Chapter 3
Sandra
Pandemonium pulsates like a living organism around me as I move between the tables, balancing the tray and dodging the glances — some curious, others invasive — that follow me accompanied by murmurs.
Rumours about me are still circulating strongly, it seems, but I make a point of ignoring them, wishing the room were darker to hide the persistent flush on my cheeks.
The lighting, consisting of torches fixed to the stone walls, casts an amber light that dances and flickers on the surfaces, casting irregular shadows across the hall.
I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself, my eyes wandering for a moment to the ceiling beams, solid and made of dark wood, adorned with artefacts such as amulets, swords and other ancient relics.
For a moment, I allow myself to be distracted — a bad habit of mine, like a cat fascinated by the smallest curiosities.
"Sandra, table two!" The witch mixologist calls me, and I go over to take the order.
"Thank you," I say, but she is already turning away, heading for the shelves displaying a collection of unusual bottles filled with shiny, steaming or strangely viscous liquids.
"A Bubbling Blood and a Blood Shake," I announce, placing the drinks on the table of a demon and a vampire.
The brass bell above the door rings, announcing new customers.
I walk between the irregular tables, serving the newly arrived humans.
Few mortals venture here on their own; most only find this place through the company of a supernatural being or by accident.
To the rest of the world, a spell makes the tavern look abandoned, with dusty windows.
The newcomers look around, asking for vampires. From the look on their faces, they want to be the drink rather than order one.
"Sweetie, are you okay?" the mixologist asks as she hands me other orders, after calling me several times. "You seem distracted today."
Damn, I need to hide it better.
"Yes, just a little tired." I force a casual smile, trying to sound carefree.
"A few extra hours of sleep can work wonders. I hope you feel better tomorrow."
"Thanks, I will."
But I know I won't be any better, my mind races to the countdown, I have two days to pay the rent.
If I don't, I'll be back on the streets or I'll have to take measures I promised myself I would never consider again.
The idea of being a street cat again, breaking into houses in search of food, turns my stomach.
I did it to survive, but I thought I would never sink so low again. Still, it's better than the alternative — one that cost me much more than my pride. It cost me my dignity. The cause of the rumours and disgusting looks directed at me.
Desperation led me to agree to go out with some of the tavern's regulars, just to ensure a good meal. I made it clear from the outset that the encounters would be nothing more than that; at most, a few kisses, and nothing else.
Some men were gentlemen, while others... well, not so much.
Last week, I gave in to the pressure from one of them.
He was a rabbit shapeshifter, new to Salem, and during the three dates we had, he treated me like I was someone important.
He took me to fancy restaurants and made me feel special in a way I didn't know how to handle.
And it was in that moment of vulnerability that I felt a strange obligation to reciprocate, as if I owed him something in return.
On the third date, I gave in. I let him take me to his house.
I only found out he was married when his wife showed up unexpectedly, arriving ahead of schedule for the move. She caught us at the exact moment we were taking our clothes off.
I fled in my animal form, leaving behind both my clothes and my dignity.
I promised myself I would never put myself in that kind of situation again.
The woman, who I discovered was a witch, found out where I work and showed up the following night, threatening me right here, in front of everyone.
Char, my boss, said that if she continued, she would be banned from the tavern, only then did she calm down and leave. But that doesn't mean she hasn't come back, or that she hasn't been giving me threatening looks ever since.
Right now, the couple arrives and sits at table seven.
The woman's deadly stare meets mine, and my stomach tightens. I quickly look away, but I feel my cheeks burning.
Just when I think my day couldn't get any worse...
I turn my back and approach Luther.
"Can you do me a little favour?" I ask, with a begging look.
Luther raises an eyebrow, flashing a lazy smile that makes half the patrons give him absurd tips. His silver eyelashes and the provocative sparkle of his blue eyes are almost mesmerising.
"Depends. What do I get in return?"
"Maybe some decorative cuts on that pretty face, you're asking for it." I show my claws, a threat dancing at my fingertips, but my smile betrays the amusement of the provocation.
"Wow, such violence." He pouts, exaggerated as always, as if he were truly offended. "But what if I prefer something... less aggressive? Do you have a more interesting proposal?"
"Luther." I let out an exasperated sigh. "Now is not the time for jokes."
"All right, what do you need?" He straightens his posture, but the mocking gleam still dances in his eyes.
"Will you serve table seven in my place?" I whisper, lowering my voice as if that would save my pride. "Please."
He looks over my head and makes a discreet grimace when he sees the couple. When he looks back at me, one of his long, silver strands falls over his eyes, which now analyse me with a tense expression.
"Ah, them." He nods, understanding perfectly. "You know, if you had agreed to go out with me, none of this would have happened." He smiles, clearly trying to ease the tension.
"It's not funny, Luther." I push his shoulder lightly, trying to dispel the awkwardness.
"As if you don't know my reputation." He winks, amused, before shrugging.
Oh, yes. His famous reputation as a generous lover who drives women and men crazy. Luther doesn't hide how lustful he is; in fact, he prides himself on it.
Funny how things work.
I, who have only agreed to sleep with one man in my entire life, am the one with the reputation of being a slut.
"It's precisely because of your reputation that I won't accept." I wrinkle my nose.
"I would change for you."
"I'll believe it when I see it!" I stick my tongue out at him, and he smiles and winks at me before serving the table.
Luther was the first supernatural friend I made when I started working here almost a year ago.
His charming and outgoing personality is irresistible, attracting everyone around him.
Being the son of an incubus and[1] explains a lot.
Over time, I realised that he uses this skillfully to get what he wants.
I don't judge him. I do the same when necessary.
And as much as I like him as a friend, I'm afraid to cross that line.
I prefer relationships without feelings, without creating emotional ties. That way, I have no chance of being abandoned, hurt...
I know it was stupid of me to go out with some of the regulars at the place where I work.
Supernatural ones, at that.
I should try my luck with ordinary, harmless, decent humans.
But how can I find such people when I spend most of my life here in the tavern or in the run-down and dangerous neighbourhood where I live?
Before I moved there, I hardly ever left the house where I lived with my grandmother. I was her carer, I gave up going to college to stay by her side and support her in those long years of struggle. I didn't have time to meet people, let alone find a boyfriend.
"Forget it, Sandra," I whisper to myself. Especially because, after the incident with that treacherous scoundrel, I'm going to stay away from men, supernatural or not.
I try to focus on my work, serving the tables with the best of attitudes. I force a smile, ignore the tasteless comments and laugh at the unfunny jokes, all to ensure better tips.
I walk over to the werewolves' table, their loud laughter and unfiltered conversation filling the tavern, drowning out the sound of other voices.
They have been the biggest consumers of the night, which forces me to tolerate more than I would like.
I reach them and, before I can say anything, I feel a hand slide down my body and squeeze my bum.
The shock paralyses my feet for a second, while drunken laughter explodes around me.
"How about getting with a real man, sweetheart?" says a lupino with black hair and grey eyes. I try to pull away from his grip, but his fingers press harder.
"I hear you accepted the touch of an insignificant rabbit. Little do you know what awaits you when you sleep with a wolf."
My insides boil, but I need their tip.
"Oh, really?" I force a smile, letting the sarcasm drip from my voice. "Thanks for the suggestion, but that comparison is definitely not one of my priorities right now."
The wolf blinks, confused, and his friends' momentary laughter seems to irritate him even more.
"Bitch," he growls, but before I can respond, something changes in the air.
The dim light from the torches on the stone walls flickers, dancing in the shadows that stretch across the ancient beams of the ceiling.
When the tavern door opens, the buzz instantly ceases. The laughter, the conversation, even the sound of mugs being raised.
The air feels heavier, almost suffocating. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as I look towards the entrance.
Mark.
He enters with his companions, his gaze cold as ice, scanning every corner of the hall. When his eyes meet mine — and then the wolf's hand still on my body — something in him changes in the blink of an eye.
Before I can react, his body begins to change.