Page 126 of Liar Witch
The moment he reaches her, Rysen touches his fingers to his forehead in a deliberate motion. He doesn’t speak until she shoves her chin forward, acknowledging the gesture.
“We’re looking for Cirio’s crew,” Ry begins.
“Then you’re shit out of luck. They’ve not been here in weeks. Drinks?”
Rysen nods politely. “Whatever you’ll serve us.”
The woman nods and clicks her fingers at a bartender to her left. “A Wraithsblood for the vampire, an Iceflame for the witch and a Wicked Reef for the siren.”
Suppressing a grimace at the names, I watch in fascination as the mage works with supernatural speed to fix what she’s ordered. Transmutation circles flash across the glass as he works, magic imbuing the alcohol with a little extra flair.
Who is this human to command a mage so easily?
“It’s considered an honour to be served a drink chosen by Marianne,” Rysen murmurs, just a little too quiet and fast for humans to hear. “It’s also usually a test.”
I can’t help my smirk. “It’ll take a bit more than a human brew to knock me off my feet.”
Klaus’s drink comes first, a blend of bright red and cerulean blue swirls, topped with minuscule magical waves that crash against the rim of the glass. He looks at it with the same kind of fascination that I imagine is on my own face, before raising it in salute and taking his first, careful sip.
He coughs and splutters, eyes watering, but doesn’t stop drinking until the glass is empty.
Rysen is next. His glass is white, crowned with red foam, the deep, alluring colour of blood, and seeping mist across the bar as the bartender slides it across to him. Like Klaus, he salutes Marianne with it before downing it in large gulps.
When it sits empty, he visibly slumps, looking drained. He nods at the woman anyway, drawing a slight, cruel smile from her.
“Your turn, witch,” she says, sliding the last glass over to me.
It’s a shot glass. Easily a third of the size of the one Klaus and Rysen had to drink. Still, the flames flickering in the bottom and the solid layer of ice over the top make me hesitant to touch the purple sparkling concoction.
When the bartender hands me a tiny mallet I raise an eyebrow. I’m supposed to break the ice?
I take the small, silver implement and smash through the black layer on the top with ease, then lift the glass and tip the whole thing—shards, flames and all—straight down my throat.
Fuck.
The burn is like ice. The sensation unsettlingly close to the Mother’s magic. It’s so painful—so perfect—that I stare at the couple behind the bar in shock as my throat tries to recover and my skin flushes with warmth.
I could swear Marianne gives me a wink.
“Now that you’re all settled in, we’ll take this to my office.” She slides over the bar, revealing a pair of absurdly tall heels which serve to keep her almost as tall as I am despite the clear differences between our builds. She sashays through her inn towards a small, dented door in the back which springs open at her touch.
The room is cluttered, but luxurious. More of a collector’s paradise than a result of laziness. Glass cabinets displaying curios so strange that I’m forced to look at many of them twice. A cabinet of skulls dominates the centre of the room. Among the bones on display sits a vampire skull with a second pair of fangs behind the first. Another on the shelf below has two twisting pairs of jet black horns, the likes of which I’ve never seen, sitting beside a heart-shaped yellow crystal like the two are part of a set.
There are fae artifacts to my left, siren armour on a stand to my right, and even what looks like a dragon skull under a sheet.
Just where did she get all of these things?
Witches aren’t exempt from her hoarding either. A huge stone tablet dominates the room from its position behind Marianne’s desk. Inscribed with hundreds of sigils so ancient that they’re crumbling away.
“This should be in a temple,”Opal mutters, leaping from my shoulders to go and inspect it closer.
“We’ve had no contact with Cirio’s people since your last visit, almost three months ago,” Marianne repeats, taking a seat behind her desk and swinging her legs up onto it. “But there are rumours of shit going down on Safor. Dark whispers of mutiny.”
Rysen and Klaus both tense at that, but Marianne continues, ignoring them.
“Cirio’s third, Fitz, owes me money, but he hasn’t been seen since then either. If you find his head, or the money, I’ll split the cut.”
Rysen nods. “We’ll think about it.”
