In times like this, they were more like roommates than wards, and I loved them dearly for it, because I could definitely use a reprieve from the constant anxiety of thinking about the future. Of the job I had to get. Of what would happen when that medicine ran out again. Of how I might offload the stolen goods from that vet without getting in trouble with the authorities, or winding up in a drug ring with a bunch of power players who had deadlier weapons than an aluminum bat and a non-working bottle of mace.
Yeah. I needed to forget for a few hours.
Daisy had even forced some of my money on me in case the bar had suddenly decided to stop giving me freebies.
I snorted as I willed myself to pull open the door.
There was no way in cold hell Miles, the bar owner and my ex, would stop giving me free beer. He, a non-Irishman who owned a filthy “Irish” pub, thought only someone sliding along rock bottom would accept such blatant pity. He was fascinated and smug that I clearly had not one ounce of pride left. Boy what a loss, dumping him, he surely thought. And now look at me, needing his condescension to keep on going.
I chuckled.
I had plenty of pride. And plenty of street smarts. My mother’s racket had earned me more than a free phone.
Feel bad for my scrawny arms and skinny frame and want to sneak me in the back of a gym?
Yes, please.
Want to build karma points by letting a street urchin like me hang around for free martial arts lessons?
Cool.
Need to fill a quota of underprivileged kids in your dance studio?
I’m game.
I’d learned more things than a rich kid, all because I looked a mess and didn’t say no when someone offered a freebie. If people wanted to help me out, I would absolutely let them.
I glanced at the cracked sidewalk and scraggly bushes lining the walkway up to the bar. A few cars sat in the parking lot off to the side, and various beat-up automobiles lined the street. A heavyset man slouched as he made his way past on the sidewalk.
This wasn’t a good part of town, even though it was backed up against the wall of the magical zone. Maybe because it was backed up against the wall, though still in the neglected dual-society portion of the city. We could see the lovely weather on the other side of the six-foot-high wall, reminding us that Valens cared about his territory, and blessed them with his magical weather-changing abilities. The clear skies, which sometimes pushed away some of our fog, rubbing our faces in how pristine and well-tended the houses were over there. Those who lived there had money (mostly) and quality food (probably). They had good jobs (I assumed) and access to all the finest things (the bastards).
All we had were surly dispositions and not much of anything.
Then again, we also had loose rules with overworked and underperforming law enforcement. We had the cover of anonymity. We weren’t watched, or forced to keep our stuff in excellent condition. We could live our lives in peace, even if it was with cracked concrete and crappy weather.
Yeah, they could keep their nice houses. Loose rules worked just fine for me, thank you very much.
“Quit stalling, Alexis, and get your drink on,” I muttered to myself.
For a medium-sized miracle, this outing sure seemed like a chore. I was starting to think the kids had forced me out so they could have the house to themselves without my tight-jawed fretting, the little bastards.
I grabbed the handle and yanked the door open before propelling myself into the dimly lit interior. Wood beams lined the ceiling overhead, closing down the space. Picture frames covered the walls, crowded together and often crooked. Empty tables with chairs tucked beneath them were backed up to the far wall, leaving ample space for me to walk through to the back room. On one side, a few guys loitered around a threadbare pool table, and a dance floor pushed up against the electronic jukebox with outrageous prices; on the other, the bar curved in a slight semicircle lined with high-backed chairs, mostly filled.
At six in the evening, these were likely all regulars, watching the TV or staring at nothing, content to keep their own company. It was still too early for the party crowd that would eventually wander in, consisting of magical and non-magical kinds alike, all looking for a last drink in their neighborhood bar before heading home.
A broken-down, leaning wooden chair sat in place of my usual sturdy, magically protected seat. I paused, glancing next to it at Mick, the biggest asshole in the bar, who sat next to the wall so as to cut down on the number of people who tried to talk to him. He was partly the reason why my seat was always vacant, and the vacancy was why it had become my seat in the first place.
“What happened here?” I asked in a collection of grunts. It was the language Mick responded to best.
He glanced at the chair with absolutely gorgeous pale blue eyes. It was his best and only noteworthy feature. His ruddy, sun-damaged face stayed perfectly flat. “Some fat coont took yer chair,” he said in a thick Irish brogue.
“Aww. You called it mine. You must be used to me now.”
I laughed and glanced down the bar. I’d gotten awfully used to the C-word from hanging around him. I also knew that he never used that word to describe women unless he was falling-down drunk and spoiling for a fight. A fight that the women at this bar would happily give him. Typically, though, he reserved the term for men and non-living objects. Which meant a large, heavyset, or stocky man had my chair.
Familiar faces lined the bar—some of the regulars seemingly never left this place. It wasn’t until my gaze neared the other end that fireworks blasted through my middle and my stomach flipped over and threatened to come up through my mouth.
Stormy blue eyes surveyed me quietly from within a shockingly handsome face that seemed much too familiar, given that I’d only seen it briefly the day before. The man’s muscular arms rested on the edge of the bar, stretching his button-up shirt across the expanse of his broad shoulders. A large hand curved around a half-finished pint of Guinness, the perfect rings of creamy foam lining the sides of the glass.
“Crap,” I said softly, my feet rooted to the floor and my whole body tightening up to flee. Daisy had been right. He’d found me again.
The two chairs flanking the stranger were pushed away to give him ample space. Though they were filled, he was clearly there by himself.
“Is that the guy you were talking about?” I asked Mick softly, unable to tear my eyes away from that steady gaze.
Mick grunted, which meant yes.
“That guy is anything but fat, Mick. You’d make a terrible eyewitness. Has he been here for a while?”
“Fer feck’s sake. What am I, his fecking nursemaid?” Mick growled. “I don’t feckin’ know.”
“It’s been a pleasure speaking with you, Mick, as always.”
Mick grunted and took a swig of his beer.
I let out a slow, trembling breath as Liam, the ancient, non-magical bartender who had been there forever, slowly made his way down the bar.
“Guinness?” he asked when he reached me.
I shook my head quickly, but then stopped myself. Why would I pretend not to drink Guinness just because the stranger liked it?
And why would I run? This wasn’t a normal day for me to be here, and he couldn’t have possibly known I’d show up. I hadn’t even known until a couple of hours ago. I usually popped into the bar on Friday or Saturday evenings when it was busy and I knew Miles would make an appearance. I liked to give him the opportunity to not-so-subtly congratulate himself on doing better than me. It was the least I could do in exchange for the freebies.
Anyway, running would only make me seem guilty of something, and this time I didn’t even have anything to apologize for. This guy was on my turf, in my chosen place of degradation, and I had every right to dig in my heels and stand my ground. If anything, this was my territory.
Besides, I had a blanket to return.
“I should act normally, shouldn’t I?” I asked Mick, still working up the courage to approach the guy. I had every right to be here, but that commanding, authoritative gaze gave a girl pause. “I’ve been coming here long enough to have earned a spot. He can’t do anything to me.”
“What da feck?” Mick leaned away as though I’d slapped him. “What are you on about? I’m here to enjoy a few quiet fecking pints.”