The stocky man steps closer, leering. “You ken what we do with the Sassenachs, aye?” He grabs his crotch and flashes me a grin, showing a blackened gap where a tooth should be.
Laughter erupts around him.
A sharp shock of rage slices through me.This place.I just need a little help. A little normalcy.
“Forget it.” I whirl and race-walk to the building, ignoring the shouting behind me.
I’ll get water. Dry off. Warm up. Find a phone. Call a cab.
I don’t even care about finding Janet anymore. I justneed to get out of here.
Thoughts stutter through my head as I approach the entrance. Why is the door a different color? Weren’t there a bunch of tourist board stickers out front? That stone bench is new.
It must be a different inn.
Then I glance at the sign.
THE MERRY WIDOW.
I stop short. I know this sign. I know this place.
But something’s wrong. Off.
The edges of my vision blur. I scrub a hand through my rain-soaked hair. My brain is fried. That’s it.
I must’ve mixed up those other details the first time. I step forward, yank open the door?—
And freeze.
A wave of thick, choking smoke hits me. Not cigarettes. Something darker. Heavier. Peat and sweat and urine and rot. I stagger back, coughing.
The inside is different. No reception desk. No tacky plaid carpet.
No overhead lights.
The entire room is lit by torches and candle stubs, dripping wax onto rough wooden tables. The air hums with voices, accents thick and unintelligible.
A woman passes me, carrying a tray.
I lurch forward. “Sorry, do you know where Una is?”
She stops. Looks me over. Then she spits a string of words I don’t understand.
I blink. Gaelic. Again.
I try once more. “Sorry, do you speak English?”
Her expression twists into something ugly. She yells over her shoulder. Laughter bursts from the bar.
My mouth goes dry. I don’t understand what’s happening. I don’t understand any of this.
I turn toward the staircase.
My room. If I can just get to my room, I can get my bearings.
I fumble my key from my pocket as I stagger up the stairs. But when I reach the door, I stop short. The lock is different. Bigger. Old-fashioned. I drop my hand, staring at the keyhole.
A slow, horrible dread creeps up my spine.
