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Authors: Michelle Modesto
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coin from James’s winnings.
“Of all the bets you make this evening, your best would be to walk away,” she said.
The leprechaun massaged the raw skin of his wrist and put his scowl on exhibit as he watched her roll the coin over the knuckles of her mechanical fingers. To drive home her point, she pinched thesilver coin between her thumb and finger and folded the piece into fourths as though it were a pocket square. The leprechaun’s flush started at his neck and rose to fill his face.
Westie glanced between the old and young leprechauns, then placed the folded coin on the table. “I reckon you fellows ought to be on your way,” she said.
They were gone before she’d finished speaking.
Now, about that drink, she thought. She stumbled toward the bar and found an empty stool.
James followed behind her. “I don’t think the creatures around here like me much.”
She lifted a brow. “You don’t say.”
Westie let loose the belch that’d been stalking up her throat and reached down the front of her sweaty shirt to scratch an itch between her breasts.
“Thank you for saving me. Again,” James said.
“Maybe you ought to be the one wearing skirts.”
James grinned. If her jab bothered him at all, he didn’t show it.
“Another red-eye,” she called out.
Heck, the barkeep, walked over to her with his strange, bouncing gait. He was an abarimon, a rare creature to see in Rogue City, as they were typically found high in the mountains. They were difficult to distinguish from humans except for their faun-like legs and their jaguar speed. He poured thick black liquid into a cup and placed it in front of her.
She glared into the cup. “What’s this?”
He hooked his thumbs around his suspenders. “Coffee.”
“I didn’t order coffee. I want whiskey.”
There was a pulse behind her eyes. She pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers. Coffee wasn’t strong enough to stop her headache, and it sure as hell wouldn’t wash away her memories.
Heck planted his feet. Sweat dotted his bald pate. He looked afraid, like most did when Westie was in a mood. If she wanted her way, she could get it with one squeeze of her machine, and she had a reputation around Rogue City for being all horns and stingers.
“Look, Westie,” he said with the demeanor of someone skilled in the art of drunken negotiation, “Nigel does my daughter a great service with his medical inventions. He won’t be pleased to find I served you in the state you’re in.”
The reason for Heck’s descent from Shasta Mountain was to seek Nigel’s help for his ailing daughter when she could no longer breathe the thin air.
“Nigel and his damn inventions,” Westie mumbled, knocking her copper fist on the bar three times, cracking the oak, and spilling her coffee. “I don’t care. I want another drink.”
“Sorry,” he said before he walked away.
She let out a growl that sent the patrons next to her scuttling to the other side of the bar. When she stood from the bar stool, her eyes began to float and the wood planks of the saloon floor rose up in front of her. James reached out, catching her before she fell. His arms were strong for a skinny aristocrat.
“Let me help you home,” he said. Their faces were close enoughfor her to smell alcohol on his breath and notice that his eyes were a pale shade of green.
“I don’t need help.” She pushed his hands off her and stumbled away.
Eight
It was midnight by the time Westie left the saloon. Ten or so vampires walked the streets, dressed like they were ready for a funeral. Ornate copper gasoliers hung from poles lining the wood planks of the sidewalk, casting enough light to see without a moon. She wondered why they were even lit. The vamps didn’t need light, and no human in their right mind would be roaming around town at such a late hour. After nearly an entire bottle of whiskey to herself, Westie was definitely not in her right mind.
She snuck around the back of the
“Of all the bets you make this evening, your best would be to walk away,” she said.
The leprechaun massaged the raw skin of his wrist and put his scowl on exhibit as he watched her roll the coin over the knuckles of her mechanical fingers. To drive home her point, she pinched thesilver coin between her thumb and finger and folded the piece into fourths as though it were a pocket square. The leprechaun’s flush started at his neck and rose to fill his face.
Westie glanced between the old and young leprechauns, then placed the folded coin on the table. “I reckon you fellows ought to be on your way,” she said.
They were gone before she’d finished speaking.
Now, about that drink, she thought. She stumbled toward the bar and found an empty stool.
James followed behind her. “I don’t think the creatures around here like me much.”
She lifted a brow. “You don’t say.”
Westie let loose the belch that’d been stalking up her throat and reached down the front of her sweaty shirt to scratch an itch between her breasts.
“Thank you for saving me. Again,” James said.
“Maybe you ought to be the one wearing skirts.”
James grinned. If her jab bothered him at all, he didn’t show it.
“Another red-eye,” she called out.
Heck, the barkeep, walked over to her with his strange, bouncing gait. He was an abarimon, a rare creature to see in Rogue City, as they were typically found high in the mountains. They were difficult to distinguish from humans except for their faun-like legs and their jaguar speed. He poured thick black liquid into a cup and placed it in front of her.
She glared into the cup. “What’s this?”
He hooked his thumbs around his suspenders. “Coffee.”
“I didn’t order coffee. I want whiskey.”
There was a pulse behind her eyes. She pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers. Coffee wasn’t strong enough to stop her headache, and it sure as hell wouldn’t wash away her memories.
Heck planted his feet. Sweat dotted his bald pate. He looked afraid, like most did when Westie was in a mood. If she wanted her way, she could get it with one squeeze of her machine, and she had a reputation around Rogue City for being all horns and stingers.
“Look, Westie,” he said with the demeanor of someone skilled in the art of drunken negotiation, “Nigel does my daughter a great service with his medical inventions. He won’t be pleased to find I served you in the state you’re in.”
The reason for Heck’s descent from Shasta Mountain was to seek Nigel’s help for his ailing daughter when she could no longer breathe the thin air.
“Nigel and his damn inventions,” Westie mumbled, knocking her copper fist on the bar three times, cracking the oak, and spilling her coffee. “I don’t care. I want another drink.”
“Sorry,” he said before he walked away.
She let out a growl that sent the patrons next to her scuttling to the other side of the bar. When she stood from the bar stool, her eyes began to float and the wood planks of the saloon floor rose up in front of her. James reached out, catching her before she fell. His arms were strong for a skinny aristocrat.
“Let me help you home,” he said. Their faces were close enoughfor her to smell alcohol on his breath and notice that his eyes were a pale shade of green.
“I don’t need help.” She pushed his hands off her and stumbled away.
Eight
It was midnight by the time Westie left the saloon. Ten or so vampires walked the streets, dressed like they were ready for a funeral. Ornate copper gasoliers hung from poles lining the wood planks of the sidewalk, casting enough light to see without a moon. She wondered why they were even lit. The vamps didn’t need light, and no human in their right mind would be roaming around town at such a late hour. After nearly an entire bottle of whiskey to herself, Westie was definitely not in her right mind.
She snuck around the back of the
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