“Step two: possibly reclaim winnings from Denzel before leaving because that still feels important.”
She nodded to herself.
“Step three: vamoose.”
The word helped.
A little.
Edith huffed softly, squaring her tiny shoulders. “They don’t get to decide what happens to me,” she said firmly. Not her father, nor her clan, nor the bloody hunters that cost her more than just calories from unwanted cardio. No, not anyone.
With one last glance toward the outside world, Edith curled her tail around herself, settling in but not relaxing. Because sleep wouldn’t come easy tonight, it wasn’t every day your past caught up with you and tried to bite you on the arse.
4
Spencer liked patterns,people were predictable when you watched them long enough. Habits and routines, the small unconscious tells, they all added up to something useful.
That was why he didn’t rush. That was why he sat, pint in hand, eyes half-lidded as if he were only half paying attention. He wasn’t.
The Ferret’s Mott hummed around him, laughter, clinking glasses, chairs scraping against wooden floors worn smooth by decades of use. It was busy without being chaotic.
On the surface.
Mark had shifted his chair just enough to give himself a better view of the door. Spencer had the rest, the bar, the stairs, the open loft above where the familiars were still deep into what appeared to be a very heated card game.
The pigeon adjusted its glasses again.
The squirrel slammed something down with unnecessary force.
The ghost parrot let out a triumphant squawk.
“I still think the parrot’s cheating,” Mark muttered.
Spencer took a slow sip of his drink. “Then don’t watch it.”
“I’m not watching it.”
Spencer rolled his eyes, knowing full well his brother was full invested in the card game. “Then stop caring.”
Mark grumbled into his pint and Spencer let his attention drift, not aimlessly though, no, never aimlessly. Conversations bled together in places like this. You just had to know which threads to pull. Where to focus your attention.
“…told you, didn’t I? Only two of ‘em now…”
That caught his attention immediately. Spencer didn’t move, didn’t look, didn’t even dare to exhale. Instead, he just listened.
“…third one gone. Took something big down with him, though. Proper heroic, that.”
“…yeah, well, still leaves the bay lighter, don’t it?”
A pause. Then, quieter…
“…not like it matters. Not with the hatchlings.”
Mark’s foot stilled under the table.
Spencer’s grip tightened slightly on his glass.
Hatchlings.
