This crowd, though, always has its ears open for news of a big score, a daring adventure, and I’m not immune to the way the tide in the room shifts with his appearance.
Neither, it seems, is the demon.
He’s out of his seat as soon as Pytri steps over the threshold. Crossing the room in a few strategic strides, he sidesteps a handful of other patrons all headed in the same direction, fast and graceful despite his size and the bulk of his wings.
He greets Pytri with a hearty clap on the shoulder and a call to a passing server for two more pints of ale. The two of them take new seats together, this time at one of the pair of long trestle tables that run the length of the center of the room.
I should leave.
My back is to the demon, his back to mine, and he’s seated a couple of meters down from where I am, but that strange, shaky energy calls to me again.
It has me peering over my shoulder, trying to get a better look, even though it’s probably monumentally stupid to catch either Pytri or this demon’s attention.
Rule number one of traveling the realms—don’t draw attention to yourself.
Rule number two—don’t be an idiot.
Don’t eavesdrop, don’t start any fights, don’t think for a moment that most beings you cross paths with aren’t infinitely more powerful than you.
I’ve almost convinced myself to take the wiser course, to leave, to get myself the hell out of here and head back to the relative safety of the human realm, when the demon speaks.
“What news do you bring?”
Pytri belches. “News of?”
The demon lets out a deep rumble that almost sounds like a… growl.
Do demons growl?
In all the time I’ve spent around Rhett, I think I’d remember.
Especially considering how that sound carries through the room, the attention it draws, the way it makes my stomach squirm and my chest spark again with whatever magick is in the air.
The demon says something else, too low for me to hear, followed by a booming laugh from Pytri that draws twice as many sets of eyes as the demon’s growl did.
“You never were subtle, my friend.”
Their tones lower again, and based on the infrequent rumble of the demon’s voice, and the much more animated tenors of Pytri’s, it’s clear the ogre is steering the conversation.
The noise in the tavern has kicked back up, too, though there are still a few disappointed looks thrown in Pytri’s direction by the patrons who weren’t quick enough to catch him.
All of it means I can’t hear any more of their conversation, even when I strain my ears.
Good.
It’s good I can’t hear them.
Self-control has never been a strong suit of mine, and tamping down my seeking magick ranks even lower. Though I’m not even sure if that’s what this is, the temptation stirred by this demon Viking and whatever he might be saying to Pytri is one I’m well-aware I should ignore.
Only…
Before I can think better of it, I scoot a few inches down the bench, and then a few more. With a half-glance over my shoulder, eyes fixed on the demon so I can snap my attention away from him if he turns to look, I move myself closer.
And then even closer.
Until I’m almost near enough to pick up the faint strains of their voices. Near enough to feel the heat of the demon at my back. Near enough for the magick tugging at me to spike harder, hotter, the irresistible urge of something I’m meant to find.
When I’m within a couple of feet of them, I pull the hood of my cloak higher around my face and lean as close as I dare, straining to pick up more of their conversation.
