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“But I want to see Rome,” he complained from inside the bag.
“G, we’re not here for sightseeing.”
“Can I at least ride on your shoulder?”
“No. And keep your head down. They may not allow pets in this place and I don’t want to get kicked out because someone sees you.”
He grumbled but hunkered down in the bag. For all his bellyaching, Giguhl knew I was in no mood to deal with his complaints. He’d been there with me when Maisie died, so he knew how much this mission meant to me—to all of us. But since I was so grateful he let the matter drop, I made a mental note to let him ride on my shoulder when we finished our meeting at the bar.
Erron opened the door, unleashing the scents of hops and barley mixed with the overpowering aroma of unfiltered cigarette smoke. Laughter and music stumbled into the street, like drunks on a bender.
Erron went right in, leaving Adam and me to follow. Despite being located in the center of Rome, the majority of voices I heard in the place spoke English with British accents rather than Italian.
When I caught up with Erron, I yanked on his jacket. He stopped and looked at me with raised eyebrows. “What is this place, exactly?”
Erron frowned like I asked a stupid question. “A bar?”
“No,” I said, huffing out an annoyed breath. “Why does everyone in here look like an extra from Benny Hill?”
“The owner’s a Brit—from Liverpool, I believe. Lots of expat mages use the joint as a gathering place.”
I shot Adam an anxious glance. He shrugged. “Hey, at least we don’t have to worry about language barriers.” Then he nudged me to follow the Recreant farther into the pub.
Erron sidled up to the bar and flagged down the barkeep. The guy had the physique of a potato. His ruddy cheeks and jovial expression did little to endear me to him. I was in no mood to trust anyone.
“What’ll it be, mates?”
“Three Boddingtons,” Erron said, as if we were in Manchester instead of Rome.
The bartender toddled off to fill the order. Adam pulled up next to Erron. “I thought we were here to find Abel, not tie one on.”
“We are. But there’s a certain way these things are done.”
“Do you think it could be done a little quicker?” I said.
“Sabina, this is Italy. Nothing happens quickly.”
“I thought you said these guys are Brits,” I grumbled.
“True but la dolce vita tends to soften even the most type A personality into complacence. You’ll see.”
I gritted my teeth and resisted the urge to remind Erron that we weren’t in Italy on holiday. The mage might be a lot of things, but I’d spent enough time with him to understand that his laissez-faire attitude was mostly an act. He understood the gravity of the situation more than most. After all, he’d suffered his share of losses at Cain’s hands, too.
He pointed to the bartender. “His name’s Richard Green. Dicky to his friends. Last time I was in town, he put me in touch with Abel. Be patient and he may just do it again.”
Three beers with thick, foamy heads appeared on the bar. Dicky leaned against the wood and told us the total for the drinks. Erron handed him an unnecessarily large bill.
“I’ll just be getting you change, then,” the bartender said, turning away.
“Keep it,” Erron said, taking a casual sip from the pint.
“That’s mighty kind of you,” Dicky said. Instead of walking away, he leaned his elbows on the bar, ready to chat now. “You’re Yanks, are ye?”
“Visiting from New Orleans,” Erron said.
“Ah, well. Is this your first time in Italy, then?”
I covered my sigh with a hefty swig of beer. Obviously, our British friend had seen the large tip as an invitation to pry.
“I’ve been several times. In fact, I paid your fine bar a visit a few months back, Mr. Green.”
“Haven’t seen your mates before.” The bartender’s eyes, too shrewd for a man who looked like he bathed in whisky, gave Adam and me once-overs. “We don’t get a lot of new visitors in Bar Sinister.” Something about the way he said it made me think that “new visitors” was code for something else.
“We’re actually here looking for an old friend,” Erron continued. “The same one I was looking for last time.”
Since the mages seemed intent on having a nice long chat, I decided to shuck my jacket. The stuffy bar combined with the hot air blowing between the males made the place stifling.
Dicky pursed his lips. “What’s this bloke’s name?”
“Abel.”
The instant the word fell from Erron’s lips, the entire atmosphere in the bar changed. Nothing overt. No one rose to confront us or anything. More like a tightening of the air. A slight lowering of volume. Awareness. Yes, that’s what it was. Everyone suddenly seemed very aware of us.
The bartender hunched down and leaned toward us. “Only Abel I ever heard of was that poor bastard got killed by his brother in the mortals’ mythology.”
Erron’s smile tightened. “Really?”
“In fact, I think maybe you’re in the wrong place altogether.”
“And what might be the right place?”
“I wouldn’t be knowin’ that.” Dicky’s lips tightened and his eyes were now as serious as life and death.
“This is a waste of time. This guy doesn’t know anything.” My aggressive tone earned me a sharp glance from the Recreant.
“If you’ll be excusing me, I’ve got thirsty customers,” the Brit said. “And I’ll be asking you to leave once you finish your pints.”
My mouth fell open at the dismissal. Erron kicked my ankle. I rounded on him but he shook his head with an expression that threatened pain if I caused a scene. “Let’s go.”
I slammed my pint on the bar and grabbed my jacket off the barstool. Erron had already turned to go, trusting I’d follow like a good girl. Part of me longed to stay and show these ass**les who they were dealing with. But I could feel their eyes on me. Could feel the magic hanging heavy in the air. Powers gathering, waiting for me to try something. These chaps might look like barflies, but there was serious magic in that room. Erron, Adam, and I could have probably handled ourselves well enough to survive the brawl—especially if I let Giguhl come out to play—but to what end? We’d still be leaving without the information we needed.
So with my pride dragging behind me like a piece of toilet paper stuck to my shoe, I stalked toward the door.
