Chapter Twelve Saylor #2
they’re all decorated in shades of black and deep red. Wonders & Oddities’ display features an eclectic collection of antique
curiosities: ornate music boxes, vintage tarot decks, crystal balls on brass stands, and what appears to be a taxidermy raven
wearing a tiny top hat. The forge window shows ornate metalwork—gates, door knockers, weathervanes—all depicting scenes that
tell stories I’m dying to understand but can’t quite decipher from a moving car.
“People actually live here?” I ask. “Like, raise families and go to PTA meetings and complain about property taxes?”
“Is home,” Hans says simply. “People make homes where they can.”
This place is . . . I need to get out and explore at a slower pace.
“Hans, can you drop me off somewhere? I want to walk around, maybe get a drink.” I need out of this car and away from his nervous energy. “I promise I won’t run away to join the circus or anything.”
He checks his watch. “Is only ten in the morning, Miss.”
“Hans . . . don’t be the judgy judge. It hasn’t been that long since I climbed out of an antique steamer trunk after being
drugged and kidnapped. Cut a girl a break.” I give him my best innocent smile. “Besides, mimosas are perfectly acceptable
morning drinks. It’s practically fruit juice.”
Hans glances at me in the rearview mirror, clearly weighing his options. “There is good place. Local bar. Owners are friendly
women.”
He navigates us through another narrow alleyway, this one so tight I could touch the stone walls on both sides if I rolled
down the windows. We emerge onto a street I haven’t seen before. They all look different but somehow the same, like variations
on a theme. He pulls over in front of a building that somehow manages to feel welcoming despite Grimlock’s overall atmosphere
of beautiful menace.
The sign reads Toil & Trouble Apothecary Bar in deep burgundy paint, and the building itself is a converted Victorian house
painted in charcoal gray with black trim that makes it look like it’s perpetually in shadow. Wind chimes hang from every available
surface on the wraparound porch. Dozens of them in different sizes and materials, creating a constant chorus of soft, melodic
chaos.
I climb out, immediately struck by the sound. The wind chimes create a symphony that’s both soothing and unsettling, melodies
that shift and change depending on which way you turn your head. Some are made of metal, others of bamboo, a few of glass
or crystal. Together, they create a soundtrack that feels both magical and slightly sinister.
“I love the vibe,” I say as we approach the front steps. “You don’t see places like this in New York.”
“The Dunsin sisters are the owners. Three of them—Duffy, Cate, and Inessa. Duffy works the day shift. She is the nice one, so you should be . . . safe.” Hans pauses at the door, and there’s something deliberate about that pause that makes me wonder what the other sisters are like.
“She asks many questions, but questions come from curiosity, not suspicion.”
“And that’s unusual here?”
“In Grimlock, most questions come from suspicion.”
The front door is painted deep crimson like so many others and decorated with a knocker shaped like a raven. As I reach for
the handle, the wind chimes suddenly go silent, as if the building itself is holding its breath.
I push open the door, and I step into what can only be described as an apothecary’s dream merged with a tavern keeper’s vision.
The walls are lined floor-to-ceiling with shelves holding hundreds of glass bottles in every shape and size imaginable. Amber,
emerald, cobalt blue, and clear crystal, each filled with mysterious powders, dried herbs, tinctures, and things I can’t begin
to identify. Copper distillation equipment gleams from corner alcoves, and bundles of dried plants hang from the exposed ceiling
beams like aromatic chandeliers. The bar itself is carved from a single piece of black walnut, its surface scattered with
mortars and pestles alongside cocktail shakers and jiggers. Behind it, bottles of spirits mingle seamlessly with apothecary
jars, creating a display that’s equal parts magical and intoxicating.
This is a place where you could get both a masterfully mixed cocktail and a perfectly crafted poison, and somehow that feels
exactly right for Grimlock.
“What can I get you? Poison or drink?” someone calls from behind the bar.
I turn to see a woman with wild auburn curls that cascade past her shoulders, with delicate silver threads woven throughout
that catch the light. Despite the speckles of gray in her hair, she’s close to my age, maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven tops,
with green eyes and a mischievous smile. This must be Duffy, the “nice one” Hans mentioned. She has this effortless witchy
chic thing going on—flowing black maxi dress that moves like water when she walks, layered with beaded necklaces and a fringed
shawl that drapes over one shoulder. Her fingers are covered in silver rings, and her hands are stained with what could be
ink, herbs, or something far more mysterious.
“Well, that’s a hell of a greeting.” I can’t help but laugh. “I was hoping for the drink option.”
“Smart choice. The poison pays better, but the drinks are more fun.” She begins pulling bottles from both the spirit collection
and the apothecary shelves. “I’ve got a lavender gin fizz that pairs beautifully with existential dread, or if you’re feeling
more optimistic, there’s a blood orange old-fashioned that’ll restore your faith in humanity.”
I can’t resist a smile. “The lavender gin fizz sounds perfect.”
As she begins her cocktail ritual, measuring spirits with a jigger in one hand while adding what looks like actual lavender
oil with a medicine dropper in the other, she glances up at me. “So what brings you to Grimlock? You don’t look like our usual
tourist demographic.”
As she reaches up to pull a bottle from the highest shelf, her sleeve falls back to reveal an intricate tattoo that draws
my attention immediately. Witchmoths spiral up her forearm in stunning detail, their wings spread wide to display the distinctive
skull markings on their backs. The tattoo is done in deep blacks and grays, the moths appearing to migrate from her wrist
toward her elbow in a haunting procession. Each moth is slightly different—some with wings fully extended, others caught mid-flight,
their antennae delicate as spider silk.
“I’m staying with a friend,” I say carefully. “Blue.”
Her hands pause for just a moment before resuming their work. “Ahhh,” she says, a knowing smile spreading across her face.
“You’re Saylor Mitchell. I didn’t think I’d get to meet you until tonight at the party.”
“What party?”
“Blue’s throwing you a welcoming party,” she explains, sliding the gin across the bar. “It’s his way of trying to tell all
of Grimlock that you can be trusted.”
“And you all just take his word for it?”
“There’s not a soul in this town that wouldn’t die on the sword for Blue, so if he likes you . . .” she smiles warmly . . .
“Welcome to Grimlock.”