I freeze.
“I thought I said you were barred,” I growl from behind gritted teeth.
“You did, but I don’t take orders from anyone,” Warden announces. “Especially little females who belong to me.”
WARDEN
My lady turns to face me, and from the look in her eyes, I suspect murder is on her mind. It sends a bolt up my spine which makes me want to shift into my Brag form instantly.
Not because I need to fight her, although I would, but because I need…something else from her…I don’t know what.
My Duegar have done an excellent job putting her tavern back together after it failed to take my weight. They’ve gone above and beyond. Not only does it look like new, it looks better than new.
All of which means I am expecting plaudits from my lady, not insults, although I’m beginning to suspect the words I didn’t actually mean to speak, about her belonging to me, might have been a step too far, given the way she fingers the sword at her side.
A powerful weapon she is certainly able to wield with skill and confidence.
“I don’t belong to anyone, Brag.” Her words are hissed out between her beautiful lips. “Especially you. You broke my tavernin the first place. You won’t get any special treatment for fixing it.”
She strides towards me, seemingly in defiance of her suggestion I would get nothing, but as I expect her to halt, instead she swerves to my right, her shoulder knocking my chest as she slams through the swinging doors into the bar, leaving behind her incredible scent which intoxicates me entirely and a patch of my skin I will not wash until she deigns to touch me again.
I fold my arms and stare at the warlock and half warlock males who are most definitely my rivals. To their credit, the pair of them stare back.
“Millie! Edith! Hilda!” my lady calls out, her voice higher pitched than the one she used for me. “Have you seen this?”
The little kitchen witch hurries past me with a very brief smile which is gone as soon as I notice it. She pushes through the doors, and I see Lady Ryle standing very still, staring around her before the door flaps shut.
Two more witches fly through the kitchen doors, the dark-haired one giving me a curious glance and the fair-haired one looking terrified.
Once they’re through, there is a commotion of many female voices all talking at once. I turn to enter but find my way blocked by the two warlocks.
“Let me pass,” I growl.
“Can’t do that,” the significantly smaller of the two says. He is picking his fingernails with a dagger and not looking at me. “Can’t let just anything have full access to the Dark Gibbet, can we, Cuthbert?”
“What about the Reivers?” the larger one asks, the one built like a stone privy. “They need access to buy ale.” He leans into the smaller one. “It pays our wages, Edgar,” he adds in what seems like hushed tones but actually isn’t.
“I don’t mean the Reivers,” Edgar says, exasperated. “I mean Mr. Brag here, who thinks he can do what he likes, including smashing the place up.”
“I did not smash anything.”
“So, it wasn’t you who caused a hole in the ceiling?” Edgar growls.
“Yes, that was me, but it was because the floor wouldn’t take my weight, not because I had any ill intent.”
“A likely tale,” Edgar snarls. “We both know what a Brag is capable of.”
Holding onto my human form is becoming more and more difficult with these two warlocks barring the way to the bar and to the lady of the tavern whom I want to be close to, for whatever reason. Given what happened last time I gave in to the need to change my form, I have no intention of making the same mistake twice.
“I doubt you have any idea what a Brag is capable of,” I snarl back. “Now let me pass.”
“Or what?” Edgar is examining his dagger again, as if that’s any sort of threat to me.
“Or you’ll throw us in the water?” Cuthbert says with a happy smile. “Because that’s what Brags do, ain’t it?”
“What?” Edgar looks at him with surprise.
I take the opportunity and surge through the pair and through the doors into the bar.
