The Black Cat Pub

Sam Lynch Becomes Immortal

The demon deal between Forktooth and Sam Lynch was purely accidental. A case of mistaken identity if you will. It started with a phone call.

"Thanks for calling The Black Cat, this is Sam speaking."

A rather slimy, oily voice coiled into her ear and began with, "The paperwork went through, we're clear to get this deal finished."

She waited, leaning against the bar top. The number of half-finished conversations she heard. Why call in the middle of a conversation?

"I'll be there at eight tonight."

"Great, how many—" the dial tone interrupted her.

With a shrug, she turned back to cleaning the bar. Mr. Oily would be coming at eight o'clock with whoever he felt like. Brilliant reservation details. He was probably either faerie or vampire, they always were the most arrogant and self-important customers. Thought the sound of their voice or part in their hair was enough for them to be recognized as the obviously famous being they were. Well, he'd be sorry when he got here at eight and the VIP section was already full.

Or mad. Probably just mad.

But, with the prospect of another busy evening to come, Sam promptly forgot about the call. Instead she unloaded another case of Nectorale to restock the pixie fridge and snapped at the servers until they got off their asses long enough to finish flipping the stools the right way up. It was Tuesday, not the biggest moneymaker night of the week. Not that it being a Saturday would have stopped the servers from being lazy. However, it was her night. It meant playing both bartender and manager at once, but Sam would take what she could get. Despite certain grumbling, she had the numbers to prove that Tuesdays had never made more money than when she took up managing, even on the occasional slow night.

Not that it made any difference to the owner. He still refused to give her another night as manager, and he was adamant that she use a skeleton crew to manage the one night she had. And try as he might to set her up for failure, Sam's Tuesday nights had been highly successful. Yes, successful. No matter how many last minute budget changes ruined the chef's food orders, how many nights he gave servers off without telling her, how many bartenders he fired without cause, or the ridiculous lack of warning he gave her for events. Like that vampire bridal shower last week.

The owner of The Black Cat Pub was Samuel Brawn. A big, beefy guy who they say used to run the grill station when he first opened shop. They talk about him from the old days as being truly driven and ambitious. They say he would run around doing the work of ten elves, which was saying something. These days he was a penny pincher that never did a lick of work to manage the day to day life in the pub. Oh sure he worked on high as he crunched the numbers and had final say in it all. And sure he would prowl through the pub twice a week to find mistakes. But he certainly never jumped on the grill anymore. Nor did he act as manager, server, busser, or anything else. Instead he just grouched that numbers were down, that he was getting old, that no one knew what hard work was anymore, and that it was this youngling generation that would put him out of business.

Sam Lynch had never much cared for "The Brawn." But you deal with what you can to get your rent money. Boston was no cheap city.

At seven o'clock, The Brawn entered. He prowled through with barely a nod in Sam's direction. Almost immediately, he stepped into the kitchen.

With The Brawn in the kitchen, Sam took advantage of his absence to look for anything that might catch his eye. She slid a coaster under the drink of the vampire in the corner.

A deathly cold hand grabbed her wrist.

"Not now Anthony," She said, easily pulling free.

"I wan' another drink."