102 - A Message Made From Bones

10

We arrive at a narrow alley in Old London, not too far from Giles's apartment. The area is bustling with people, even though it is only just past noon on a Thursday. Weaving through the foot traffic, we squeeze our way to a small pub nestled between lanes. The pub's enclosed porch takes up most of the alley; groups of patrons stand outside, enjoying their drinks while listening to an acoustic singer performing covers of the latest pop hits, leaving the interior quiet and roomy.

Jay guides me with a hand on my back as we make our way inside the pub. His ankle is wrapped tightly, healing well and fast, but I can feel his slight limp as he brushes against me. He finds two vacant stools at the bar, and I gingerly settle into one. My muscles protest the entire way, a bit subdued now with the Ibuprofen kicking in.

He orders a London Pride—I find the name a bit tacky, but as an American, I have no room to talk about an overly patriotic beverage.

The bartender—a short, round man in his fifties with reddish-brown hair and thin gold glasses—greets us in a Scouse accent. And I can't help but notice an interesting amount of concern etched into his features when he scans Jay over.

"Jaime, what's happened to you, lad?" the bartender asks while preparing Jay's drink. "Was that your doin' the other day?" Ah, so not only is Jay a regular, but they're well acquainted for the bartender to know what he does for a living. Or the Whitlocks just aren't as discreet as I'd be.

Jay tips his nose up in confirmation. "Good to see you, Allyn. This is my friend, Illyria." He gestures with his head toward me, grinning crookedly, but he holds Allyn's gaze, communicating solely through their eyes. Then Jay's grin blooms into a brilliant smile—and I think this is the first time I've seen him happy.

"Nice to meet ya, Illyria." Allyn extends a meaty, pale hand over the beer taps. I shake it, returning the sentiment, as my ears warm at the sound of my real name spoken so freely and kindly, unaware of the power behind it. No hint of him knowing how it typically strikes fear in the hearts of people around me.

I pretend to look interested in what's on tap... but honestly, I'm not much of a beer person; Allyn seems to realize that quickly and ducks under the bar for a moment, emerging with a wine menu.

With a soft smile, I thank him and take a look at the list. I'm not a wine connoisseur either, so I usually take a shot in the dark when it comes to picking my drink. Fortunately, their wines are clearly described as either fruity or bitter, making the decision easier. The chardonnay catches my eye—described as "delicious and juicy"—so I order that and hope for the best.

"'S that beam why you're both battered an' bruised?" Allyn asks Jay, looking between the two of us; the light catches the lens of his glasses as he pops the cork on the wine bottle and pours my glass.

We exchange a very quick, knowing glance, Jay's blue eyes glittering under the dimly lit bar. I take a swig of wine (which, yay for it being tasty and not cough-syrupy).

It takes everything to bite back my laugh, gulping it down. Though seeing Jay's bruised face pains me, I don't regret my choices. And to be fair, I did hold back, or else I could've killed him, so I was trying to be a little conscious of the damage.

Jay licks the beer from his lips and smirks. "The beam didn't do this to me. But we'll be fine in another day or two."

Allyn catches on to our exchange and erupts in a hearty chortle, drawing the attention of the few patrons who are seated near the entrance.

Once their curiosity wanes, he leans over the bar, and for the first time, I can see the color of his eyes: a deep, mossy green. "Why, Jaime, when I told ya to treat a woman nicely," he teases, "I didn't mean to let 'er pummel ya."