Page 40 of Shield of Fire

“Never discount the persuasiveness of a dark elf,” Darby commented. “Not when there’s something they truly want.”

A comment that reminded me of what Cynwrig had said, and begged the question—what did he truly want from me?

“I’ll head into the office when I get home and see if Nialle recorded anything officially,” Lugh was saying, “If not, I’ll head down to the crypts. His workspace there remains untouched, so if he did find something on the shield, it’s likely to be in one of the scrolls he retrieved from archiving. I take it you’ll be asking around about the Eve token while you’re in Swansea?”

“Might as well kill two birds, and all that.”

“Just be careful. Remember, we have no idea why Gratham was killed or who was behind it, and the last thing we need right now is to set off another series of attacks against us.”

“Will do. Take care.”

He grunted and hung up. Thunder rumbled overhead, and the intensity of the rain increased. I swung into the lane and ran down to the tavern, reaching cover just as lightning split the sky.

Someone above was angry, and I had a bad suspicion I knew exactly who.

I stripped off my coat, hung it over the hook, then hurried toward the main bar.

“That weird woman is here again,” Ingrid said from somewhere in the depths of the storeroom. “Put her upstairs this time—thought it better not to be scaring too many customers away given the scarcity of them on wintery days such as this.”

“Thanks, Ingrid. Did you give her a drink?”

“I did not.”

Hence the anger evident overhead. “Might be wise to do so next time. Puts her in a better mood.”

“Will do.” She sniffed. “It will not be the top shelf stuff though.”

“Absolutely not,” I agreed with a laugh.

I pushed through the door and then ran up the stairs to the next floor. The area was shadowed and quiet—or as quiet as any old building could be with the storm that raged above us.

She definitely wasn’t happy, and its source was more than the lack of alcohol.

I stepped onto the landing and followed the building’s song across the room. She was sitting at the corner table closest to the bar, and there was a part of me that was surprised she hadn’t helped herself to a drink. But maybe even grouchy old goddesses drew the line at theft.

“Hey, Beira,” I said. “Nice to see?—”

“Don’t you be sweet talking me,” she growled with all the fury of the storm outside. “Not until you explain what the fuck you’ve done now.”

Chapter

Seven

“It’s impossible to answer that without knowing what it is, exactly, you think I’ve fucking done.”

I walked straight past her, heading for the bar. While her temper could be as volatile as any storm, there was no way she’d unleash the dangerous energy that crackled all around her. Not when she and the rest of the hags wanted me to step into Mom’s shoes and help them recover missing artifacts.

Which I was de facto doing now anyway.

I grabbed a bottle of Green Spot Single Pot Whiskey—one of six new ones we were currently trialing in the two bars—and a couple of glasses. It might not yet be midday, but I had a feeling I was going to need a drink to cope with whatever news she’d come here to impart. And whiskey really did put her in a better mood.

I sat opposite her, poured two glasses, then slid one and the bottle across the table. She accepted both with a scowl, though the glint in her eyes suggested her anger was mostly surface deep. She gulped the whiskey down, then poured another.

“Feeling better?” I asked, amused.

She sniffed, which in Beira terms meant yes. The bird nest that had sat so jauntily in her wiry hair the last time I’d seen her was missing today, though the odd twig and half torn leaf remained. Like all hags—although these days, there were only six, and four of those were considered minor goddesses with little power—she was short and slender, with sharp, unpleasant brown features. She appeared to have a hump today, but I doubted it was a new deformity given it was located close to her right shoulder and appeared to be twitching.

Maybe the bird that had been nesting in her hair had moved to warmer climes under the rags she called a coat.

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