And many thanks to Peter for accepting Martin at his word and trusting him to keep it.
May the trust not be misplaced.
Chapter Thirty-five
Nightafternight,Peterwatched, waiting until daylight to leave the tavern, even to step out the back door. The shutters stayed firmly in place every night. Occasionally, he caught a glimpse of black or brown clothing from the tavern window, but no one tapped on the door.
Tonight, cool weather brought in a crowd seeking warmth, full bellies, and conversation. Nearly every table was filled to capacity. Only one space remained at the bar. How he’d love for Martin to perch upon the stool, but no matter how many times Peter glanced toward the door, only regulars entered.
Somewhere out there, Martin and others kept the city safe from a horror Peter dared not speak of. He agreed with the priest: telling tales would only lead to panic. As long as the people weren’t in danger, the less they knew, the better.
But he had some degree of magic, didn’t he? Why should he be safe in here when he could be out there, protecting others and, most of all, keeping Martin safe?
Granted, his powers were hit and miss, striking when he least expected and totally worthless when he needed them, but he could learn, couldn’t he?
A young traveler sat on a stool in the corner of the room near the hearth, playing a lively tune on a reed flute. Several patrons gathered around, patting the tables with their hands, stomping their feet to the music.
One older man, deep into his cups, with the leathery skin and weather-beaten air of a sailor, kept the patrons at the other end of the room entertained. “And then we came upon this village. No smoke rose from the chimneys, and the harvest sat ungathered in the fields, covered in fine snow.” He waved his hands, pitching his voice high and low, acting out the scenes for his audience.
Scenes that didn’t require him to lower his tankard.
“Just the four of us, mind you, and not a swordsman in the group. I said to meself, ‘Something be wrong here,’ but would me brother listen? No, he wouldn’t.
“We found a scraggly mule, mostly skin and bones. Wolves came and went as bold as you please from the houses. We stopped and looked to see if we could find the villagers.”
To scavenge, more likely, given the character of the storyteller. The scent of fish stew, woodsmoke, and strong ale competed with the aroma of perfume or soap here, an unwashed body there. Nothing unusual about the night.
Not even the flute or storyteller, though sometimes the musician played a violin or harp, but the stories were mostly the same, designed to scare the faint of heart.
“That’s when we saw it,” the sailor announced with excessive flair, punctuating his words with a rap of this tankard against the table. This also told his audience they needed to buy another round if they expected his tale to continue.
A man in the well-cut garments of a prosperous merchant motioned to Addie to supply more ale. With a roll of her eyes, Addie complied. She’d worked here long enough to have heard every variation of any story and knew when a man performed for his drink.
Peter would never hear the end of her complaining if she wasn’t equally well reimbursed for her time.
A hush fell over the crowd, those nearby leaning in to hear the speaker’s every word. “Saw what?” a young man asked.
The storyteller lifted a finger in a “one moment’ gesture and took a healthy draft of his ale. “Bones. Skin. Bodies all around, frozen in the snow and ice. Young, old, men, women, and children alike.” He lowered his voice to barely above a whisper. “They just lay there. The wolves wouldn’t even touch ’em.”
Peter caught a flash of purple out of the window. What was that? Green flashed, then blue.
His mind caught up to his eyes when the screaming started.
The door slammed open. A man staggered in, opening and closing his mouth. No sound emerged. He pointed toward the street and collapsed.
Peter glanced out the window. His heart stopped. “Close the door!” No one moved. He charged out the door, heart hammering as he banged the shutters closed. The screaming and scritch of claws on stone drew closer. He darted inside the tavern, slamming the door just in time.
Something pounded on the shutters.
Addie paused but a moment before jumping into action. “Tables! Add the tables.”
A few patrons snapped to enough to help, shoving upended tables over the windows, legs sticking out.
“What are those things?” Addie asked. Her hands shook. She’d been levelheaded enough when Peter needed her to be.
He’d never told her of the demons. May he not regret the decision.
“I’m not sure.” In a brief moment of silence, Peter heard scratching. “The back door!” He tore across the floor, jumping a fallen chair and winding through huddled bodies.
