A tired-looking bartender steps into my line of sight, and the sound of the news program quickly sifts away. His leathery skin and scruffy salt-and-pepper hair give him a grizzled quality. The lines around his silver eyes and frowning mouth tell me that his scowl is a permanent fixture and not personal. He quirks a dark eyebrow expectantly, and I hesitate. I can’t buy anything, but I know I need to if I want to keep sitting here.
“Do you charge for water?” I ask tentatively, immediately regretting the stupid question, but it’s out there and there’s no taking it back now.
You can’t get afuck youfrom someone for free in The Scorch, but maybe a place like Lairwood is a bit more civilized. If not, maybe he’ll take pity on me. I look better than I have any right to—thanks to the healers and the charm they gave me—so if pity doesn’t work, I can try to flirt my way into sitting here for a bit longer.
I survey the grouchy male again, fingers crossed on the pity option.
He looks me over for a moment and then shrugs one shoulder. “Is that all for you?” he asks, a glint of annoyance in his overworked gaze.
“Yes, thank you,” I offer, hoping a small dose of manners might get me a second glass if needed.
He doesn’t say anything else as he plucks a cup from a stack and fills it from the tap. The water is cloudy and a bit more orange in color than is probably healthy, but I keep my mouth shut as it’s set down in front of me. The bartender trudges away and I stare at the glass of liquid and the sediment already settling on the bottom.
Eh, I’ve drunk worse.
Lifting the cup to my lips, I force myself to sip the contents instead of chug them like my instincts are telling me to. It’s a silly reaction, especially since I’m not even thirsty. It’s more the fact that I can ask for water and get it, that I can drown myself to my heart’s content and no one will stop me—well, no one aside from the pissy bartender, that is.
“Are you on call?” a nasally voice asks.
I turn, looking for the owner of said voice, not seeing anyone until I look down. He’s about hip height and built like a wine cask, with wiry sandy brown hair and a long thick neckbeard that’s a shade darker. I have zero interest in talking to him, but the credit band on one wrist and the communicator on the other keep me from telling him to kick rocks.
He gestures to my murky drink and then at my scrubs with his stumpy hand as though the gesture provides all the context his question needs.
“On call?” he asks again as though I must not have heard him the first time.
“Something like that,” I answer vaguely, careful not to outright lie. I don’t think gnomes can smell them, but just in case they’re one of the few Arcane—or Arcs, as they’re often called—that can sense or scent deception, I proceed with caution.
The gnome’s eyes spark with interest. “I always wanted to be a healer,” he tells me, climbing up on the stool next to mine and making himself comfortable. “I had the mind for it but not the talent,” he continues, wiggling his fingers in the universal sign of magic.
I open my mouth to say something, but he just keeps going as though my participation in the conversation isn’t needed.
Fine by me.
“I like to think I save people in other ways. Not many file clerks will say that out loud, but how can you expect people to cheer for you if you don’t cheer for yourself, ya know?”
He flags the surly bartender, and I take another sip of my water while studying my new companion, or rather his com and credit bracelets. He’s on the taller side for a gnome. His plaid shirt and khaki pants are far from the latest fashion, but many Arcs don’t do well with change. Some of them cling to the past so tightly it’s like they’re hoping it will snap forward and they’ll be smack dab in the middle of it again. It doesn’t make a lot of sense to me, but most of my life has been “adapt or die.” Being resistant to change has never been an option.
The Fae Wars and The Bearing were long before my time, just under 450 years ago, but from what I’ve heard, life wasn’t so great for our kind back then. Not that I can say life is so peachy for me right now. Actually, when I think of it, it bears a strange resemblance to life before humans knew we existed: sneaking around, hiding in the shadows, hunting in the dark recesses of society.
“It’s like strands of fire,” the gnome exclaims, pulling me back to his one-sided conversation when he points to my hair. “The different tones of orange are really captivating. Is it natural, or do you spell it?”
Aaand the gnome’s a presumptuous asshole.
“Going to ask me if the carpet matches the drapes next?” I sardonically query, lifting my water for another sip.
A green blush colors his cheeks, and he stammers, pushing his glasses further up his nose. The thick lenses make his eyes look even beadier than they already are. While he collects himself, I debate the best way to lift his com off his wrist. I’d love to snag his credit band too, but some of them have anti-theft tech now, and I don’t want to risk an alarm or an offensive spell I’m not in a position to deflect.
I vacillate between cozying up to him for the grab or doing the ever effective bump and run, when the gnome unknowingly decides to do all the heavy lifting for me.
His hands come up in an apologetic gesture and somehow he smacks my drink right out of my hold. If I didn’t know better, I’d think this ridiculous act of clumsiness was his attempt to pick my pocket, but I don’t have anything worth stealing.
I gasp and jump up, eager anticipation sparking in my veins as I skillfully slip a finger under the clasp of his com bracelet and flick it open. At the same time, Iaccidentallybump into his stool with my hip, making it teeter while I knock his glasses askew.
The gnome yelps and grabs for his specs before they can go flying off. He then seizes the bar to save his balance on the stool and unknowingly jerks his hand out of the unclipped band of his com.
I close my fist around my prize, hiding it as I dramatically gasp and start wiping at the water that spilled down my front and all over the bar and the gnome. A cleaning drone swoops over and immediately starts suctioning up the liquid on the bar top. Flustered, the gnome tries to dry his glasses using his wet shirt, all while waving off a second cleaning drone that’s trying to dry the stool he’s still sitting on.
“I’m so sorry,” he stammers, squinting in my direction, but his eyes are focused a little too far to the left of where I’m actually standing. “Pretty girls make me nervous.”
