I turn from them, feeling shaky and nauseated. I need a drink. Something strong enough to take me from this place and this dark cloud of unhappiness.
Thankfully, someone vacates their seat at the bar. As soon as I claim the stool, those nearest me move off, muttering something about the stink of mortal. At least the barkeep offers me a glass of ale. I take a large swallow and nearly spit it out. Bitter—extremely. But an accurate reflection of my mood.
“May I sit here?”
I tap a finger against the glass with a shrug, not bothering to look at whoever is speaking to me. “I hold no title over an empty chair.” As long as it’s not Demi. Or Eurus. I don’t think I can handle sitting next to either right now.
“How am I to know that?” the man replies, an indistinct shape in my periphery. “You mortals and your strange customs.”
My ears strain in an attempt to pick up Eurus’ laughter, but the racket is too overwhelming. “Our customs are no stranger than yours,” I mutter.
He sighs. “I must be a bore if I cannot even get an attractive woman to look at me when we’re talking.”
His words pierce the fog of my foul mood, and I shift to face the stranger, whose crooked smile suggests amusement at the situation. I straighten in interest. He is quite comely, with dark skin and black hair curling around the collar of his white tunic. His eyes are an arresting shade of hazel green.
“Apologies.” I wince. “My mind was elsewhere.”
“I can see that.” He gestures to the stool. “May I?”
“Please.” I scoot over to make room, and he settles in, angling toward me so our knees touch. “My name is—”
“Min,” he cuts in, warm hand overtaking my own. “You’re a popular topic of conversation.” We shake. His hand is broad, though still smaller than the East Wind’s. And I am immediately irritated by the direction of my thoughts.
“Dare I ask what the gods are saying about me?” I have overheard my fair share of opinions.Incompetent mortal, too stupid to live.Some are convinced aligning myself with the East Wind will lead to my own demise. Others believe I will offend the wrong deity and be struck down.
He signals the barkeep. A glass of ale appears so quickly it may as well have materialized from thin air.
I quirk an eyebrow. The motion feels as though it belongs to someone else, someone far more daring than I. “Do you actually enjoy the taste of that?”
“This?” He holds up the glass, face scrunched. “Oh, no. This is horrid, truly. But that’s the fun part.” He grins cheekily at me, and my face heats, much to my embarrassment. “But to answer your question, the gods are saying all manner of things, really. Here I was thinking you were some old woman, too infirm to be of any use. But you are neither old nor infirm. You are,” he says, “lovely.”
I tighten my grip around the glass as a group of stools are overtaken by a gaggle of goddesses swathed in white. “What do you want?”
“Pardon?”
“There must be some reason you approached me in a crowded tavern. Do you and your friends have a bet to woo the mortal? If so, I do not appreciate the deception, Master…”
“Call me Kip,” he says.
“Master Kip—”
“No Master,” he says with a laugh. “Just Kip.”
“Well,just Kip,” I say, surprised by my own brashness, “if you’re here to humiliate me, you’re far too late for that.” I gesture to the multitude of deities gawking my way. They underestimate me, all of them. They judge and they belittle. They know nothing of what I’m capable of. “And I would prefer to finish my drink in peace, if it’s all the same to you.”
His eyebrows climb all the way to his messy hairline. “Are you sure you’re the same mortal everyone’s talking about? Because you are not timid at all, as far as I can see.”
It is definitely the ale. “Perhaps I was too harsh.” This Kip fellow regards me without a hint of malice or cruelty, only a willingness to listen.Which is more than I can say about myemployer. “I’ve been warned time and again about trusting immortals. I was quick to make assumptions.”
“You do not have to explain anything to me, Min.” He flags down the barkeep. Seconds later, two full glasses of wine appear before us. “You’re right about the gods. We’re a horrible lot. I don’t blame you for your suspicion.” He gestures at the wine. “You might find this more to your liking.”
“You’re not one of the tournament finalists, are you?” I ask Kip, lifting the glass and taking a satisfying swallow.
“No, thankfully.” This, paired with an impish smile. “I’m happy enough as a spectator. Though a betting one, if I’m being truthful.”
He is not the only one, that’s for sure.
A sudden uproar draws my attention to the opposite end of the tavern. An immortal with the face of a lion has begun to waltz atop one of the tables. The crowd cheers him on.
