Chapter 8 The Tavern
The Tavern
Iam starting to wonder if Brynn’s reputation around here is a good or a bad one.
As we walk, every Sanctuarian throws a glance his way.
It’s hard to discern the temperature of those looks—some almost seem adoring, while others look downright disgusted.
I, on the other hand, despite being mortal and not belonging here whatsoever, go unnoticed in his presence.
It’s what I’ve always wanted. To be truly invisible.
His expression remains unreadable, but he offers small waves and nods here and there to those who gawk at him.
Brynn was not wrong. Though I’ve never stepped foot in one myself, I’ve read plenty of books depicting debaucherous taverns.
This tavern is rowdy, yes, but not as rowdy as I invented in my anxious imagination on the ten-minute walk here.
It sits near the edge of the city, which I’ve discovered is appropriately named Mayhem.
Inside the dimly lit bar, I strain to take everything in—first making note of all potential exits in case I need to flee in a hurry.
Once my eyes adjust, I spot a group of boisterous, shrieking faeries playing a game of dice over loot piles of what appear to be useless, broken items. Several thin, hooded figures sit with their skeletal faces close together, conversing under the cover of the din.
Patrons of all varieties drink both alone and in company.
Of all varieties that is, except mortals—a stark contrast to the bazaar.
Mavick always wore a silky shift, but a lot of the fae are not wearing clothing at all.
I am most distracted by a woman walking around playing a fiddle, singing a jaunty, raunchy tune.
She wears only a top—no, it’s best described as a scrap.
She is beautiful, with her exposed, fit torso, her voluptuous chest, and her seductive expression as she croons.
My cheeks heat when she notices my gaze.
But my curious eyes slip down her body unbidden, settling on her furry brown waist first, then her hooves.
Her naked bottom half is that of a goat.
A light touch grazes the small of my back and before the panic can rise, I realize it’s Brynn coaxing me toward the bar.
Quite stupefied, mouth agape, I take in his face.
He wears a smug grin that screams I warned you.
His lips move, asking a question I cannot hear over the music.
I assume it’s along the lines of what will you have to drink?
“Pluckroot,” I shout with little thought. The smallest hint of surprise sweeps his features, but he shrugs as he turns to the barkeep. I do a double take.
The bartender is a faerie strikingly similar to Mavick.
Dark, wispy hair. Four glossy black eyes, stacked in pairs.
They are much bigger though, their wings more bat-like than classic, delicate faerie, and their skin a purple hue.
I resist the urge to barrage them with questions, reminding myself it’s likely assumed offensive—and downright unlikely—that because two fae look alike, they may be friends.
But the hair on my arms rises when their gaze shifts past Brynn to observe me with those all-seeing eyes, just as Mavick had for many years.
Brynn takes both of our drinks in one large hand with a curt nod of thanks to the faerie, but his other finds its way to the small of my back again almost possessively. I refuse to think too hard about the way this makes my pulse quicken and my skin heat.
He guides me up a flight of rickety stairs to a far less crowded loft.
A handful of patrons chat loudly, and the half-goat lady’s tune still finds us, but it’s noticeably subdued on this level.
His hand drops from my back to gesture at a corner table.
I nod and he leads the way. He sets the mugs on the table and sits while I remove my cloak, draping it over the next chair.
I shake my hair over my shoulder before realizing he watches me intently.
“What?” I ask, cheeks flushing—I ought to have bothered to tie up my untamed hair or at least kept Alma’s blush on. My black dress is flattering, but not as fine as the periwinkle number. I remove my satchel and sit. A clink reminds me that an unfamiliar dagger rests on my side.
“Nothing,” he remarks, warm eyes landing on the dagger. “I simply find you fascinating.”
Again, this somehow sounds less like praise and more like a jab.
For something to do, anything, I grab the mug of pluckroot set before me and take a substantial swig. It’s hot, like Mavick’s, but I note an unfamiliar bite. My face scrunches in disgust as I swallow painfully. Surely this hero who bothered to save me from a raging minotaur did not poison my drink.
“Yes, I was a little confused by your drink of choice,” Brynn laughs darkly, studying my expression. Fear bubbles up in my stomach. “They don’t serve pluckroot plain here—it’s got spirits in it. But pluckroot is a natural truth serum, particularly for mortals. When paired with alcohol, it can be—”
I nearly drop my mug, and Brynn’s eyes widen in alarm.
“Potent,” he finishes, blinking hard. He tips his cup to reveal his is also filled with the smoky green liquid. He lifts it to his lips, eyeing me carefully before knocking it back.
Every single time Mavick served me pluckroot tea replays in my mind in one dizzying stream.
From our first meeting, to our very last, they never told me.
Why would they use a truth serum on me? What would I ever lie about?
It was the perfect example of fae deception.
I asked what the tea was called—never once did I ask what it did.
Brynn places his empty mug on the table. Particularly for mortals. Why would a fae even drink it if they already cannot tell lies? It’s a gross, acquired taste. Is this some strange stab at solidarity? Is he trying to prove that he can be trusted?
But for what reason would Mavick deceive me? To what end? There’s no way they didn’t know. Perhaps they genuinely loved the taste of it. It was all I ever saw Mavick drink.
Fuck. My head already spins. I bite the inside of my cheek, afraid that when I open my mouth, all my secrets will pour out.
“You had no idea,” Brynn says thickly, “I’ll get you something else to dri—”
I shake my head, cutting him off. The hot tea sinks into my stomach like a stone. I stare at Brynn, attempting to mask my mounting dread. His loose tunic hangs open, and I’m momentarily distracted by a faint white scar on his chest. His probing eyes search me too, but he says nothing.
Are you wise enough to request aid? Am I wise enough to request aid without giving too much away? Without blubbering like an idiot?
Searching for something to do now that he has no drink in his hands, Brynn leans forward, resting his crossed arms on the small table between us. He sits perfectly still, with the exception of his slender fingers tapping against his elbows.
“You asked what brought me here…” I start. His burning stare again heats my cheeks, but I refuse to shrink beneath his gaze. I continue at a glacial pace, ensuring I choose my words carefully.
“I’m searching for my friend—they’re missing.” Truth.
“I was shopping in Aston.” Truth enough.
“When I returned to… they were gone.” Truth—but I managed to avoid saying to the castle, thank goodness.
“I need assistance to find them here.” As I’m out of my fucking element. Truth.
“I’ve no clue if I can trust you.” Involuntary truth. I bite my lip.
“You can trust me,” Brynn says rather quickly. He chuckles at whatever face I pull.
“I’m skeptical,” I admit. I wonder how lying works with statements like that. I can trust him. It doesn’t mean I should.
“Let’s get to know each other,” he says with a noncommittal shrug.
My eyebrows rise in response.
“But I have questions.”
“As do I,” I reply.
“I do want to help you,” he says, smirking. He sounds earnest, and it seems like a simple enough truth. I find nothing hidden between the words.
I’m not sure why, but I take several big swigs of pluckroot.
Perhaps it’s for the comforting familiarity of it.
Or perhaps it’s for the liquid courage its spirits promise—if I keep my wits about me.
But I grow more aware of my empty stomach, my fatigued body, as the seconds tick by.
If I were back home, I’d be asleep by now. My thoughts are quite… swirly.
“Brynn,” I say, choosing to ignore the way he tenses when I say his name. “Question for a question. I’ll go first. Why should I trust you? Why would you want to help a mortal?”
“That’s two questions,” he says with a slight twitch of his lips, leaning back in his chair and tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear—which is a bit pointed, I see. “But, easy, I’ll give it to you. You should trust me because I will not lie to you.”
I note the use of I will versus I cannot, like he has a choice in the matter.
“And… I think we could help each other. Meaning—I wish to strike a deal with you.”
Shit. Of course he wants something in return.
On cue, the riddle floats uninvited through my cloudy mind.
Are you wise enough to request aid? Are you kind enough to offer a trade?
Obviously, the lines were a pair, not just a fun rhyme—I gathered that much.
But I was so focused on what was wise that I forgot a trade might be involved.
What did I have that he could want? He knows nothing about me. I swallow the lump in my throat.
“That’s not a question,” I say, buying time to consider. “What is your question?”
Brynn grins at this, but pauses, debating what he should ask first. “Is your missing friend Sanctuarian—a fae?”
“Yes,” I answer quickly, taking full advantage of the closed question and offering no other information. “What did you say to the beast to make him back down?”
Brynn laughs humorlessly. “Minotaur,” he corrects. “And please don’t take offense—but I told him it was beneath him to pick a fight with a naive mortal who so obviously lost their way.”