102 - A Message Made From Bones

26

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's 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 inside the pub with a hand on my back. 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 onto one. My muscles protest the entire way, a dull ache 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... but an interesting amount of concern etches into his features when he scans Jay.

"Jaime, what's happened to you, lad?" the bartender asks as he prepares the drink. "Was that your doin' the other day?"

Ah, so not only is Jay a regular, but they must be well acquainted for the bartender to know what he does for a living. Or the Whitlocks just aren't as discreet as I thought they'd be.

Jay tips his chin up in confirmation. "Good to see you, Allyn. This is my friend, Illyria." He jerks his head toward me, grinning crookedly, but he communicates with Allyn solely through their eyes. 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.

"Nice to meet ya, Illyria." Allyn extends a meaty, pale hand over the beer taps. I return the gesture, my ears warming 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.

Smiling softly at the idea, I 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. The chardonnay catches my eye—described as "delicious and juicy"—so I order it 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 bottle and pours my glass.

We exchange a very quick, knowing glance, Jay's blue eyes glittering under the dim bar lights. 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 hard. 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 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."

"I deserved it." A half-smile. He takes another drink and then raises his glass toward Allyn. "But this was a much-needed remedy."

Allyn nods back with a tainted-toothed grin and declares, "On the house, then. These, too." He takes a glass whiskey decanter off the top shelf and pours two brown shots—the smell singeing my nostrils from across the width of the bar—then slides them over to us before tending to another patron's glass.