Maybe I will live to my next birthday after all.
I stride across the square to the tavern with a little more bounce in my step that has nothing to do with the fading pain.
“What did you wish for?” one of the girls standing by the entrance of the tavern asks.
“Wish?”
She juts her chin toward the well, her eyes running down my body.
Right. . . the coin. “To get the fuck out of Brume.”
Her smile wanes. Obviously, she wanted me to hit on her, which is alarming on several levels, the first being that I was acting like a madman barely a minute ago, and the second, that I probably smell like the inside of a liquor casket . . . or plain old casket, for that matter.
“Cheers.” I step past them and push open the heavy oak door.
The noise inside is loud enough to wake a dead man, but the cheery music and stifling heat are welcomed. I squeeze onto a squeaky red barstool, between two older men nursing drinks. The bartender’s the same wiry middle-aged guy with crooked teeth and stick-straight hair as earlier. As he fills a glass with tap beer, he holds up a finger to indicate he’ll be with me in a minute.
The lady with the puffed-up whitish hair who shot me a warning look when I was talking to Cadence earlier bustles in behind the bar. She sets down an empty tray near the sink and looks to the rack where wine glasses hang upside down like sleeping bats.
“Nolwenn,” the bartender says, “can you take over for five? Gotta hit the head.”
She motions with her hand to shoo him off, then turns her attention to those of us on the stools. Within seconds she sees there’s no drink in front of me. “What can I get you, young man?”
“I’ll take a . . .” I scan the shelves behind her.
“I’ve got the bestchouchenin town. Brewed right on the premises.”
I have no clue what the hell that is, but if it’s brewed, then there’s alcohol.
“Hit me.” I rub my hands together trying to get rid of the lingering pins and needles.
As she pops the cork off a clear bottle, her gaze falls to my finger, lingers there.
Huh.Either she recognizes the Bloodstone or she’s appalled by my choice in accessories.
She blinks and clears her throat. “That’s quite a gem you’ve got there.”
When I sense one of my neighbors copping a glance, I cross my arms, burying the stone under my elbow. “Family heirloom. Passed down from generation to generation. No accounting for taste, though.”
She quirks up an eyebrow as she pours yellow liquid into my glass. “You from around here?”
I shake my head. “Marseille. Night and day these two places.”
Her hand dips,chouchenspilling over the side of the glass. She wipes it up with a wet cloth. “And what’s your name, Marseille?”
“Slate. Slate Ardoin.” I purposely keep my Brumian identity under wraps.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Nolwenn.” She holds out a red-knuckled hand.
Is she being friendly, or does she want another look at the ring?
Keeping my eyes on her face, I shake her hand, which is more calloused than mine, and notice her attention drift to the stone.
“You really like this ring, huh?” I look for a reaction, but the bartender comes back then, and Nolwenn untangles her fingers from mine. Before she leaves, I ask, “That well out there . . . how deep is it?”
She glances over her shoulder at me. “About thirty meters. Why?” She tilts her head to side. “You studying aquifers at the university?”
I’m not even sure what that is, but I go with it. “Yeah.”
