“Fine.”
Leaning into the booth across from him, I slip the bag under the table and grab the waiting payment in a single, practiced gesture. I shove his bag of coins into my coat pocket and pilfer a couple of empty glasses, acting like that was my purpose in coming over here. Swiveling on my heel, I head straight back to the bar so I can count my cash.
Now I just need to get out of here and hide my takings and then I can topple into bed.
The orcish barman hands me a shot of something brown from across the bar top with a pointed look. When I reach for the drink, he grabs my wrist and his massive fingers dwarf mine, his greyish skin a stark contrast to my own tanned wrist.
“Reva,” he growls, and I shoot him what I’m hoping is a pleasant smile.
“Mag,” I reply. “Having a good night?”
“Busy,” he grunts. “Too busy for your shit. I’ve told you before, I’m not your damn secretary.”
“Uh huh, message received loud and clear.” I pause, reaching for a coin from my coat pocket with my free hand and sliding it over the sticky wooden counter toward him. When he continues to glower at me, I slip a second coin over and his hard look softens just slightly.
“There’s a fishy guy who's been asking about you all night.”
“Fishy?” I frown at him. “Fishy how, like suspicious, or like he smelled of fish?” It could go either way around here.
“Yeah, fishy.” He frowns at me like I’m an idiot. “Has a really strong fish smell about him. A damn loud voice too.”
“Oh, right.” Not exactly what I was expecting, and I fight the fatigue threatening to drag me down. I’d love nothing more than to drop into bed, but I also can’t afford to turn down work when it drops into my lap.
I slide onto the barstool, ignoring how gummy the material feels against my legs.
“Frannie all right?” Mag grunts.
I smother my answering smile as best I can, but don’t do a great job. Mag’s a grouch, but he’s been sweet on Frannie ever since I moved here, although he’s never made a move.
“She’s good. Busy in her workshop. You know how it is.”
He grunts. “Well, your fishy guy’s just come out of the toilet. I’d appreciate it if you saw him close to the door. You’ll see why.”
I take a long look around the inn before spotting a short man who seems to have an invisible wall around him. Despite the crowded room, everyone seems to be giving him a wide berth. I stride over and my eyes water as soon as I’m close enough to taste the thick scent that’s emanating from his skin and clothes.
“Nasty feral brute. You know they can’t help it. None of them knows how to wash themselves,” someone says at a level that’s barely lower than a shout.
“I’m not a damn feral,” the fishy guy growls at me. I keep my eyes downcast, noticing the thick layer of salt covering his exposed arms as I work to keep my expression blank.
He might not be a ‘feral’. But I am, sort of.
It’s of the hundred different words that get bandied around about the beast-borne. Savage brutes. Animals. Brainless brawn. I’ve heard them all before.
We aren’t actually born from a beast, either. We’re mostly born from our mother’s vaginas, thank you very much.
None of the nasty shit the punters are spouting is anything new. The negative comments and jibes are nothing we’ve not already dealt with for decades. Plenty of people don’t see us as sufficiently civilised to do much good. I guess that’s how the sorcerers have always seen past the fact that we’re people when they’re plucking out our eyeballs or hunting us down for our skins for their spells and potions.
Their lack of respect doesn’t mean they won’t use us as tools in their wars, though. And there have been enough of those over the years. The North against the South, the North and South against the witches to the East, with King Wildrake spearheading dozens of smaller skirmishes just to show he’s not a puny, powerless human.
The funny thing is, most shifters could tear the bad mouthers to pieces as soon as their nasty tongues start wagging. But we all know that no good would come of it. Not when they already think we’re mindless animals.
Which is why we’re taught never to reveal ourselves. To never show them what you really are.
Words my mother lived by. That and not letting anyone get too close, just in case. She was the one who taught me not to stay in one place for more than a few months at a time. We did it when I was young, and then when I grew into my fins enough to manage longer distances, she decided it was time for me to make my way on my own.
I’ve been that way ever since.
But it turns out I’m not made for solitary life. She’d be so disappointed. But I managed nearly thirty years of moving from place to place, never forming genuine bonds.
