Read Online GHOST GAL: The Wild Hunt by Bobby Nash - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bobby Nash
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“You don’t shake something as perfect as this, Bob,” he told the bartender. “Not the good stuff. This…” he admired the bottle. The glass was old, pitted. It had seen some history. “You treat something as special as this like a lady. Understand?”
The bartender nodded in mute terror.
“Stick around, Bob.”
“Uh huh.”
Max turned back toward the silent crowd. “Oh, I forgot you were here,” he said when he saw the idiot still crumpled on the floor holding his wounded arm. With a smile, he turned his attention away from the whimpering man and focused on his friends. There were only four of them.
“Everyone out,” Max said.
Although he didn’t raise his voice or shout, the patrons packed in to the various corners and booths picked up their belongs, dropped cash onto the tables as they vacated them, and moved toward the exit as quickly as possible. None of them wanted to draw attention to themselves.
“Not you,” Max said to the friends of the wounded mutt before they could move.
Nervous, they stood their ground. The Slaugh appreciated their courage, but could also smell their sweat and taste their fear from across the room.
The moment the last person went out the door, Max stood. As if on command, the door slammed shut as if pushed by some unseen wind. In the silence of the pub, the sound of the deadbolt clacking into place was deafening.
“What do you want, mister?” one of the mutt’s friends asked, trying hard not to stammer over himself.
“Yeah,” another said. “Look, we was just having some fun, mate. There’s no need to escalate things, if you know what I’m saying. We didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
“Escalating?” Max echoed as a smile creased his face. “Oh, we’ve not yet begun to escalate, my friend.”
“Please, mister,” the stammerer said, taking a step back.
“Look, let’s just call it even,” another said. “We’ll leave and you’ll never see us again. What do you say?”
“Sit.”
The four men did as they were told.
“Do you know who I am?”
“N—nu—no.”
“I didn’t think so.” Max sat down at the same table as the four ruffians, Keiran, Reilly (the stammerer), William, and Hugh, their last names were not important. Before this night was done, even their firstnames would hold little meaning. His smile was gone, replaced by an emotionless blank slate.
Although each of them dwarfed him in height, width, and muscle, everyone inside the pub understood exactly who held the power. There was no question as to who was in charge.
“I am… My name is Max. At least for now. I’m looking to hire four strapping young lads who still have Irish blood flowing through their veins. Tell me, boys, are you true sons of Ireland?”
There were nods from all around the table.
“Excellent. I admit that you four were not my first choice, but you are the best candidates I’ve run across since I arrived in this blasted city of steel and stone.”
“Uh…ch—ch—choice for what?” the stammerer asked.
“Tell me, gentlemen, have you ever heard of The Wild Hunt?”
“The Wild Hunt? That… that’s folklore, man.”
Max smiled. “Is it? Fascinating. I take it then that you are all familiar with the stories?”
Nods from all.
“Good. Then you also must know that the Wild Hunt was made up of Slaugh, the specters of dead Irish sinners.” Max chuckled. “Sinners like me.”
“What do you know of Ireland, man?” one of the ruffians asked, although he did not raise his voice. “You’re American.”
Max touched his new face, his distinctly American face. “Only on the outside, my friend.” When he saw only a mask of confusion on the faces of his new friends, Max elaborated. “The Wild Hunt was made up of displaced souls who found new life in the body of those sinners they displaced. Like I did with the man whose form I now wear.”
The Slaugh waited for understanding to set in.
He was not prepared for what happened next.
The men burst
The bartender nodded in mute terror.
“Stick around, Bob.”
“Uh huh.”
Max turned back toward the silent crowd. “Oh, I forgot you were here,” he said when he saw the idiot still crumpled on the floor holding his wounded arm. With a smile, he turned his attention away from the whimpering man and focused on his friends. There were only four of them.
“Everyone out,” Max said.
Although he didn’t raise his voice or shout, the patrons packed in to the various corners and booths picked up their belongs, dropped cash onto the tables as they vacated them, and moved toward the exit as quickly as possible. None of them wanted to draw attention to themselves.
“Not you,” Max said to the friends of the wounded mutt before they could move.
Nervous, they stood their ground. The Slaugh appreciated their courage, but could also smell their sweat and taste their fear from across the room.
The moment the last person went out the door, Max stood. As if on command, the door slammed shut as if pushed by some unseen wind. In the silence of the pub, the sound of the deadbolt clacking into place was deafening.
“What do you want, mister?” one of the mutt’s friends asked, trying hard not to stammer over himself.
“Yeah,” another said. “Look, we was just having some fun, mate. There’s no need to escalate things, if you know what I’m saying. We didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
“Escalating?” Max echoed as a smile creased his face. “Oh, we’ve not yet begun to escalate, my friend.”
“Please, mister,” the stammerer said, taking a step back.
“Look, let’s just call it even,” another said. “We’ll leave and you’ll never see us again. What do you say?”
“Sit.”
The four men did as they were told.
“Do you know who I am?”
“N—nu—no.”
“I didn’t think so.” Max sat down at the same table as the four ruffians, Keiran, Reilly (the stammerer), William, and Hugh, their last names were not important. Before this night was done, even their firstnames would hold little meaning. His smile was gone, replaced by an emotionless blank slate.
Although each of them dwarfed him in height, width, and muscle, everyone inside the pub understood exactly who held the power. There was no question as to who was in charge.
“I am… My name is Max. At least for now. I’m looking to hire four strapping young lads who still have Irish blood flowing through their veins. Tell me, boys, are you true sons of Ireland?”
There were nods from all around the table.
“Excellent. I admit that you four were not my first choice, but you are the best candidates I’ve run across since I arrived in this blasted city of steel and stone.”
“Uh…ch—ch—choice for what?” the stammerer asked.
“Tell me, gentlemen, have you ever heard of The Wild Hunt?”
“The Wild Hunt? That… that’s folklore, man.”
Max smiled. “Is it? Fascinating. I take it then that you are all familiar with the stories?”
Nods from all.
“Good. Then you also must know that the Wild Hunt was made up of Slaugh, the specters of dead Irish sinners.” Max chuckled. “Sinners like me.”
“What do you know of Ireland, man?” one of the ruffians asked, although he did not raise his voice. “You’re American.”
Max touched his new face, his distinctly American face. “Only on the outside, my friend.” When he saw only a mask of confusion on the faces of his new friends, Max elaborated. “The Wild Hunt was made up of displaced souls who found new life in the body of those sinners they displaced. Like I did with the man whose form I now wear.”
The Slaugh waited for understanding to set in.
He was not prepared for what happened next.
The men burst
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