Black Tide Rising

12th Century Part 17

My amazing readers,

Please don't forget to vote and comment if you like this chapter, that's important to us authors for our rankings. ❤️

Also you can find me on facebook to see what else I am up to. ❤️❤️❤️ Search for seakitten33.

Can't wait to see you there😍

********

Emily walked up to the same old brick building that Lars has always had. Her hand brazed the brick stones before she threw all of her body weight into opening the heavy door. Once the door budged, it flew open the rest of the way, making Emily stumble and almost loose her footing. She looked around, letting her eyes adjust to the office. It was empty. No Lars anywhere in sight.

He must be in the cells. She walked to the tall wooden door that led to the cells, it was already cracked open. She began to slowly open it more; the door slowly drug open, hinges creaking. "Hello? Lars?" Her soft voice echoed through the cells.

"I know that voice!" Lars called out. He was bent down in a cell, cleaning it for the next criminal. He turned slowly, rising to his feet. "Well if it isn't Emily. How are you doing darling?"

She began to open her lips to speak, but was interrupted immediately.

"Why are you dressed like a depressed Indian?" He asked, his gaze narrowed in on her in curiosity.

"Long story," she said, laughing to herself. "And unfortunately that will have to be for another time," she explained briefly, looking up at him innocently.

This piqued his curiosity, but he understood with her tense body language, knowing he wouldn't get any real answers today. He continued past that point, "what is my pleasure of your presence today?"

"Well, I was hoping to speak with you," a strand of her long red hair fell in front of her face. She brushed it back attempting to tuck it behind her ear.

"Shoot," he said, examining her and waiting for her to spill the beans.

"Well I was hoping to talk in a more personal setting," she explained, nodding her head to the prisoner in the next stall. The place wreaked of whiskey.

"Oh, we wouldn't want to wake up Mr. Lazarous, now, would we?" He asked, and he then began clanking a metal stick on the prisoners cell bars very loudly as if it were a game.

"Ohhhh. ohhhh." The prisoner groaned, covering his ears and rolling his body to the other side, trying to hide himself from the noise as if it were extreme torture. His clothing was torn; also it was worn incorrectly. It looked like he might have had a wild night. Lazarous was the town drunk, he had to have been the skinniest man in all of town, and it looked as if you could snap the man in half like a twig!

They began to walk to Lar's office, leaving the drunk behind to sober up. Emily saw how age had affected Lars, his chestnut hair had speckles of gray and white, and his face was more defined with lines, especially the laugh wrinkles around his eyes.

"After you darling," he instructed, as he opened the office door for her.

"What's going on with Lazarous?" she asked, curiosity getting the best of her.