Yes, I responded with sarcasm when I had my life threatened by a person no taller than my waist. It was a flaw. Everyone had them.
“You seemed like you had it in hand,” she said.
Really? In what way. The part where he was huddled on the floor like a trauma victim or the part where he tried to tear me apart with his claws and teeth? Because I wasn’t seeing any way I had handled that well.
“Since you seem to know what this is, would you care to explain?”
There was another thump against the door.
“We’ll leave him there until this has passed.”
A black tendril of smoke wrapped itself around the door, shielding it from view. It faded away leaving nothing but a blank wall behind.
Handy trick, that. I needed to figure out how she did that. As far as I knew she wasn’t a sorcerer. Or a witch. She had skills that often left me scratching my head. I didn’t ask what she was, figuring she’d share in her own time, or I’d puzzle it out when I knew more about this world.
Dahlia headed to the bar.
I hesitated, asking, “We’re just going to leave him in there?”
“He can’t get out and most can’t get in. He should be safe enough.”
I gave the space where the door had been a skeptical look. If she said so.
I followed her, taking a seat. It was a slow night, and the end of the bar I’d claimed was empty. Only a few stools taken.
The bar was in the shape of an L. A big mirror framed the wall behind the bar where I sat and every type of liquor you could think of, and a few I’d never heard of, lined the shelves. Despite that, the clientele here mostly preferred beer so there were several types in the cooler and on draft.
The other walls had a maroon patterned wallpaper covered by framed sepia photos and one of a kind posters. It was part saloon, part watering hole.
The lighting wasn’t the best. There was a smoky haze to the room as if people had lit up hundreds of cigars in here over the years until the haze became a permanent part of the décor. It didn’t smell like smoke though. It smelled like broken dreams and desperation.
Dahlia poured me a lemon drop martini and a jack and coke for herself. She slid both across the bar and then walked around to join me on a stool.
No one blinked at the bartender taking a seat beside a customer. That was the kind of place this bar was.
I took a sip. That was good stuff. No one made a lemon drop martini like Dahlia. It was the perfect mix of sweet and tart. I don’t know how she knew it was my favorite drink, but she made it for me every time I came in.
“Back to my question,” I said, once I’d savored my lemony drink. “Do you know what caused that?”
She brought her drink up to her lips but didn’t sip from it, instead staring unseeing at the bar top. She put the drink back down.
“I have a guess.”
When no answer was forthcoming, I prompted, “And that is?”
“Have you talked to your werewolf friends lately?” she asked instead.
I fought my sigh, knowing it would be useless to give in to my frustration.
“What werewolf friends?”
As far as I knew, I had none.
She gave me a sidelong glance and quirked her lips.
I thought a second longer. She couldn’t mean Brax and his crew of psychopaths, could she? Because they weren’t friends by any stretch of the imagination. We’d worked together briefly during the draugr situation last year, but I hadn’t talked with them since then. Mostly by choice. I had no wish to change that.
“Do they know you don’t consider them friends?” she asked, her face still reflecting a sly amusement.
