I bump my shoulder into his. It barely moves him, but his beer sloshes in his glass. His answering chuckle rumbles through his chest, sending warm embers into my own.
Chapter 19
MAE
The light beginsto dim as the sun slips behind the Wolven Peaks. The bar, already dingy and dark, now grows even more so. I’m not sure how much longer the bartender is going to be able to continue his current task of cleaning dirty dishes unless he lights a candle soon.
Asmo and I have almost finished another pitcher, both of us feeling unquestionably tipsy and bordering on drunk, when the barkeeper clears his throat. “You folks planning to stay the night? You’d be the only guests, so I’ll give you the room for cheap.”
Asmo sets his glass down. “We’ll just finish this pitcher and then we’ll be out of your hair.”
The male’s hand freezes mid-scrub on a chipped plate. He eyes Asmo carefully. “You’re going to miss the curfew.”
His words sober me. Now it’s Asmo’s turn to freeze. “What curfew?” His voice is low and threatening.
The barkeeper is unaffected by it, rinsing the soap from the dish in his hand. “Not from around here, then?”
“What are you talking about?” Asmo leans forward, placing a hand on the bar top.
“Mandatory curfew in effect at sundown to keep Canis citizenssafe,” he says flatly, now focusing on a stubborn stain that looks like it’s a permanent fixture of the plate by now.
“From what?” I ask, but I have a feeling I already know the answer. The last time we were here, being inside before dark wasn’t a mandate, just a strong suggestion. Granted, we didn’t listen to it, and we nearly paid the price. The wound on my calf throbs at the reminder.
“Damn witches and their pets,” he says with disgust.
I glance out the window at the empty streets, now cloaked in darkness.
“Shit,” Asmo grumbles. “You didn’t think to mention this before sundown?”
The barkeeper shrugs. “Figured you were either staying the night or you were locals who knew better.” He glances around the empty bar. “This isn’t exactly a tourist destination.”
Asmo stands and tugs me from the barstool. “Come on.”
The barkeeper chuckles. “You can take your chances, but I wouldn’t if I were you. Entire town is spelled against any kind of portaling. Guards roam the streets, hauling people to their homes or the dungeons if they have none. All in the name of protection against the witches,” he says, setting the plate down with a little more force than necessary.
Asmo stops and turns slowly. He does a good job at looking calm, but the hunch of his shoulders and the clench of his jaw tell me otherwise. He tosses another handful of coins on the bar and holds his hand out in a silent demand.
The barkeeper tosses a key onto the bar and gestures toward a staircase on the opposite end of the room. “Second floor. Room eight. Gave you the nicest of the lot to make up for my mistake. Free breakfast at first light. You’ll be able to leave then.”
Asmo storms up the stairs and I hurry after him. Behind us, the barkeeper mutters an unenthusiastic, “Enjoy your stay.”
Ivan’s going to kill us.
Room eight isn’t as awful as I anticipated. An empty bowl and a fresh canister of water sit on a small wooden dresser shoved against the wall by the door. A double-paned window looks out onto the snow-capped mountain range, its peaks shrouded in the shadow of night. Other than the window, the other hallmark feature is the bed thatdominates the room. A white duvet hugs the large bed, looking comfortable and surprisingly clean.
One bed. And there’s absolutely no way either of us can sleep on the floor, unless we want to sleep in the hallway or at the bar downstairs.
Asmo stares at the bed and ruffles his hair with his hand.
“Well, this isn’t how I was expecting the night to go,” he mutters.
He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it onto the wooden dresser, then sits on the bed and unlaces his leather boots. I turn away, my chest too tight at the thought of spending an entire night alone with him in this room with no real escape.
I pull my knife from my boot and mar the sigil on my stomach. Without looking, I toss the knife on the bed for Asmo to do the same. I pour some of the water from the canister into the empty bowl and splash my face, hoping to wash some of the grit from the day away.
When I turn, the real Asmo is on the bed, back against the bedframe, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. “I hope Ivan isn’t too worried,” I mutter as I toss my boots toward the wall.
Asmo snorts. “He’s not your dad. He’ll be fine.”
