Chapter 10
Ibarely get an hour alone in the woods before the setting sun has me retreating back to the stables. It’s not nearly enough time to satiate my restless magic or dampen the strange feeling that still sears my soul.
I thought giving into the gnawing call of death might help, might temporarily calm whatever the stranger lit within me today.
But even decaying an entire bush didn’t soothe it—the most I’ve ever allowed myself to indulge.
A stiff drink is the only thing that might stand a chance at rounding out the sharp edges of power that still claw and scrape at my skin.
The tavern below the inn is packed with villagers all eager to make offerings to Bastin after a hard day working to clean up what the storm left in its wake.
A foreign joy fills the room as the jaunty tune of a fiddle wafts from the open doorway.
The musician stands precariously balanced atop a rickety, makeshift stage, two crates propped up in a corner with an empty ale mug placed at his feet to collect tips.
Around the room, heads nod in time with the folksy tune, mugs of ales clank together in cheers, and a few daring couples even attempt to dance a gleeful jig amongst the spread of tables.
I scan the room, looking for the captain to return his sword, but it’s Mikel, the young man from last night, that catches my eye first. He enthusiastically waves me over to the busy bartop with a wide smile that exposes a grin that’s missing more than a few teeth.
“Can I get you something, my lady?” he asks sweetly.
I repress the shudder that instinctively rolls down my spine at his words.
I can’t decide what I hate more, open disdain or over-eagerness to cater to my every whim.
Thankfully, he doesn’t notice my discomfort or the impatient way that the other patrons around the bar try and fail to grab his attention.
“Whiskey, please.”
When Mikel bends to extract the bottle from under the counter, I spot Captain Murphy over his shoulder.
Sitting alone at a small table near the staircase that runs up the back wall of the inn, the muscles in his chiseled jaw are so tense that I can sense the agitation rolling off him from where I stand.
“Better make it two.” I place a silver, well above what the whiskey is worth, on the counter and nod at Mikel. A silent command to take the overpayment without complaint.
He places two glasses on the counter, but instead of pouring the whiskey, he slides the entire bottle my way with a wink. Before I can object, he disappears into the kitchen through the swinging door.
It takes nearly an entire song to push past the shoulders of stumbling patrons, avoid the booted steps of dancers who swing haphazardly through the crowds, and dodge hoisted serving trays of tonight’s dinner special.
When I finally reach the back wall, Murphy is surprisingly absent.
Physically, his body is still sitting here, but his attention is locked onto something across the room.
I drop the heavy bottle on the wooden table, the tin cups clinking together before they knock against the glass.
The chair scrapes loudly as the chorus of applause dies down, but whatever holds Murphy captive doesn’t release him.
It’s only when I slide his well-made, but too-heavy-for-me sword across the table that he looks my way.
“Your sword, Captain. Unused.”
“Where have you been?” he barks out through gritted teeth.
I could tell him that I went for a ride, or a walk, or took a nap by a stream, but I don’t bother. Because it’s none of his business.
The stranger’s words, cryptic as they were, were meant for me. Whatever she knew about my power or my fate isn’t for Captain Murphy’s ears.
The burnt woodsy scent of cheap whiskey invades my nostrils as I uncork the bottle and begin to pour the caramel liquid.
I slide a hammered cup his way before lifting my own to my lips and downing the dram in a single gulp.
The fiery spirit floods my system instantly settling the power that sparks and pops in his presence.
“That is somehow even cheaper than I imagined,” I joke.
The captain’s focus is elsewhere again, the muscles in his jaw matching the white-knuckled fists that rest on the table. I pour another and drink it quickly to avoid the impatient silence growing between us.
I wait for a snarky remark but nothing comes. I expect something along the lines of ‘What would a princess know about cheap whiskey?’ or even ‘Can’t handle a cheap poison, princess?’ But instead I get nothing.
Fuck this. I can drink alone upstairs.
I push back from the table, grabbing the bottle of whiskey in one hand and my tin cup in the other.
“Running away from me?” he asks, finally turning his gray eyes to meet mine.
“You seem a little preoccupied. Wouldn’t want to keep you from enjoying your night, Captain.” The rickety chair smacks the ground as I stand.
“Stop.”
One word, a command more than a request. It’s sharp, imperious, and maddeningly… sexy. And I hate it.
I grab the open whiskey and take a pull directly from the bottle without breaking eye contact.
Darkness smokes in his eyes at my impertinence, further stoking the mixture of alcohol and something even more dangerous growing within me.
Tiny droplets trail from the corners of my lips as I pull the bottle away and swipe my face with the back of my hand.
Mikel’s smiling face suddenly invades the space between us. Gingerly, he sets down a plate of roasted chicken and root vegetables, disappearing back into the crowd. Murphy lets out a slow, low chuckle as he rises to stand. I pull my eyes from the plate to see the bastard smirking.
“If you drink like that, you better eat something. I don’t slow down for hangovers, princess.”
Murphy slips into the roaring crowd and instantly disappears. My traitorous stomach growls at the delicious scent of the steaming plate. I haven’t eaten all day and I’ve expended a lot of magic. If I don’t eat this, I’m certain to puke up whiskey within the hour.
I don’t like being cared for. This is now the second time today he’s done something like this, and I need to squash the habit now. His actions, regardless of how they were intended, imply a debt that I don’t care to owe anyone.
I pick at the food on my plate, stabbing each bite with more force than necessary before bringing it up to my mouth. This chicken could be the most exquisitely spiced dish in all of Corinth and I wouldn’t know it. I barely taste it before I wash it down with more swill.
The tavern floor, which saw a slight reprieve when the fiddler took a short break, crowds again.
Shouts echo throughout the small room as the first notes drift from his bowstring.
A local favorite about a bear and a maiden that instantly has everyone on their feet.
There’s so much happiness here tonight that the faithful might claim Bastin himself is present.
It’s been so long since I’ve had a single carefree night of fun in a tavern. Before the war, Miles, Quinn, and I would frequent The Royal Jewel, a nobles-only establishment in Emerald. He always denied it, but I know Miles footed the bill for the entire bar on those nights.
‘If I did, it would be a small price to pay for your fun … and their silence,’ he would say.
But during Feast Week, the time dedicated to debaucherous offerings to the Golden Pantheon, the three of us would ditch our emerald wardrobe for common browns and ornate masks to camouflage ourselves amongst the revelers in town.
With nothing to give away our identities, we lived.
Drinking, dancing, and fucking until the sun came up.
It was on those anonymous nights that I truly felt alive. No title, no nickname, no magic. Nothing that made me Ivy, and everything that made me feel powerful.
I’m not foolish enough to think I can go quite that far tonight, but I am in plain clothes and I do currently possess a belly full of liquid courage. Risking a little ire and a solid hangover is worth a night of a little joy, even if it’s fleeting.
The crowd parts slightly, a flash of sunfire hair catching my eye as I survey the room for a group of revelers to join.
The woman is gorgeous. Flaming hair cascading over her shoulders, pooling above her large breasts that are currently inches away from the broad, muscled arm of a man dressed in all black.
Delicate fingers trace circles on the table top as she whispers something low from her scarlet lips.
Slowly, a head of onyx hair turns, gray eyes locking onto mine and pinning me to my seat. Eyes that blaze with the intensity of the sun itself. A sour, sickly feeling starts low in my gut and spreads throughout me. I grab the bottle and try to wash it away, but it doesn’t break.
It’s not jealousy. I barely know this man. I feel nothing for him … nothing besides the way my magic goes batshit crazy in his presence and the maddening rush that overtakes me every time our skin touches.
No.
No, no, no, no, no.
This is the whiskey and the remnants of unspent magic, nothing more.
A loud cheer from the front of the room draws my attention. There’s a long table near the fiddler’s makeshift stage filled with villagers deeply engaged in a rowdy drinking game. That is exactly what I need to turn this evening around. And there just happens to be a single empty seat at the table.
I down another gulp of the whiskey to steel my nerves before the bottle and I ask permission to play.
“Room for one more?” I ask as I approach the group.
Most of the participants are too deep in the game to acknowledge me, but one, a large man with a thick beard and warm brown eyes, smiles at me.
“A lady bearing whiskey is always welcome. I’m Garrett.” He motions me to the empty seat beside him, pulling it out like a gentleman.
“Selene,” I tell him.
My mother’s name. The name I give out on feast nights, always too afraid of the weight my own carries.