Chapter 8 #5
The sky stretched above us, a deep blue-gray, with streaks of pale orange still clinging to the horizon.
The streets bustled with life, warm lantern light spilling from shop windows, and the scent of roasted food drifting from vendors.
As we walked past rows of storefronts, I studied the goods on display, noting the familiar and the foreign and cataloging their subtle differences.
We wandered past tables set up like an open-air bazaar, the scene oddly reminiscent of another time.
“This is just like the street fair where I last saw Olivia,” Lee murmured.
Then, without warning, he veered toward a stand labeled Adele’s Antiques.
I followed, catching up as he stopped before a table cluttered with trinkets and oddities.
“Look, there’s a sale going on,” Lee noted, his gaze sweeping over the items.
Behind the stand, an elderly woman—Adele, presumably—watched us with narrowed eyes, arms crossed tightly over her chest.
“You two just here to gawk, or are you buying?” she demanded. “I’ve had enough lookie-loos for one day.”
I glanced at Lee, confused. “Lookie-loos?”
“Browsers,” he explained before turning back to her. He ran a hand over the scattered objects, fingers brushing over carved wooden figures, old pocket watches, and aged silverware.
Then, his palm landed on a dagger.
It was a cheap-looking thing, unremarkable at first glance.
Yet he lifted it, turning it in his hand, his expression shifting from idle curiosity to something else. Something close to wonder.
“Where’d you get this?” he asked, unusually quiet.
“Oh, that old thing?” The woman scoffed. “Pretty worthless, if you ask me. Some young fella passed by a little while ago—said he needed a drink and asked if I’d buy it off him.” She shrugged, uninterested.
Lee leaned in close. “This is the fake dagger I gave Olivia to trick Tristan the night she time traveled.”
My pulse kicked up.
“What are you two whispering about?” The woman unfolded her arms and wiped her palms on the grimy green apron tied around her waist.
Lee straightened. “I know this knife. What did the guy who sold it to you look like?”
She shrugged again. “Looked like a man desperate for a drink, that’s what. But he was about six feet tall, with light-brown hair, strong-looking… Oh!” She tapped beneath her right ear. “Had a mole right here.”
Lee and I exchanged a glance.
Her wrinkled brow lifted. “So, are you buying it or what?”
“Which way did he go?” Lee pressed.
She sighed, then jabbed a finger down the street. “There’s a bar a few blocks that way—O’Donnell’s. I’d bet my best trinket that’s where he was headed. Poor fella looked like he needed a drink.”
Lee turned to me, eyes bright with certainty. “That’s him. I know it.”
“Let’s go,” I said, already pivoting.
Lee let the knife clatter back onto the table, and we broke into a run.
“Damn lookie-loos!” the woman hollered after us.
As we hurried down the sidewalk, an engine revved ahead—a deep, snarling growl overpowered the hum of passing cars.
I turned my head, catching sight of a man astride a two-wheeled machine with gleaming silver trimmings, sleek black metal, and a leather seat.
The rider was dressed in charcoal-colored leather, heavy boots planted firmly against the ground. He leaned back, gripping the silver handlebars in place of a steering wheel.
“What’s that?” I pointed.
Lee chuckled. “That’s a motorcycle, my friend. And let me tell you, they’re a hell of a ride.”
His fingers pressed against the Jeep’s key fob, which chirped in response. “It’s unlocked. Climb in.”
The motorcycle roared to life, shooting forward in a blur of power and speed.
Lee glanced at me with a smirk. “Thinking of getting one?”
“Maybe. Maybe I am.” I pulled the seatbelt across my chest, watching as the motorcycle disappeared down the road.
We drove in silence until we pulled up to O’Donnell’s. The bar’s neon sign flickered against the darkening sky, casting a dim glow over the entrance.
Lee pulled to a stop at the curb. “I’m going to park around back. Go on in and look around. I’ll meet you at the bar—the long counter in the back where you order drinks.” He paused, then grinned, “Ask for two pale ales. You’ll like it.”
“Okay.”
I stepped out, pushing through the heavy door into the dimly lit bar. The scent of aged wood, beer, and something fried hung thick in the air.
Patrons filled the space. Some huddled in booths, others laughed at high-top tables. A few leaned lazily against the long counter, where bottles gleamed under low-hanging lights.
I hesitated, taking in my surroundings. I’d never been to a bar before—at least, not to drink. Was there a proper way to do this? Did one sit and sip alcohol?
And why were so many women here?
These are different times, I reminded myself, shaking off my uncertainty.
Squaring my shoulders, I headed toward the back.
A mirror stretched across the back wall, reflecting rows of neatly arranged bottles. The dim glow of the bar lights made the glass gleam, casting golden hues across the liquor.
I did a double-take when I caught my reflection—my short hair and sides faded, looking more kempt than I was used to. But I relaxed as my eyes flicked over the other men in the bar, many sporting similar cuts. I blended in.
I slid onto a stool next to a muddy-blond-haired fellow who looked to be about my age.
A gruff-looking bartender strode toward me, wiping his hands on a rag. “What’ll it be?”
The question threw me. My palms grew clammy as I scrambled for an answer.
“What do you want?” he repeated, eyes narrowing.
“Two pale ales,” I said quickly.
“What kind?”
I hesitated. What kind? There were kinds?
“What do you suggest?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound as clueless as I felt.
“The Dragon’s Blood is popular. It’s on tap.”
Dragon’s Blood? On tap? I had no idea what that meant, but I nodded, hoping Lee wouldn’t mind. “That’s fine.”
The bartender grabbed two glass mugs and pulled a lever. A stream of amber liquid poured into one of the glasses, foam rising just over the rim.
I shifted slightly, only to realize the muddy-blond-haired man beside me was watching me. Intently.
A prickle of unease crawled up my spine.
“You fresh off the turnip farm?” he asked, his voice thick with condescension.
I turned to him fully, studying his features. His strong build. His light-brown hair. And—
The mole beneath his right ear.
The street vendor’s description snapped into place, and my pulse spiked.
This couldn’t be Tristan… could it? That would be too easy. Too convenient.
I narrowed my eyes and turned away, unwilling to let him bait me.
He sneered, his expression reminding me of the aging gladiators I used to see in the arena—those who knew their days were numbered, their bitterness twisting into something mean.
Then he laughed, low and mocking. “You are stupid, aren’t you?”
The barkeep slid two frosted mugs across the counter, amber liquid sloshing against the glass. I lifted one to my lips and took a long swig.
Quite good.
As I set the mug down, movement to my right caught my attention. A woman approached the bar, her jaw working noisily as she chewed on something, a strange snapping sound coming from her mouth.
The muddy-blond-haired man beside me smirked and called out to her. “Hey, Diane. Stop eye-fucking the idiot and give me a blow job like usual.”
I had no idea what eye-fucking or blow job meant, but from the tone of his voice, it wasn’t flattering.
I turned to him, my expression cooling. “Don’t speak to her like that. Act like a gentleman.”
Muddy-Blond let out a sharp laugh. “Man, you are a hoot, getting all up in my business. ‘Don’t speak to her like that. Act like a gentleman.’” He mimicked my voice with an exaggerated British accent before turning to the woman. “Can you believe this guy, Di?”
Diane sidled closer to me, her lips curling in amusement. A pink bubble formed between them, popping with a soft snap. She ran her tongue over the remnants of residue before continuing to chew.
“Maybe he’s right,” she mused, tapping a finger against my jaw. “Maybe you shouldn’t talk to me that way.”
Her hand trailed up, tracing the curve of my ear.
I caught her wrist and gently pushed it away. She reminded me of Severus’ whores—women who flitted from one man to the next, seeking favor, offering their bodies like currency. I had no interest.
“Please,” I reiterated. “I don’t wish to partake.”
Muddy-Blond burst into laughter, slapping his knee like I had just told the greatest joke in the world. “Did you hear that? He doesn’t wish to partake, Di.”
His smirk twisted into something cruel as he leaned in, his breath sour with alcohol. “She ain’t nothing but a slut. You can do whatever you like to her. Only she’s spoken for tonight, got it?”
My grip on the mug tightened. “Even a woman of the night deserves respect,” I said as I pushed him away.
He rocked to the side as if his body had melted into something loose and boneless.
The man reeked of stale sweat, alcohol, and the unmistakable stench of someone who hadn’t washed in weeks.
“Whoa,” he slurred, swaying in his seat. “I’m more fucked up than I thought.”
He managed to straighten, then turned back to Diane with a leer. “Hey, cunt. Get over here and crouch between my legs. You can suck my dick while I and Mr. Fancy Pants have ourselves a little talk about manners and such.”
That was it. I’d had enough of this fucking piece of shit.
I rose, towering over him. “I don’t think you heard me the first time. Don’t speak to her like that. Act like a gentleman.”
Muddy-Blond swayed as he pushed to his feet, his glazed eyes trying to focus on me.
The barkeep wiped his hands on a rag and sighed. “Alright, I think you’ve had enough to drink.”
Muddy-Blond sneered. “I’ve had enough to drink when I say I’ve had enough to drink. Now fuck off.”
Then, without warning, he swung at me.
I caught his fist in my palm and shoved it aside like swatting away a fly. I could fight this fool with one hand tied behind my back and not break a sweat.
His face twisted in frustration, and he charged, slamming his head into my abdomen like a wild boar.
That was it.
I drove my fist into his jaw. Once. Then again.
He staggered back, shook his head like a stunned ox, snarled, and lunged at me again.
This time, I brought my knee up hard.
His howl split through the bar as he crumpled to the floor, clutching himself.
Patrons screamed, chairs scraped, and voices rose in alarm—but it was all background noise to me. This was nothing compared to the roars of a Colosseum crowd.
I dropped to my knees, straddling him, and drove my fists into his face. Again. And again.
Loud footsteps pounded toward me.
“Roman! Roman!” Lee’s voice cut through the haze. “You can’t do that here.”
He grabbed my arm just as I pulled back for another blow.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Sensei Lee,” Muddy-Blond drawled.
Lee’s expression darkened. “When will you ever grow up, Tristan?” He shook his head in disgust. “No wonder Olivia left your ass. You’re a weak, pathetic worm of a man.”
Tristan.
His name alone was enough to send me a vicious surge of rage, pounding like war drums in my veins.
Tristan spat blood onto the floor—then turned and spat again, this time directly onto my shirt.
“Fuck that shit,” he sneered. “Olivia was a cunt. I was glad she disappeared.”
Something inside me snapped.
“Don’t you dare talk about my wife like that,” I growled.
Tristan’s expression faltered. “Your wife?”
By now, the bar had gone silent, the crowd thickening around us.
“I’ve called the cops,” the bartender announced. “They’ll be here any minute.”
“Roman! We have to go!” Lee’s grip tightened around my arms, trying to pull me away.
But I wasn’t leaving. Not yet.
My fist clenched, my body moving on instinct.
I shook off Lee’s grip, drew back, and slammed my fist into Tristan’s nose.
The impact was swift. Brutal.
Bone crunched beneath my knuckles. Blood sprayed.
Tristan’s head snapped back. His eyes rolled.
He collapsed, limp and unmoving.
“Roman!” Lee’s voice broke through the roaring in my ears. “We have to get out of here. Grab his torso—I’ll get his legs. Now!”
But I barely heard him.
I focused on Tristan’s lifeless form, his blood pooling beneath him.
I had spent years waiting for this moment. Swearing vengeance and promising to kill him for what he did to Olivia.
And yet—
He wasn’t dead.
Not yet.
I wasn’t finished.
Not even close.