Page 51

For several days, I rode up and down the streets of Dover, seeking the man who had followed me. After I raided a pharmacy and acquired bacitracin, my search led me back to the pier. Dozens of bodies spackled the parking lot, polluting the air with decay. But no trace of Jesse. Not even his arrows. Was he eluding me? I couldn’t ignore my hunger pangs much longer. Or the green pus that crusted my injury. I had to find food, shelter.

That night, I stood in a desolate street in some small township halfway to London. The derelict building I monitored since sundown showed the first sign of human life since the harbor. Crumbling bricks supported two stories of boarded-up windows. Thorny vines braided the structure on all sides. No one came or went for three hours, but candlelight shadows danced through the fluted glass panels in the door.

The stark wind was determined to rob another letter from the pub’s only advertisement.

FISH N CH PS SE VED 24/7

The gust dried out my eyes quicker than my tear ducts could crank out moisture to offset it. Sure didn’t feel like November. I wiped my nose on my sleeve and blinked again. My stomach rumbled. If I lost my nerve, it would be another hungry night.

I cleared my throat and practiced my masculine one-word responses. A few squeaks confirmed that nonverbal communication was my only option. The street remained barren in both directions. No more delaying. I swallowed hard and took a step toward the pub.

Stay Alive.

I readjusted the hood of my cloak, hiding my face in its shadow. Two more steps. I pushed my hands through opposing sleeves and rubbed my sheaths. The weight of the carbine, pistol and pack offered little to ease my nerves. Then I squared my shoulders and engaged my practiced man-walk to the pub.

With a shaky exhale, I jerked open the heavy door. The tables sat empty. Most were shoved to the side and piled with overturned chairs. A kitchen service window revealed a barred backdoor.

A shaggy thick-bodied bartender leaned against the cash register. The pub’s only patron sat at the far end of the bar in an ankle length trench coat.

The bartender shot me a rankled glare from under wiry eyebrows.

I followed the unwelcome draft through the door. The patron kept his back to me and his head down. Given my all-night surveillance and the empty Bushmills bottle that accompanied him, I knew he’d been there awhile.

The bartender’s eyes creased to slits. I focused on my gait and kept a slow pace to the counter. When my boot bumped the leg of the bar stool, I tucked my chin to remain in the shadow of my cowl.

“Wha’ ye have?” His skeptical voice exhausted.

I pointed to the chalkboard behind him. He studied my finger. Was he looking for green translucent skin? Formations of pincers? Would he notice the delicate nature of my female hands?

“So it’s the stew then. And to wash it down?”

I nodded to the tapped keg.

He grumbled something. “Den’ ye talk?”

I touched my throat and shook my head. Then, to avoid further inquiry, I headed to a table in the far corner. The raw gall on my chest flared. I winced and was glad for the concealment of my cloak. I slid out of my pack and carbine sling and settled into the chair with the best vantage of the front door and the backdoor. And of the patron yet to acknowledge my presence.

Thirty minutes later, I threw back my second pint. The bitter hops bounced on my tongue and refreshed my parched throat. Heaven. The bartender brought the stew with my third. He didn’t linger. Posing as mute worked better than I hoped.

Unidentifiable chunks floated in the broth. I slurped it down eagerly. Too eager. My tongue swiped the dribble on my lip, my hand catching the stream on my chin. I sucked my fingers clean like a starving thing and sopped up the remaining juice in the bowl with a stale heel of bread. Then I pushed the bowl aside and considered another.

The patron at the bar raised his head. His honey-hued hair curled at his shoulders, twisting into dread locks and hooking behind his ears. His broad back and shoulders tested the seams of his coat. The nearby candlelight illuminated his full lips and wide jaw line.

He sensed my stare and eyed me sidelong while tracing the rim of his whiskey glass. When his eyes settled on mine, I looked away. Shit.

His bar stool slid back followed by the click of his boots across the floor. The pistol grew heavy on my thigh. Shit. Shit. Shit.

The boots stopped at my table. Malt whiskey wafted over me. I kept my eyes locked on my empty pint while I unsheathed a blade under my cloak.