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Yousef nods and scrambles away, not daring to look back. Rowan lifts his gun and points it at Yousef’s back, and Caz raises a hand to the top of Rowan’s gun, lowering it to the ground.
“Let me use it once today. At least a shot in the leg,” Rowan says in a near pout. “He’d still make it to Ripple Hills.”
“If Yousef ever returns to my tavern, you can aim for more than his leg next time.”
Rowan rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t protest as he puts the gun away.
“Right! Show’s over!” Killian barks, waving his bloody hands. “Get the fuck back in the tavern or go home!”
The bystanders grumble as they make their way inside again, and as they do, Caz turns and looks at me, as if he’s just now noticing me.
“I told you to stay in the car,” he snaps.
“Who’s this?” Killian demands.
“He won’t tell us,” Rowan says. “He’s being all secretive about her. You think that means he has a thing for her, brother?”
“Depends on where she’s from,” Killian says, still glaring.
“Fuck off, both of you,” Caz grumbles. “Have either of you seen your mother?”
“Last I heard, she was visiting Helen.”
“I need her,” Caz says, then he looks at me again. “And you.” He points a stern finger at me. “Since you clearly have a hard time following orders, come inside where I can watch you.”
I can’t believe there’s a place I’m more terrified of than his home or the forest that surrounds it. This tavern doesn’t seem like a place for a woman to be, but he doesn’t wait for me to protest. He doesn’t seem like the type to wait for anything.
Caz marches into the tavern, the two men trail him, and I draw in a lungful of salty air before entering the tavern too.
Fifteen
WILLOW
The tavern has a historic vibe,which I find interesting because here are these men with their big guns and fancy, futuristic cars, and yet everything inside this place looks to be made of items from the 1920s. Even down to the way they dress, in their dark clothing, thick trousers, and black caps. All of it feels aged, yet there’s something about it that screams it’s ahead of my world.
They have unique clothes and guns. Even the liquor on their bar doesn’t look like ours. Theirs is in bigger bottles made of steel instead of glass, with black and brown labels. The glass tumblers they use are a crystal-like vintage. Folk music blares from the speakers, and men are shouting as they slam cards and poker chips down on a table during a heated card game.
Women dressed in short dresses sit on some of the men’s laps, and behind the bar is a man and woman in all black serving drinks. It’s likeThe Great GatsbyandBlade Runnerhad a baby.
Caz and his henchmen march past the bar, and most of the people steer clear. A woman literally leans back so she doesn’ttouch them as they pass. They continue down a dimly lit hallway and make a left.
I hurry along, keeping my head down as a few men in a corner become rowdy. Another set of men stare at me, probably wondering who I am.
When I take the left, two French doors are ahead, propped open and revealing a dark, spacious office. The office walls are covered in shelves, filled to the brim with books. A rolling ladder is perched in front of one of the shelves, and I have the urge to walk over and climb on it, just to swing around all the shelves and discover what kind of literature is in this office, but I don’t. They’re already looking at me like I have two heads. It’s best that I blend in.
Caz walks around the large wooden desk in the center and pulls back a leather chair, taking a seat. Rowan and the big Killian guy sit in wooden chairs on opposite sides of the room. Killian begins wiping his bloody knuckles with a damp towel, and Rowan places his new gun on his lap like it’s a pet, lightly stroking the metal with a cloth to remove smudges.
“Have a seat. Maeve won’t be long,” Caz says to me, gesturing to the chair on the opposite side of his desk.
I look from him to Rowan and Killian, who both cock a brow before returning to what they were doing. Their mannerisms are identical, yet they look completely different. Killian is dark skinned—darker than me—with a bald head. He’s buff and appears to be made of muscle. One of his ears is pierced with a steel hoop, a red jewel engraved into it. Rowan is strong looking in his own way. He’s not buff like Killian, but there’s something hardy about him that warns you not to cross him. His skin is paler than Caz’s, freckles peppered across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His hair is a dark reddish-brown.
I move across the room, pulling a wooden chair back and sitting. My eyes drop to a stack of leatherbound books andnotebooks near the corner of the desk. Three fountain pens lie in angles atop a scattered set of papers, and a brown stain in the shape of a ring is on the upper left corner of one of the papers, most likely from a cup of coffee or tea.
Behind Caz is a rusted black gas lamp, lit and flickering, and on each wall at least two to three pillar candles, offering warm glows. “Who is Maeve?” I ask after clearing my throat.
I look into Caz’s eyes as he removes the worn black gloves from his hands. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls out yet another black cigarette thing from his silver case. When he sparks it, I sigh. What I wouldn’t give to get high right now. Or maybe I’m still high and that’s why I’m imagining all of this.
“She’s our mother,” Rowan answers, and Caz cuts his eyes at him before returning them to me.
