Page 13 of Cruel Moon
A Mighty Fine Pirate
The Firefly Cottage Inn’s dining room is a whirlwind of activity. The air is thick with the aroma of coffee, bacon, and something sweet. Pancakes, maybe.
I pause at the threshold, taking in the scene. Families cluster around tables, bleary-eyed parents corralling excited children. Ren Faire enthusiasts in partial costume chatter animatedly, their fingers sticky with syrup as they gesture wildly. In one corner, a group of somber-faced adults speak in hushed tones—more fire victims, I suspect.
Weaving through the chaos, I make my way to the buffet. A harried-looking woman in a Firefly Inn polo shirt replenishes a tray of scrambled eggs, offering me a distracted smile as I approach.
“Quite a crowd,” I remark, selecting a plate.
She nods, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. “Busiest weekend of the year, what with the Faire. Though the fire’s made things even crazier.” Her eyes flick to the group in the corner. “Those poor folks…at least they’re safe, I suppose. A few injuries, but no fatalities.”
I murmur agreement, filing away her words for later consideration. As I load my plate with eggs and fruit, I keep my ears open, catching fragments of conversation from nearby tables.
“…heard the Gallaghers lost everything…”
Who are the Gallaghers? There’s definitely more than one displaced family in this inn.
“…can’t wait for the joust! Did you see they brought in real horses this year?”
“…insurance is giving us the runaround. I don’t know what we’re going to do…”
Finding an empty seat proves challenging, but I eventually settle at a small table near the window. From here, I have a clear view of the street outside, already bustling with activity. Colorful banners flutter in the morning breeze, and costumed figures mingle with tourists and locals alike.
As I sip my coffee—bitter and over-brewed, nothing like the carefully prepared blends back home—I consider my next move. The Faire provides excellent cover for information gathering, but it also complicates matters. How am I supposed to find one witch in this sea of people playing at magick and fantasy?
A burst of laughter draws my attention to a nearby table. A group of teenagers, already dressed in elaborate costumes, are poring over a schedule of events.
“The next pirate sword-fighting show is at eleven a.m.,” one of them says, her eyes shining with excitement. “We can’t miss that. I heard the guy that does the show is amazing.”
Her friend nods enthusiastically. “Oh yeah, Bast? I saw him warming up earlier this morning. He’s like movie-star handsome. And he does this whole Jack Sparrow thing that’s just…wow.”
My heart rate quickens as I strain to hear more, but the girls have already moved on to discussing other events. Outside thewindow, a group of children run by, wooden swords clacking as they play. Their laughter mingles with the distant strains of medieval music—someone tuning up for the day’s performances.
Focus, little dove.
The memory hits without warning—Elsa’s voice sharp as a blade as she circles me in the training yard. I’m sixteen, muscles trembling from holding the same fighting stance for over an hour while reciting information about my target.
“Again,” she commands. “Every detail matters.”
“Target frequents the café on Third Street between two and four p.m. daily,” I repeat mechanically, sweat running down my back. “Orders chai tea with honey. Tips exactly fifteen percent. Lives alone. No pets. No—”
Her hand cracks across my face, breaking my stance. “Wrong. She has a cat. Orange tabby. These details matter, Bridget. The smallest oversight can reveal you as an outsider.”
I reset my stance, tasting blood where my teeth cut into my cheek. “Yes, Trainer.”
“The Court requires perfection.” Elsa’s fingers grip my chin, forcing me to meet her gaze. “You have potential, little dove. But potential means nothing without absolute dedication. Now start over. Every detail.”
My muscles scream as I begin again, determined to prove myself worthy of the Court’s trust. Of Elsa’s training. It’s the only way to keep Brianna safe.
A child’s squeal of excitement outside pulls me back to the present. My hands tremble slightly as I grip my coffee cup. The carefree laughter of children playing at combat feels like a mockery of my own training. They have no idea what real fighting is like. What it costs.
I finish my meal quickly, eager to begin my reconnaissance. Meredith is unlikely to pop out of a booth and attack me. She won’t recognize me—I wasn’t even born when she was at SalemCourt. But I might not recognize her either. The picture I have of her is over twenty-five years old. Someone around here must know where she lives. As I stand to leave, I overhear one last snippet of conversation from a nearby table.
“Did you see that tea and coffee booth? The one with all the crystals and herbs?”
“Oh yeah, it’s wild. The Mystic Brew is here in White Fork and the Steeping Cauldron is up the river in Ash Hollow. They always do a booth together at the Faire. The owners are super-nice ladies.”
Might as well start looking around a booth I know is run by witches.
