Chapter 5 Predators at the Door

Twilight came on like it had been poured from a dark bottle, slow and heavy, and the tavern breathed in its first customers with a hungry sort of relief.

They drifted to their usual places without thinking. The old men folded themselves beside the hearth, already arguing about tides neither of them could control. Two village women claimed their stools near the bar, their laughter spilling ahead of them. Fishermen crowded the back tables, boots still wet, bringing the sea in with them. Even the sour merchant returned, his narrow eyes already skimming the room for weakness.

I let them in. All of them.

My hands found their rhythm before my mind could wander. Pour. Wipe. Count. Smile when needed. Cut when needed. Every motion smooth. Every motion mine. I belonged to the Tavern in these hours. The noise filled the hollow places inside my chest, pressed down the memory of fog and stone and promises I had no right to make.

Every drink I poured pushed the graveyard further away and the truth I admitted to in those early morning hours.

The room had nearly filled when the strangers arrived.

They came in with the wind, dragging damp air behind them. Five of them. Broad. Layered clothes, heavy enough to hide steel and intent. Their hats shadowed their faces, but their eyes glimmered bright under the shadows. They moved fast, sharp and restless. 

They did not belong here. And everyone knew it.

They took the corner table without asking, spreading out like they owned the floor beneath them.

The room felt it. Conversation dipped, then rose louder, forced and brittle. 

I gave them only a passing glance and finished pouring for the farmhands beside me, like they were nothing worth noticing.

But I noticed everything.

I had to.

When I approached their table, the one at the center spoke first. His voice carried gravel and confidence. His gaze dragged over me slowly, weighing, measuring.

“What’s good here?” he asked.

“Nothing for men who don’t know how to behave,” I said, smiling just enough to keep my warning clear.

He liked that. I saw it in the curl of his mouth, in the flash of silver when he smiled. Most of his teeth had been filed flat, catching the lantern light like dull coins.

“We’ll have the best you’ve got,” he said. “And a round for anyone who wants to join us.”

A performance? Not generosity. He didn’t strike me as the generous type. Possibly bait but,  for who?

I brought their drinks and set them down carefully, never leaning close enough for wandering hands. They toasted loud and sloppy, ale sloshing onto the wood.

“To pretty girls with sharp tongues,” he said, raising his mug toward me.

I pretended not to hear him.

The women at the bar cheered anyway, drunk on safety that didn’t exist.

“Pirates,” one fisherman muttered behind his hand.

No one laughed.

I returned to the bar, but my attention stayed tethered to their table. I counted coins. Wiped spills and I listened. Always listened. 

The one I believed to be the leader made the most noise, but it was the one with the broken nose who mattered. He barely spoke. His eyes moved constantly, measuring distances. Counting bodies. Counting exits.

He was building a map or a plan. It didn’t matter. I knew from experience it would spell disaster if it came to be, for whoever they snared in their trap.

They called out to me when I passed. Little hooks disguised as compliments. I gave them nothing they could hold onto. Just enough politeness to avoid escalation. Just enough edge to remind them I was not prey. I walked on a thin plank with them. I had to be careful.

The loud leader never let his gaze wander too far from me.

His gaze clung to my waist, my hands, the chain at my throat. He called me girl. Darling. Little siren. Anything to get a rise out of me. I knew his game. I have played it before with others. He wasn’t going to win.

I had been called worse.

I had survived worse.

But something about them moved wrong. Too coordinated. Too patient. I was on high alert with them.

At one point, the watcher rose and slipped outside. Two others followed. Their voices crept through the cracks in the walls, low and private. I couldn’t hear the words, just voices. I felt the shift when they returned. They had decided something.

The tavern began to empty after that. Earlier than usual. 

The old men left first, muttering about rain they could smell and feel it in their bones. The fishermen trickled out next, careful not to turn their backs too quickly. Even the women eventually drained their cups and fled the tension.

Only the merchant stayed. He stared into his drink like cowardice might dissolve there. I kept working. Clearing mugs. Sweeping crumbs. Staying behind the bar whenever possible. My hand drifted near the hidden blade without thinking. I should slip this under my skirts somehow, just in case.

Step back. Draw. Soft spots. Throat. Thighs Eyes. Inside the arm. Under the rib. Chest a little to the right.

I rehearsed survival the way other people rehearsed prayers.

Their leader started pounding his mug against the table.

I brought him another drink.

His hand closed around my wrist before I could pull away.

Not tight. Not yet. Just enough for the threat to be known.

“Stay awhile,” he said. “Tell us a story.”

My skin crawled under his grip, but I did not pull back. Fear was blood in the water. And they were sharks.

“I am a barmaid, not a bard. Let go,” I said calmly “Or you’ll have to drink through your nose.” He laughed and released me.

The others joined him.

I walked back to the bar without rushing.

He followed.

Up close, he was bigger than I’d thought. He leaned on the counter like he belonged there. “You know who we are,” he said.

I shrugged. “You’re the kind of men who talks too loud and doesn't tip.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“We’re looking for someone. The man said he owed you money.”

My pulse stumbled once, then steadied. I needed to calm myself. Reminding myself he was fishing for some sort of information. I had no clue what he was talking about, but I wasn’t going to let him know that. 

Lots of men owed me money. But this wasn’t about coins. I could see it in the way his eyes glimmered.

“Lots of men owe me money,” I said, plainly trying to dismiss him.

“This one’s special.” I wasn’t going to win with him this way. I had to come up with a new strategy.  

The others rose behind him, spreading out. Blocking space. Blocking air. I reached for a bottle and poured a shot, setting it just out of his reach.

“If you want to talk business,” I said, “you can pay. Or you can leave.”

He studied me like I was a puzzle he meant to break open. His smile contorted into something sinister. I tried to hide the shiver it gave me.

“You got nerve, girl.”

“I would say you’ve got a face I’d hate to damage, but it looked like someone already beat me to it.” I said full of venom and snark. “Let’s both protect our investments. Me the barmaid, and you, the ugly thug.” The silence stretched thin between us. Finally, he smiled.

“We’ll be back tomorrow, to collect.” he said. “Sweetheart.”

He drank the shot, slammed the glass down, and turned. His men followed, lingering in the doorway like wolves memorizing a fence line.

Then they were gone.

I exhaled the breath I was holding. It felt like the tavern did the same.

The merchant looked at me, pale. “You all right?”

My heart was still hammering, but I nodded anyway.

“I’ve had worse,” I said.

He didn’t look convinced.

After he left, I locked the door and counted the till. My hands stayed steady because they had to. I wiped the bar clean. Checked the blade under the counter. Still there. Still mine.

Tomorrow.