Page 5 of Their Blood Rite

I attempt to smooth my hair and pull my green cloak tighter around my shoulders, very aware that my dress is ill-fitting, low cut, and my cleavage is sopping wet.

With my head high, I walk through the men and go to the bar.

I stand for many minutes, waiting to be acknowledged by one of the bartenders. I even clear my throat. Nothing. I wave myhand, and they walk straight past me to one of the men propping up the bar, demanding more ale or a shot of liquor.

On my tiptoes, I search for Liza, the barmaid who tolerates me better. But I can’t see her.

With a groan, knowing I won’t be seen for some time more to prove a point than anything else, I rest my back against the bar and wait for Liza to appear.

I take a look around.

It’s all men. All swaying under the weight of too much booze. The stench of sweat, stale beer and desperation is disgusting. The clink of silver as bets are made and lost. The lazy chewing from open mouths.

I look again at that pig. Fuck, I’m hungry.

I cringe at the high-pitched wail that travels across the room.

What is that?

I rise on tiptoes once more to see better and spot a group huddled by the furthest fire. Another squeal, and they all laugh and cheer, whacking each other on the back for some unseen victory.

Another whine, and I know something living is suffering.

Curiosity calls me. My greatest weakness. I walk over, weaving between the men, until I see a table in the middle of the group. On that table is a fire pixie.

Where the hell did anyone find a fire pixie?

They’re vicious and sly little things, no bigger than a rat, and known for being spies for The Unseelie Court and the Blood Coven during the war.

I thought they were extinct. They’re stupid things. Completely unaware of what’s good or evil. Right or wrong. All they want is something shiny they can melt in a fire.

How these men have found one, I have no idea.

But what they’re doing to it is fucking diabolical.

A nail has been driven through its hands and feet, which are spread out as far as they will go. The pixie writhes and struggles as everyone around it watches. Silver blood stains the table, and I see that one of its arms has been severed. Its wings have been burnt off with a cigar, which still smoulders beside them. One of its eyes has been cut out and left on its stomach. And disgustingly, an iron nail has been forced upwards between its legs.

Blood pools around its groin, and it sobs and whimpers.

‘What kind of sick, twisted shit…’ I whisper.

A man faces the fire, holding another iron nail in the flames. His broad shoulders are hunched over. His dark hair hangs loose and messy at his shoulders.

The pixie watches him heat the small weapon.

Small to us. The size of a dagger to the creature.

‘Put it up its arse,’ one of the fuckers surrounding it cheers, slamming a mug of ale down on the table and laughing like a drunken fool.

Beside him, a man sits back leisurely in a leather winged-back chair, taking a long puff of a cigar. He’s not watching the pixie. Nor does he seem remotely interested in what’s going on.

No. He’s watching me, his brow slightly furrowed as he slowly pulls in a mouthful of smoke.

His eyes are the deepest brown I think I have ever seen. I look harder, thinking they are almost black. His hair reaches down beyond the back of his chair in countless braids. He’s cleaning his fingernails with a dagger. As his wrists move, they jangle from the many bracelets, beads and charms secured around them.

‘Cut off another arm!’ implores another, jarring my focus back to what’s happening.

This man laughs wildly, nudging those around him to encourage more cheering. More laughter.

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