Page 8 of Of Stars and Lightning
“It’s not personal, Sol.” He tugged at a stray thread from the sleeve of his beige blouse. “The trade on the Northern borders isslow. People in town are paranoid about Holden, so our business is slow. I have to find cuts somewhere.”
“Find them somewhere else.”
A smile bloomed on his lips. “Ah, Sol. I do love when you banter with me.”
“I’ll quit,” she said, crossing her arms. For a second, she meant it. She would quit and take the savings she already had to board a ship. Well, a boat, with how expensive ship travel was. Would she have enough for her and Lora?
Would a boat survive the Helian Ocean? A boat wouldn’t get her to the Scholar Towers.
“I sure hope you don’t, Sol. You’re a favorite, you know, and way more competent than the others.”
“You can’t cut my salary, Keelin.” Sol braced a hand on the door, suddenly wishing Leo was with her.
“I have to.”
“I’ll stay longer, then. Work more shifts.”
“Take it up with the rest of them.” He began walking away, catching up to a woman by the street Sol hadn’t noticed before.
“I’m the barmaid and waitress. You can’t seriously think it’s fair to underpay me,” she called after him.
Throwing an arm around the woman and leading her into the cluster of taverns down the road, he said, “Nothing is fair, Sol. Truly, I’m sorry.”
Sol watched him fade into the night for a moment, trying to decide how to react. But after the day she’d had, she decided she would deal with it later.
She kicked the wooden doors open, wondering if maybe picking a god to worship and devoting herself to them would perhaps improve her luck.
To sedate the thirst for vengeance, Sol decided to leave small inconveniences for Keelin scattered around the tavern while she worked.
She set her satchel down on a nearby chair, concluding that her first mischief would be switching the cucumbers with the squash, so when the cooks went to make vegetablestew, they would find soggy cucumbers in their pots instead. She tossed her hair into a knot, then examined the space, searching for the boxes that usually waited for her in the lobby.
Thinking perhaps Keelin had taken them to the back for her, she began her waltz to the kitchen. The gentle crackling of the fireplace sizzled after her, the soft scent of burning bark wrapping around her in a warm hug, providing a much-needed change from the humid, rainy— Sol stopped.
She turned back toward the fireplace, bracing her hands on her hips as a dreadful feeling spread through her.
The fireplace was lit. Everyone knew never to leave it on, the routine to extinguish it was second nature after a close call years ago.
“You should really tell whoever owns this place to lock the doors, you know.”
Sol screamed, slamming against a table behind her. She struggled to keep it—and herself—standing as she clutched the wood, her heart hammering in her chest.
There were four people seated around the large table in the center of the room. Two men and two women, obviously foreigners based on their demeanor alone. They sat gingerly along the rectangular table, their expressions equally nonchalant. They seemed like part of the background, somehow, as if they materialized from the shadows themselves.
“Anyone could just come in here and steal things,” one of the women said, the voice the same as the one who had spoken before. She had long, raven-black hair that fell in a braid over her chest, the color mirroring her eyes. She, just like the others, had on a black bodysuit, and a pair of twin swords peeked from behind her shoulders.
Sol glanced at the others, and her stomach fluttered with nerves as she realized the quartet all fashioned different weapons.
Maybe Holden had been killed by a person. A strange, heavily armed person.
“We are not going to hurt you,” the other woman said, her glowing green eyes gleaming while her auburn hair shone against the firelight. Her skin was delicately pale, a stark contrast to her surroundings, as she extended her hands in front of her in what seemed like a gesture of peace. “We just want to talk.”
Sol took a careful step back, the bottom of her worn skirt nearly making her stumble.
Talk.
That’s what all killers said before they did way more than talk.
What could they possibly want from the Inn? Money? They’d picked a poor place for that. Holden had money, though. And he still wound up dead.
