"Four whiskeys," she told Anil when she reached the bar. "No ice."
Anil glanced past her at the table, his dark eyes wary. "They're getting rowdy."
"I know."
"You want me to cut them off?"
The suggestion was kind but pointless. Anil was human, the same as her. He had no authority over the immortals, and they both knew it. He couldn't cut off the table of drunkards, and calling them out on their bad attitude would only redirect their aggression toward him. They would have no qualms about killing him. Well, maybe they would because he was a damn good bartender.
"I'll manage," she said. "Just keep the drinks coming until they leave. They can't stay too long if they want to make curfew."
He glared at the table but poured the whiskeys without further argument. His worried expression followed her as she carried the tray back across the room.
The four immortals had pulled their chairs closer together, huddled in conversation that broke off abruptly when she approached. That was never a good sign. People who stopped talking when the waitress came by were either planning something they shouldn't or talking about her, and she had a feeling it was both.
"Here we go, gentlemen." She distributed the glasses around the table, keeping her movements economical and her body angled so as not to accidentally brush against any of them. "Can I get you anything else?"
"Yeah." The immortal with the bushy eyebrows, the one who'd been doing most of the ordering and most of the ogling, leaned back in his chair and looked her up and down with deliberate slowness. "You could tell us your name."
"Matilda."
He grimaced. "That's the name of an old hag. It doesn't go well with that pretty face of yours." He took a sip of his whiskey, not breaking eye contact. "Don't you think she's pretty, Yoden?"
The immortal to his left, a stocky guy with a neck like a tree trunk, grunted in agreement. "Pretty."
"What about you, Dorsy? Galus? Don't you think Matilda is pretty?"
The other two made sounds of assent.
Mattie had heard this particular call-and-response before. It was a performance, a way of establishing dominance while technically staying within the bounds of what could be called compliments.
The key was to deflect without engaging.
"Can I get you anything else? Peanuts or pretzels perhaps? I can check with Anil if we have any left."
"Don't be in such a rush," Bushy Eyebrows said. She didn't know his actual name, nor did she care to learn it. "Why don't you sitdown? Keep us company for a while." He gestured at the empty chair beside him.
"I wish I could, but I'm still on duty."
"The bar's dead. Who's going to miss you?"
Dimitri was coming over after closing, and he would be waiting for her next to the staff entrance. Thankfully, he wasn't at the bar, or this could have gone much worse. These kinds of people preyed on those weaker than them. He would have intervened, and they would have had no qualms about killing him.
"I need to clean up." She forced a smile. "All those glasses are not going to clean themselves."
It was a lie because Anil just loaded them into crates that the early morning cleaning crew took to the kitchen for a wash and returned to the bar before it opened, but it gave her an out.
She took a step backward and turned toward the bar. She made it three steps before Bushy Eyebrows stopped her.
"Come back here," he commanded.
Her stomach dropped. She turned back slowly, keeping her expression blank. "Sir?"
"I heard you're from Australia." He pronounced the word with exaggerated care.
Relief flooded through her, quickly suppressed. It was just small talk. Invasive, unwanted small talk, but not the accusation she'd feared.
"Yes, sir."
