Chapter 8 #2
The real problem is finding one that’s tolerable to drink at that won’t end in North clucking at me like a disapproving housewife, all while sprinting to my rescue like the white knight I never fucking asked him to be.
It's impossible to deny that I’d be dead by now without him, even I can admit that.
If I found the courage to escape my mother’s house by myself, my penchant for wanton use of my Gift would’ve surely seen me put to death, just as my father was.
Knocking back the entire glass of bourbon in one go to chase away the morbid spiral of my thoughts, I stare down the bar at the man tending it.
He’s too busy flirting with the operatives drinking here on their downtime to notice at first, but when he notices my ire, he’s quick to rush over to me, gulping like he’s trying to remember how to breathe.
Apologizing without meeting my eye, his attention stays fixed firmly on the expensive bottle he’s pouring from.
It’s probably worth more than the building itself, ordered specifically for North and I thanks to the fussy Draven palate we both inherited.
With almost a decade of patronage here, I'm quick to dismiss any bad feelings toward the man and instead turn my scrutiny back to the other end of the bar. The operatives have quietened down now that they’ve noticed me sitting here sneering and drinking by myself, but no matter how hard they try for discretion, it doesn’t take much to notice them hissing frantically at one another.
No doubt the whispers revolve around the catalyst for my shitty attitude, but I’ll surely lose my senses and set Azrael on them all if I have to hear another fucking word about that girl.
The bartender shoots them a savage glare of his own when he glances up to follow my gaze curiously, probably ruining his chances for a good tip he was grinding so hard for only moments ago.
“You’d think they’d know better, standing there in that uniform,” he mutters almost to himself but when he finally meets my eyes, he’s looking less timid.
Despite spending at least four nights a week here since I attended Draven myself, it takes me a minute to remember the bartender’s name; Alam, but Gryph calls him Al.
He owns the bar. Tucked away on one of the side alleys in the less savory area of the town, he was close to shutting his door when I found it and decided that the empty booths and distinct lack of college students among the dwindling patrons made it perfect for me.
He inherited it from his father, and despite only being in his late forties, the growing danger within our community had certainly aged him.
I’m certain it’s aged us all.
Raising the glass to my lips, I sneer down the bar at the idiots until they turn away from me before I answer him.
“I told Gryph from the beginning to stop asking the TacTeams to join us but the idiot never listened. They followed us here like pathetic little worms to gain favor and grasp at power for themselves. Now they’ve all been reminded of the monsters living among them and the blades are sharpening. ”
The liquor has loosened my tongue, but my words are still crisp and clear, my mind still on my own.
My bond simmers within my chest, waiting for a moment my grasp slips and it can take control and stand.
Until I find a true resolution with it, I am forced to curb my own drinking habits. For that alone, I could kill the girl.
My frustration flares violently, a molten wave cresting throughout my blood.
My eyes flicker dangerously—a war dance with the voids, but the malevolent blue finally wins out.
It only lasts a fraction of a second, but the reaction is instant; the muttering group all but runs out of the building, each throwing a few crisp notes on the bar as they flee.
It's a pitiful display, one that certainly doesn't rouse much confidence in their abilities to protect the Gifted community.
Huffing out a breath, I set down my glass and wait as Al fills it once more. “I tolerated their presence because your business benefitted from their attempts at bootlicking, but it looks like I've ruined that for you.”
Al shakes his head, pulling a rag out of his back pocket and wiping down the bar beside me.
“I'm not worried about those idiots. You sure, and the rest of his team, will keep the rent paid and the lights on.
If North stops in for a few, as he always does after the council meeting, that'll get me a month or two ahead with only a couple of glasses. Rather not bother with the rest.”
“Such loyalty is rare these days. I'm not sure I've done much to deserve it.”
He shakes his head at me with a huff, his gaze turning weary over my shoulder even as he replies to my snark.
“That's because you spend too much of your time putting up with the Top Tier bullshit. Those of us at the bottom, we’re forced to stare up at the rest of you and pray for a miracle, but at least we have a grasp on what really matters.
I've lost far too many friends, Draven, to give a fuck about a couple of super soldiers with their pockets full of cash but not a brain cell between them.”
Cussing is rare for him, even when dealing with inebriated assholes, and his usually light tone is deeper as it trembles with a frustration that matches my own.
Responding instantly, my bond writhes within my chest and a demand pulses within my veins from my nightmare creatures as though they’ve been called to arms. My eyes flicker again, but despite dropping his gaze away from me, Al doesn’t run screaming in terror.
He stands there and waits out my bond’s anger, no matter how thick his fear is in the air, there’s no doubting his respect for what I’m capable of—for what I’ll do to the Resistance the moment they come calling.
That’s the real reason I’ve stuck around Draven for so long, despite my loathing for most of the community here; those with everything but the capability to hold and defend, who’ll end up cannon-fodder when the Resistance stop playing their sick mind-games and finally start their true campaign for power.
With a curt nod at me when my fury finally abates, Al sends another apprehensive look over my shoulder before he turns on his heel and stalks back down the bar. He’s quick to clear the tips and empty glasses, wiping down the careless mess from the fleeing idiots.
The heat of a body sidling up to me has me turning to stone in my seat, right as some bitch murmurs in my ear and almost sends my bond hurtling into command of my body. “God, I thought he’d never leave! He’s extra chatty tonight; the poor old man must be lonely.”
Fuck.
I know this woman.
Granted, I can’t remember her name either, but she’s been stalking Gryph for long enough that I could pick her out of a lineup by the stench of her alone.
The barstool next to mine squeaks as her ass hits the vinyl padding, the cloud of sickly sweet perfume washing over me.
My bond instantly rejects the scent, but for once, the churning of my gut doesn’t enrage me.
It smells like she’s just crawled her way out of a vat of sugar, but instead of being alluring or mouthwatering, as I’m sure she hopes, bile creeps up my throat.
“He's not here.”
The huff of laughter she lets out is so exaggerated that it’s pathetic, an overt attempt at sensual that misses the mark by a fucking mile. “I have eyes, Draven, I did notice that.”
That may be true, but she clearly doesn’t have a brain… or any sense of shame. “He’s not coming tonight, so disappear before I lose patience and drop the civility.”
The sound she makes this time is definitely an attempt at a giggle, far worse than her attempts at seductive chuckling.
Pushing her arm into mine as she leans forward, I’m tempted to rip it out of its socket as she tries to flag Al down for a drink.
He keeps his back turned to her, definitely on purpose, and I’d find some humor in that if it wasn't leaving me dealing with her instead.
“I'm not an idiot, Draven. I know you've never been civil, not from the moment your brother dragged you back here.”
Turning to face her finally, she falters at the sneer over my lips but holds up a hand to cut me off.
“Look, I have no interest in you, Draven. I’m only speaking to you now because Gryphon isn’t here.
I know you hate this Bond of yours; I heard she's an ugly bitch who thinks she's too good for her own Bond Group. All I’m asking for is a little help finding Gryphon so I can remind him that he has other options. Better options.”
Gryph will hate it.
He’ll fucking rage about it, because no matter how he tries to pretend he hates the girl for leaving us all, he’s a simpering fool for her. He’s also not here right now. A decade of friendship down the drain over a repulsive Bond desperate to get us all under her thumb.
At the very least, it’ll be entertaining. “I’ll take you to dinner with the Bond Group on two conditions.”
Her eyes light up as a victorious grin breaks over her face, nodding without bothering to hear me out or think things through. She’s practically too stupid to live, but that’s not my problem.
“If Gryphon says no to you again, you’ll end this obsession with him and leave him alone.”
The grin slides right off of her face but she stands up from her barstool as she shrugs. “Fine, he’s not going to anyway, so there’s no harm in agreeing. What’s the other condition?”
I drain the last of the bourbon, then set the glass and a tip for Al on the bar before I turn back to her, my eyes shifting to the voids, and I enjoy the tremble of fear in her for a moment before I answer.
“Think of it more as a warning. Don’t ever touch me again. Not on purpose or by accident. If it happens again, I’ll set my nightmares on you until there’s nothing left for your parents to bury.”