning and nearly empty of townsfolk. There were two men playing dice in the corner, and the keep was serving a single patron behind a long bar. They found a seat at the back of the room, away from the others. There, Damien explained, gruffly, that there was indeed something strange going on in Elderpass, and he had done some digging the night before, uncovering the name Stormwing. He wanted to know more, but that man upstairs—this he said loudly while grimacing at the ceiling—was being incredibly unhelpful.
Amma clicked her tongue. “Oh, you just want to find out some gossip?”
“No,” he spat, poking the table. “I want to know what’s going on in this town, so I can find the source of this infernal arcana.”
Amma rolled her eyes. “Yeah, gossip. Wait here.”
Damien was muttering something about proper research as she got up and sauntered over to the bar. Taking a seat a few stools down from the single, drunken patron, she put her elbows on the counter and leaned forward with a cheery smile, greeting the young man who tended it. It took her only a few questions, complete with giggling and pointedoohsandahhsto get exactly what she wanted out of him, including a cup of spicy cider, and then she sauntered back to Damien with her drink in hand.
Amma sat down, gave him a wide smile, and took a sip.
“Well?” He leaned toward her, jaw clenched. Still so cranky.
“So,”—she took a deep breath—“the Stormwings are one of the wealthiest families in Elderpass. They made all their gold on trade across the Cobalt Strait, mostly in spices and unique grains. The barkeep used to be on one of their boats when he was a kid, so he knows them pretty well. Or, knew them, I guess, right up until they all got axed to death by Morel, the middle son, about half a moon ago. Morel claims to not remember any of it, he just came to all bloody, wandering out in front of the estate, but the barkeep—his name’s Branson by the way, father’s name is Bran, used to own the tavern and bar which Branson swore he’d never take over, his heart actually belongs to the sea, he says, but then his dad got sick, and—”
“Amma, please.”
“Right, so Branson says Morel’s always been really strange. He’s quiet, keeps to himself, all that, so nobody’sthatshocked he killed them, and there wasn’t even a trial or anything since he admitted to it. Branson also says they would have hanged him already if there wasn’t an argument about who’s inheriting everything once he’s gone.Apparentlythere’s a distant cousin a town over who claims it should all be hers, but there’s an illegitimate son in town who’s made a stake at everything too, and, get this, there’s even a mistress making a claim, but nobody’s actually seen her, she’s just sent letters. The Stormwing patriarch, Claude, left a will withhername on it, and she’s not even the illegitimate son’s mother. Sounds like Claude Stormwing was a bit of a cad, and frankly I’m surprised it was Morel that took him out and not one of the three ladies he was fooling around with.” Amma took another sip, wiggling her brows at him.
Damien blinked back at her. “The barkeep just told you all that? He wouldn’t say a damn thing to me last night.”
She grinned. “Well, you probably didn’t buy a drink. Or smile at him.”
His eyes darted down to her chest then back up as he reached out and snatched her cup away. “I’m sure that’s what I was missing.” His eyebrow cocked over the cup as he took a swallow.
“Well...” Amma cast a glance across the tavern at the strapping man who was already gazing back. She waved her fingers at him, and a big grin cracked over his square jaw.
“All right, all right,” Damien huffed, placing the cup back down with a thump. “So, the Stormwing boy says he doesn’t remember any of it?”
Amma shrugged. “That’s what Branson says he says, but Branson also says he’s, um...”
“What?”
