Page 49 of Bloody Bargain
To my surprise, there was a man behind the bar even though there were no customers. He had shoulders like a boar, with a thick neck and whiskers to match. My eyes immediately landed on his hands as he sliced sausages and carrots. His knife’s blade was sharp with a dark spine and a silver edge. Staring at it put an itch in my teeth like chewing on tinfoil. I hadn’t felt it before, but I wondered…
“Isn’t it too early? I expected you to be closed,” I said, watching him chop. He smiled with a cold, dreary sniff.
“Not in a fishing village. Half the locals are up and off already. Tap doesn’t open ‘til noon is all.”
I slid onto one of the bar stools and set my duffle on the floor. The man–Dafydd, according to the stitching on his apron–glanced at my hair, then passed me a clean dish rag.
“Before you catch a cold.”
“Thank you…” I took the rag slowly, running my fingers through my curls. They were completely dry. I squeezed them with the towel anyway, feeling silly but… Hadn’t D’abel said that humans would see what they wanted to see? “I’ll have some tea then, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Right-o.”
I looked around the pub, taking in the steins hung from hooks along the ceiling beams, the whitewash and brick walls, the rows upon rows of polished beer taps. The tables and chairs were a mishmash of time periods and craft, crammed along the walls and windows to keep the aisle clear for people to walk.
“It says you’re an inn on the wall outside,” I started, craning my neck to see where Dafydd had gone. “Do you have rooms upstairs?”
He returned with a tiny cup in his big hands. “Nope. All the tourists walk in from Morfa Nefyn or rent out the homes around. If you’re needing a place, that’ll be your best bet.”
I gave him a quick nod as he set the hot water and a pot of milk in front of me with three bags to choose from in a little basket. He gave me a toothy smile. “We’ve got some prawns cookin’ in the back for the lunch crowd, if you fancy some.”
Gratitude washed over me as I pulled the hot cup closer. I smiled back, confusing myself. Dafydd was kind, welcoming me in even though the pub was closed. Signs I would have used to mark my prey until two days ago. I looked at the knife on his cutting board, a stitch in my brow.
“No, that’s alright. I have plans for later.”
“Suit yourself.”
As he busied himself with chopping again, I held the hot water close, staring at the slice of lemon on the saucer. When would I be able to tell? What would it feel like? I squinted down at the harmless little citrus wedge.
With a huff of frustration, I drank the hot water straight, tapping my fingers on the bartop. I was different. I knew that. But it wasn’t like the onslaught of a cold with recognizable and common symptoms. D’abel’s blood exchange was invoking a subtler shift in my nature. Things I only noticed when they were forced to manifest. Like pressing on my abdomen when I was ovulating and one side would be slightly swollen. How I pulled my hair off my neck because my temperature was higher and could make myself come on my fingers twice on those days rather than once.
I gulped down the end of the hot water, brushing my fingertip against the lemon. Just a small taste…
“Warm you up?” Dafydd asked.
I wiped my fingertip off on a napkin. “Yes, the tea was perfect. And thanks. I know you didn’t have to do this.”
I pushed the unopened bags of tea and the empty teacup towards him, watching his reaction. He took them without pause, bussing them back to the kitchen.
My heart pounded as I stood up, looking at his knife with new hunger. I reached over the edge of the bar slowly, turning it with the pitter patter of my fingertips until the hilt was in reach. Eyes locked on the kitchen door, I eased back onto my bar stool and held it tight with the blade resting on my lap.
Dafydd returned, humming. He wiped his hands on his apron and paused, staring down at the cutting board. “Hmm, ah.Hen dro,”he cursed his bad luck under his breath, bending down to swipe a spoon off the floor. He tossed it into a black tub beneath the counter…
And withdrew a cleaver. He continued on with his chopping as if nothing was amiss.
I slid off my barstool again, heart racing, breath shallow. I stared at his shoulders with wide, disbelieving eyes.
“I’ll be off then.”
“Sure thing, love. You should come back for some prawns, though. They’re stunnin’.”
He smiled as I swung my bag onto my shoulder, holding his kitchen knife in plain sight. I nodded, stuck between awe and fear, expecting him to snap out of it as I shuffled backwards towards the door.
“I will.”
He never snapped out of it.
I pushed the door open with a tremor in my chest, but my grip was sure. I strode right past the brick walls separating the porch from the beach and headed for the calm surf.
