29. Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Reyna
Finding the speakeasy is the first part of my plan, and the reason I'm sneaking through the Farm District. I saw the obituary posters my parents hung. As much as missing them hurts, I think it’s best if no one knows I managed to survive. The festival happened a few nights ago, and I must've missed something big. A swarm of gruff looking soldiers carry someone into the house. Then it strikes me. That's Erik's house. I wait until the soldiers leave and run across the street, creeping up to one of the back windows.
"A few inches to the left and we wouldn't have been able to save him. He'll need rest, and daily bandage changes with the salve. He should be better than new in no time." A voice flows out of the cracked window above my head and I can't help wondering what happened.
Something rustles and footsteps head in my direction; I catch a glimpse of a healer speaking to Erik's nurse. Their presence has me scurrying around to the back of the cottage to hide from view. The healer walks out of the front as I duck behind the house. I lift my head just enough to look in the back window. Erik lays in bed; I have to stifle a gasp. His chest is wrapped in so many bandages that he looks half dead hanging off his bed. Banging of cabinets opening and shutting sounds from the kitchen where the nurse clambers around.
"Erik," I whisper-yell, gently tapping on the window. After a few taps, he's calling out to the nurse.
"What do you need, mister?" she asks, and he points to the window. She scurries across the room propping the window open before returning to her work.
"You couldn't just let me ignore you?" he asks, breathing heavily like moving his arm was more exertion than he is capable of.
"Why would you ignore me?" I keep my voice low so his caretaker doesn't come barging in.
"Because I was stabbed in the chest and every time I move I can feel my heart and lungs sloshing around inside of me," he growls out.
"You what?" My head is fully in the window. "Stabbed how?" I demand stopping myself from crawling into his window like when we were kids.
"The guards came for Astrid and Embla. I was fighting with them and I got stabbed. They think I was trying to help the Shadows, that’s what I convinced them. But they took Ash and Em, we have to do something." Desperation bleeds into his tone. "They're going to kill them," he whispers.
"I'm working on it." If I can build a militia to protect the district from Hekate's impending doom they should also be able to help me rescue my friend. "Are you going to be okay?" I ask, hesitant to leave.
"I will be, but I need rest. You know everyone thinks you’re dead right?" he asks, eyeing me from where he lays on the bed.
"I need to keep it that way," is all I say before I'm once again sneaking through the district.
The Farm District speakeasy is called the Helhole. It's a dimly lit basement under the Northern compound that smells of damp body odor and old moonshine. With no bouncer at the door, I simply walked in. That was the easy part, now to convince the men to fight with me. Grey concrete bricks line the space, mossterns light up each table creating a cozy feeling as I choose one of the black leather barstools.
"Blueberry moonshine, please." I don't look up as the bartender rushes off to make my drink.
"Can I get you anything else?" the bartender asks. Her short dark hair flares at the end, and her smile is kind. Before I can answer, a brute down the bar snaps his fingers for her attention. She quickly sets down my drink rushing off. The men arm wrestle in the center of the hidden tavern. Their loud slurring words rattle through the room as they cheer and talk shit. I sip my drink; it reminds me of summer days when I was a teenager. Ash and I stole a few jugs of this moonshine one summer. Embla was too scared of getting caught, so the two of us hid in her barn. We spent the night laughing while getting deliriously drunk every night that season. I hope she's okay. The clear liquor warms my chest and the men gathered erupt into a chorus of cheers when one of the opponents claims his victory. The crowd clambers to the bar, their raucous noise dying down and I know this is my moment.
Farmers from all over the district mill about with glasses of illegally brewed spirits. While they're distracted I step onto a tabletop garnering a glare from the bartender in between filling glasses. I clasp my hands behind my back, and I start having second thoughts. Is this really how I want to go about this? Will the men of Demendia even listen to me or will they just see me as some girl? Before I can talk myself out of it I'm clearing my throat. Heads turn as every eye in the room lands on me.
"Hi, uh," I stammer, not sure where I am going with this. "I need your help. There's something coming, something bad that we will want to fight," I say moving to pace down the table but thinking better of it when I nearly knock over the mosstern in the middle of it. The hearth behind me warms my back, my clothes soaking it in. Catching my reflection in the varnish of the table, my dirty blonde hair is curling loosely around my jade green eyes.
"Help you? Where is your male escort? Why are you here?" someone from the back of the crowd calls. A few of the men agree loudly.
"What is it you need help with? Needlepoint?" Laughter roars around me. "Whatever comes we will handle like we always do, but the needlepoint falls to you," the man roars over the crowd raising his glass, and the men in the speakeasy cheer their agreement raising their glasses to toast before bringing them to their lips. I can't help but roll my eyes. Any excuse to get blind drunk. I get it, I remember the summer mornings I spent on the floor of Ash's bathroom puking up our stolen booze. But what I'm asking is more important than these men will ever know. If they would just listen.
"It's something worse, something this district has never faced before," I try again, wanting to throttle each man at the table. Instead, I force a smile onto my face.
"We have no time for fighting, girl. The tithe will be late soon, and that has to be the first priority. We have to finish the harvest, there can't be anything else." Another farmer stands. "Much less a fictional evil you can't even name." He saunters off.
"I'm disappointed in you," I say jumping down from the tabletop, the crowd grows silent. "There are more important things happening than the harvest." The words whisper across my tongue before I can stop them then I turn on my heel as I abandon the hopeless men.