Haunted
Page 47
As we stepped inside, all conversation near the door stopped. The silence rolled across the room until every mouth had closed, every eye turned to check out the new arrivals. They went first to the male half of the party, and the testosterone wafted up thicker than the cigar smoke. In a dive like this, when a new man walks through the door no one wonders what kind of conversationalist he'd make or sizes him up as a potential poker dupe. No one even wonders whether they could con him into buying a few rounds of grog. Instead, the thought going through every man's mind is "Hmm, wonder if I could take him in a fight."
And, as most turned away without so much as a second once-over, the overwhelming decision was
"yes." This wasn't a contender—good size, good structure, but too old, too soft, and, my God, look at those hands—is that a manicure? Only the smallest and oldest of the men let their gazes linger, but even those soon recognized a Wall Street wimp, no matter what costume he chose to cloak himself in.
Attention went next to the living, breathing piece of potential pirate booty. A few looked away after the briefest glance. They liked their women smaller, cuddlier, blonder. But most kept looking, a few perking up enough to slide off their stools.
"That yer wench?" barked a big man, spattering rum in his thick black beard as he spoke.
"Uh, er—" Kristof glanced at me, checking to see how much trouble this would get him into later, then responded with a gruff "Aye" and steered me toward the dark end of the bar.
"Bit tall, ain't she?" the man called after us.
"Not for me."
A tall, rangy blond with a red bandanna slid off his stool and dropped into Kristof's path. "Not for me, either."
Kris led me around him. As we passed, the man glided behind me and grabbed my ass. Didn't pinch and duck out of the way. Just grabbed with both hands and held on, chortling. I slowly looked over my shoulder, meeting the man's grin with a baleful stare.
"Uh-uh," Kris whispered by my ear. "Can't break character. Allow me. Please."
Kristof turned his best stare on the idiot. "Please remove your hands."
The guy just gave a big "make me" snigger.
"And apologize," Kris said.
A roar of guffaws rose from the audience.
"Hey, Pierre," a pock-faced man called. "Are ye shivering in yer boots yet? I know I am."
Another round of whoops and catcalls. Kristof waited for the laughter to wane, as calm and steady as a seasoned substitute teacher faced with an unruly class.
"One last time," he said. "Please remove your hands and then apologize to the lady."
"Oooh," someone called. "Better listen, Pierre. He might—"
Kristof grabbed Pierre by the collar and hurled him along the bar, sending rum bottles flying like bowling pins. For the next five seconds, numbed silence fell over the tavern as the men picked their jaws up off the ground. The pock-faced pirate recovered first, snatching the stool nearest him and charging. Kristof caught the stool and swung it. The man on the other end was a bit slow on the uptake, not letting go of the stool even when his feet left the ground. For a big guy, he sailed over the bar with remarkable grace, though his crash landing sounded pretty awkward.
By then, Pierre had rolled off the bar and was coming at Kris. Kris swung the stool into the side of Pierre's head. The pockmarked pirate stumbled from behind the bar and turned on Kristof, but a wiry old man jumped the pirate from behind, obviously deciding this seemed like a good opportunity for some personal payback.
Before you could say "bar brawl" the place erupted. I hopped onto the bar for a better view, using knock-back spells to stave off any stray bodies that flew my way.
As much as I prefer playing over spectating, there's something to be said for sitting back and enjoying a good brawl. Especially if Kris was doing the brawling. Diving, ducking, fists flying, bottles smashing, wood splintering, he plowed through the room, grinning like a kid in his first schoolyard dustup, grinning through every blow—delivered or received.
The fight petered out as most brawls do, the instigators sneaking away or being dragged off by friends, everyone else crashing from that first adrenaline explosion, unable to remember what dragged them into it in the first place. Kristof emerged from the fray. He sauntered toward me, hair rumpled, shirt torn, a wide
"damn, that was fun" grin on his face. When I smiled back, he picked up his pace, then swooped me off the bar and onto a stool. As he pulled another intact stool from the debris, a tankard was slapped onto the bar and we both jumped.
There stood a plump, dark-haired woman a few years older than me, squeezed into a barmaid costume several sizes too small, her breasts barely contained by her tight bodice. She smiled and held out a second tankard and a dusty bottle of rum.
"House tradition," she said. "Victor gets the last bottle left unbroken."
Kris murmured his thanks as she opened it.
"Not bad fighting," she said. "For a sorcerer."
Since Kris hadn't cast any spells, there was only one way she could know he was a sorcerer.
"Blessed be, sister," I said.
Her grin broadened, revealing a missing canine. "Haven't heard that in a while. They still use that up there?"
I shook my head. "Only the humans."
"Well, blessed be, sister." She patted my hand. "Been a long time since I saw a witch, too." She glanced at Kristof. "So that's all over, then? The feud?"
"Between witches and sorcerers? Nah. They're just as arrogant and nasty as they ever were." I smiled at Kristof. "But sometimes you can make an exception."
She poured our drinks.
I looked around the tavern. "Have you… been here long?"
She let out a long whoop of a laugh. "You mean, what the hell am I doing in a shit-hole like this?"
"I wasn't going to say it."
She leaned over the bar, lowering her voice. "You wanna know why I'm here, hon? Take a look around.
See the male-to-female ratio? This place is Alaska without the snow." She capped the bottle. "So are you folks visiting? Or passing through?"
"Passing through. We were hoping to visit someone over on Roatan, but…" I glanced around. Most patrons had either scurried off into the night or were still finding a place to sit, free of broken glass and splintered chairs. No one was paying any attention to us. "Seems we've run into a problem renting a ship.
And, as most turned away without so much as a second once-over, the overwhelming decision was
"yes." This wasn't a contender—good size, good structure, but too old, too soft, and, my God, look at those hands—is that a manicure? Only the smallest and oldest of the men let their gazes linger, but even those soon recognized a Wall Street wimp, no matter what costume he chose to cloak himself in.
Attention went next to the living, breathing piece of potential pirate booty. A few looked away after the briefest glance. They liked their women smaller, cuddlier, blonder. But most kept looking, a few perking up enough to slide off their stools.
"That yer wench?" barked a big man, spattering rum in his thick black beard as he spoke.
"Uh, er—" Kristof glanced at me, checking to see how much trouble this would get him into later, then responded with a gruff "Aye" and steered me toward the dark end of the bar.
"Bit tall, ain't she?" the man called after us.
"Not for me."
A tall, rangy blond with a red bandanna slid off his stool and dropped into Kristof's path. "Not for me, either."
Kris led me around him. As we passed, the man glided behind me and grabbed my ass. Didn't pinch and duck out of the way. Just grabbed with both hands and held on, chortling. I slowly looked over my shoulder, meeting the man's grin with a baleful stare.
"Uh-uh," Kris whispered by my ear. "Can't break character. Allow me. Please."
Kristof turned his best stare on the idiot. "Please remove your hands."
The guy just gave a big "make me" snigger.
"And apologize," Kris said.
A roar of guffaws rose from the audience.
"Hey, Pierre," a pock-faced man called. "Are ye shivering in yer boots yet? I know I am."
Another round of whoops and catcalls. Kristof waited for the laughter to wane, as calm and steady as a seasoned substitute teacher faced with an unruly class.
"One last time," he said. "Please remove your hands and then apologize to the lady."
"Oooh," someone called. "Better listen, Pierre. He might—"
Kristof grabbed Pierre by the collar and hurled him along the bar, sending rum bottles flying like bowling pins. For the next five seconds, numbed silence fell over the tavern as the men picked their jaws up off the ground. The pock-faced pirate recovered first, snatching the stool nearest him and charging. Kristof caught the stool and swung it. The man on the other end was a bit slow on the uptake, not letting go of the stool even when his feet left the ground. For a big guy, he sailed over the bar with remarkable grace, though his crash landing sounded pretty awkward.
By then, Pierre had rolled off the bar and was coming at Kris. Kris swung the stool into the side of Pierre's head. The pockmarked pirate stumbled from behind the bar and turned on Kristof, but a wiry old man jumped the pirate from behind, obviously deciding this seemed like a good opportunity for some personal payback.
Before you could say "bar brawl" the place erupted. I hopped onto the bar for a better view, using knock-back spells to stave off any stray bodies that flew my way.
As much as I prefer playing over spectating, there's something to be said for sitting back and enjoying a good brawl. Especially if Kris was doing the brawling. Diving, ducking, fists flying, bottles smashing, wood splintering, he plowed through the room, grinning like a kid in his first schoolyard dustup, grinning through every blow—delivered or received.
The fight petered out as most brawls do, the instigators sneaking away or being dragged off by friends, everyone else crashing from that first adrenaline explosion, unable to remember what dragged them into it in the first place. Kristof emerged from the fray. He sauntered toward me, hair rumpled, shirt torn, a wide
"damn, that was fun" grin on his face. When I smiled back, he picked up his pace, then swooped me off the bar and onto a stool. As he pulled another intact stool from the debris, a tankard was slapped onto the bar and we both jumped.
There stood a plump, dark-haired woman a few years older than me, squeezed into a barmaid costume several sizes too small, her breasts barely contained by her tight bodice. She smiled and held out a second tankard and a dusty bottle of rum.
"House tradition," she said. "Victor gets the last bottle left unbroken."
Kris murmured his thanks as she opened it.
"Not bad fighting," she said. "For a sorcerer."
Since Kris hadn't cast any spells, there was only one way she could know he was a sorcerer.
"Blessed be, sister," I said.
Her grin broadened, revealing a missing canine. "Haven't heard that in a while. They still use that up there?"
I shook my head. "Only the humans."
"Well, blessed be, sister." She patted my hand. "Been a long time since I saw a witch, too." She glanced at Kristof. "So that's all over, then? The feud?"
"Between witches and sorcerers? Nah. They're just as arrogant and nasty as they ever were." I smiled at Kristof. "But sometimes you can make an exception."
She poured our drinks.
I looked around the tavern. "Have you… been here long?"
She let out a long whoop of a laugh. "You mean, what the hell am I doing in a shit-hole like this?"
"I wasn't going to say it."
She leaned over the bar, lowering her voice. "You wanna know why I'm here, hon? Take a look around.
See the male-to-female ratio? This place is Alaska without the snow." She capped the bottle. "So are you folks visiting? Or passing through?"
"Passing through. We were hoping to visit someone over on Roatan, but…" I glanced around. Most patrons had either scurried off into the night or were still finding a place to sit, free of broken glass and splintered chairs. No one was paying any attention to us. "Seems we've run into a problem renting a ship.
