Chapter 7
Xeni
Despite the bright sun and stifling heat outside, the inn is gloomy as I step through the door.
My vision takes a few seconds to adjust, the lingering green haze fading as the space comes into focus.
The pub looks like it’s weathered the past century and a half with little complaint… and even less updating.
A lacquered bar spans the far wall, and round tables sit in a haphazard pattern across the open room.
The wooden floors are rough-hewn, and worn paths have been carved between the bar and the scattered tables, as if generations have walked them so often, the wood had no choice but to yield.
Dim lights hang over high-backed booths with faded brown vinyl seats that hug the walls.
Once, they might’ve passed for leather, but now they’re cracked and peeling.
Run-down, like everything else here, but solid in its own quiet way.
A few patrons occupy stools along the bar, and every head turns as I approach. I’m surprised to spot two monsters among the humans. A short, thin Ror’ganth sits at the far end, his dark green skin blending into the dim corners. Next to him, a Curtiphan watches me with all three eyes, unblinking.
Both wear civilian clothes, and their suspicion is thinly masked behind polite neutrality. Their smiles don’t reach their eyes, and they study my uniform with measured glances.
The human behind the bar clears his throat, and it pulls my attention to his tightened jaw and the way his fingers drum once against the countertop before stilling. He’s tall and broad, with a thick graying beard and heavy brows drawn low over sharp eyes.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
The words are less a greeting and more a warning. Not outright hostility, but close. He’s wary and coiled, ready to show me the door if I give the wrong response.
I glance at the others once more before stepping closer.
“Hi,” I say, keeping my tone light, though the cheer is out of place in the tense room. “I was told to ask for Leif.”
“Told by who?” His right hand slips out of sight behind the bar.
I stop a safe distance away, deciding that’s close enough. “Cornelia sent me,” I explain, glancing again at the monsters who continue to stare. “She said you have lodging?”
Leif’s shoulders loosen a fraction, the rigid line of them easing as he nods, but he continues to size me up with unblinking focus as his lips pull into a tight, thin line.
I shift my weight, gaze darting to the patrons once more before I tilt the paper cone towards him. “She, uh, also told me to bring you this?”
One donut remains inside, and he stares at it for a long stretch before a loud, barking laugh escapes him. The booming sound is so sudden I take a quick step back.
Leif’s tight smile shifts into something far more smug at my show of nerves. “Pay yer dues then, boy, and come on back.”
My palms sweat as I hand over the cone, but he only has eyes for his snack. He shoves the entire donut in his mouth and waves for me to follow.
The stockroom plunges into pitch darkness as the door thuds shut behind us, swallowing the last sliver of light from the pub in a heavy click. Leif flicks on a single bare bulb overhead, the weak glow casting harsh shadows across the cluttered shelves and his broad frame.
He plants his thick hands on his hips, elbows jutting out like barriers, and fixes me with a steady, unblinking look that feels like it’s peeling back layers.
“Ol’ Nelly’s always had a soft spot for strays,” he says, his gravelly voice laced with irritation. “What kind of sob story did you feed her?”
“No sob story. I just need somewhere quiet to lie low while I handle some business in the city.”
“Business, is it?” He grunts low in his throat, scratching his beard as he studies me. “How long you been pretending to be military?”
“What?” I ask, though the word comes out sharper than I intend.
My arms fold across my chest on instinct, as if that could somehow conceal the uniform.
His eyes narrow as he sighs. “Let’s not start by lying to one another. Nelly wouldn’t send you here if she thought you were a soldier, not with my feelings on the matter.”
I hold his gaze for a moment, then let out a slow breath. “I am military,” I insist. “Or… I was.”
“You on the run?”
I meet his steady blue eyes, searching for anything that feels safe enough to lean on, and settle for a half-truth.
“Not exactly,” I say. “As far as I know, they think I’m dead.”
His eyes dart down my frame. “Look pretty alive to me.”
“So it would seem.”
He studies me for another tense moment. “How long you planning to be here?” he asks as he brushes the lingering sugar from his fingers onto the dark apron tied around his waist.
“Until I find who I’m looking for,” I respond. “Could be a few days. Could be longer.”
“You bringing trouble through my door?”
“Not if I can help it,” I say. “I’m not here to make waves. The quieter I stay, the better… for both of us.”
He grunts and folds his bulky arms over his chest. “You got coin to cover a room?”
“Depends on how long I end up needing it.”
He nods, mostly to himself, then lets out a drawn-out, weary sigh. “It’s quiet here, and I like it that way. Been running this place thirty years, and everyone knows military sympathizers aren’t welcome through my door.”
“They don’t do routine checks?” I ask in surprise.
The military has always kept the civilian-run businesses under its thumb. High taxes, frequent inspections, and plenty of off-the-books violence to ensure the owners stay in line.
Leif grimaces. “They do. But they stick to the pub and don’t linger longer than necessary.”
I glance over my shoulder toward the door. “How do you stop them from searching the rooms?”
“A couple of second-floor rooms only open from the alley,” he explains with that same scowl. “We keep them empty so the patrols have a place to duck out of sight when they need it.”
I raise a brow as I return my attention to him. “Fuck their side pieces or drink themselves stupid, you mean.”
He shrugs, no denial in the rise and fall of his shoulders, but the way his jaw tightens tells me everything about his thoughts on the matter.
“It’s the cost of doing business in this city. Keeps the rest of us unbothered.”
“That's fair,” I concede.
“I’ll put you on the fourth floor,” he says after another pause, “in a room facing the street so you can keep an eye on things before you head out. Pay me each morning. If your coin runs low, we can talk about other ways to settle up.”
“How illegal are those ‘other ways’?”
One shoulder lifts in another lazy, careless shrug as his mouth twitches in what’s almost a smile, the corner quirking up as if he’s fighting it.
“Legal enough if nobody catches you.”
“That’s about as straight an answer as I expected,” I mutter, but the tension between us has eased. “Alright. I appreciate the discretion.”
He nods and motions for me to follow. The same patrons line the bar, eyes tracking us with mild curiosity as Leif slips behind the counter to grab a key. He leads me to the stairs, pausing at the door at the top of the first flight.
“This door stays closed… always,” he stresses, staring at me until he's convinced I've heard the gravity in his tone. “Pull it shut behind you, and if you ever find it locked from the other side, stay put, unless you fancy running into soldiers itching for an excuse to poke around.”
He doesn’t wait for my nod before he pushes it open and lets me through, then closes it firmly before we climb two more flights to the top floor.
Up here, the street noise below is reduced to a faint hum, and our footsteps echo on the wooden floors.
Leif unlocks room 403, then nudges the door wide and glances inside.
“Water flow’s steady,” he says as he hands me the key, “but the heat’s hit or miss. You’ll have better luck with hot water if you shower during off-hours.”
“Thanks, but I’m not too worried about it,” I reply, glancing around the room.
There’s a double bed with a plain white comforter, a hunter-green armchair by the window, and a round table like the ones in the pub.
I drop my bag at the foot of the bed and poke my head into the bathroom.
It’s simple, too, with a tight stall shower, toilet, and pedestal sink.
Everything carries a faint scent of bleach, but it’s clean.
“Dinner’s on the house,” Leif adds from the doorway as I step back into the bedroom. “Nothing fancy. It’s usually stew made from whatever the vendors are unloading cheap at day’s end, but if you’re around, there’s a bowl for you.”
“Thank you,” I say, offering a quiet smile. “I mean it. I appreciate everything.”
He nods once, raps his knuckles on the doorframe, and pulls the door shut behind him.
The moment he’s gone, exhaustion settles over me like a heavy blanket, and I sink onto the edge of the bed.
The last two days have offered almost no rest, and though I know I should keep moving, the lure of a safe place to sleep is too strong to brush off right now.
Tired makes you sloppy, after all, and sloppy gets you caught.
I check the lock twice, then peel off my leathers. Sweat clings to me, stale from the uniform that hasn’t breathed all day. I drag myself to the shower. The pressure’s weak, but the water’s warm enough, and I wash quickly.
The towel is scratchy, but the sheets are soft as I slide between them. My head barely touches the pillow before a deep and dreamless sleep pulls me under.
The smoky scent of cooking meat rouses me, and I blink toward the window, where the day is coming to an end. The sun is still strong but sinking, throwing long shadows across the room.
My mind feels sharper after the rest. I stretch slowly, arms overhead and back arching with a quiet groan.
I pull on jeans and a plain t-shirt, feeling more like myself as I head downstairs. No one spares me a second glance this time without the uniform.