Page 4 of Asher
If Finn and Gabriel had been here for any length of time, someone in this town had interacted with them.
Reception on my phone was crap, but I managed to locate the closest bar.
It wasn’t far. A ten-minute walk through the quiet streets of the small town.
I reached a shabby-looking place with a faded sign that readThe Rusty Tap.
Stepping inside, the first thing I noticed was the prickling sensation along the back of my neck, like a predator was watching me.
The air was thick with the mingling scents of sweat, cheap booze, and something distinctly other. Supernaturals.
I scanned the room quickly, assessing.
Humans and supernaturals mingled here, but there was an uneasy balance to it, like the air before a storm.
I didn’t belong here. Finn, with his natural charm and ability to blend in anywhere, might’ve been able to navigate this space.
Donovan and I? Not so much. We stuck out like sore thumbs, always too rigid, too obvious.
A few patrons eyed me warily as I made my way to the bar. Their gazes lingered too long, their suspicion palpable.
I ignored them, sliding onto a stool and signaling the bartender.
The man behind the counter was broad-shouldered with the heavy build of a brawler.
His scent gave him away before his body language did. Werewolf.
It was faint beneath the overwhelming smells of alcohol and greasy food, but unmistakable.
“Beer,” I said.
He set the glass in front of me without a word, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied me.
I nursed the drink for half an hour, observing the room and trying to decide my next move.
The tension in the air never quite eased, but I couldn’t leave without trying.
“My brother and his friend came to this town a few months ago,” I said finally, keeping my tone casual. “I was hoping someone might’ve seen them.”
The bartender’s gaze sharpened, though his expression remained neutral. “Lots of people come and go.”
I described Finn and Gabriel, keeping my voice steady, though the mere mention of Gabriel’s name made my jaw clench.
The bartender shrugged, wiping a glass with a practiced nonchalance. “Don’t know anyone of that description.”
Liar.
I wanted to press him, to demand answers, but the faint, unfriendly smile tugging at his lips stopped me.
“Your kind isn’t welcome here,” he said softly, a warning laced in every syllable.
I felt eyes on me again, the weight of the room’s attention settling heavily on my shoulders.
The patrons weren’t just wary. They were ready to act if I gave them a reason.
“Look,” I said, raising my hands in a placating gesture. “I just want a drink. And I really just want to know my brother’s safe. That’s all.”
The bartender’s expression flickered for a moment, the faintest crack in his guarded demeanor.
