Rum and Coke
I knocked back whatever cheap excuse for whiskey the bar was serving. It was the type of dive decent folk have no business in. A case made clear by the current company. What looked like a washed-up biker-gang member was nursing a beer at the bar, a small group of the most unscrupulous types loitered near the door, and the bartender looked like a Vietnam vet, judging by the glazed look in his eyes as he polished up his glasses.
I fit right in.
My table was slightly off balance; luckily it was matched by the tilt of my chair. The table was slightly sticky to the touch and cigarette burns marred its surface. Apparently they didn't get the smoking-ban notices.
The door creaked open, accompanied by a cold draft. The group nearest to the door huddled closer together whilst glaring at the intruder.
The trespasser was short, stunning, and walked with a confidence that defied logic. Not at all the type of person one would expect to see in a place like this. Her dark hair swept around her face, blowing with the biting breeze. She was wearing high boots, a short skirt, and tight-fitting clothes. The others in the bar no doubt thought her dress provocative. She looked like she belonged on the runway at a fashion show, not in this dingy bar.
However, I saw through the façade. Partly it was the way she walked—far too smooth, almost alien. Second, the demeanor—she walked into the room like she owned it, because in her mind she did. She was the most dangerous person here. Finally it was the look. The look we all developed. You walk into a room, check the corners and exit, and size up everyone inside, all in a single look. A quick glance. A side effect to always hunting, or being hunted. The biker spared her a cursory inspection and dismissal. The interest of the group by the door was far more overt. It was clear I was the only one in the room who recognized her for what she was.
Once you understood what she was, her dress was no longer provocative, but practical. The tight, high boots were no doubt stiffened leather, steel-toed with reinforced soles. The type of boot one might expect to see in combat, but styled for a night out. The glossy exterior was just for show. I would put money there was at least one blade hidden within them too. The bare legs and high skirt allowed her the freedom to move quickly without worrying about her clothes getting caught and tearing. Even her well-fitted jacket wouldn’t restrict her range of motion, though even I couldn't justify revealing that much cleavage.
She sauntered over to the bar and ordered a drink with a voice that simply taunted a man from his very soul…or maybe the feeling came from somewhere lower. It was a low-purring, husky sound that carried to everyone in the room. She sounded like she had stepped out of a noir movie from the fifties and into our bar. But it was what she said next that sent shivers down my spine.
“And a rum and coke for my friend.” With a nod in my direction.
Just like that, the room was divided. Us and them.
She walked over to my table with both drinks in hand. She placed them down and attempted to slide one across to me. The sticky table impeded its progress. I retrieved it from the halfway point.
She took her own in both hands, sipping gingerly, looking demure. Her behavior now completely unlike when she had walked in. She clearly wanted something. I waited patiently. She had sought me out. I had no idea who she was, or why she was here; I wasn’t about to speak first. But I would never turn down a free drink. I contemplated leaving once I had finished if she didn’t speak up.
Sadly, the four by the door didn't give me time to decide. After a brief conference, they walked up to our table. They approached my new guest from behind. The one I took to be the ringleader leaned against the table beside her, with the rest forming a loose circle behind.
I'd describe them for you, but in the end they and their exact fates are irrelevant. He offered to pay for her drink in exchange for a good time, and the rest left little room for misunderstanding the implication. She declined, of course. Maybe if she had tried using a different voice, one with a little menace, they would have left her alone. Maybe they would have backed off if the bartender stepped in. Or maybe I should have intervened. But any other scenario would have likely only involved more people in the fight. That's how it is with some people. They just can't let others be. There is no live and let live with them. Only their world and their desires for how it should be.
I knew what was going to happen. But even knowing I couldn't stop my body from reacting the way it had been trained. Fortunately, since I was not directly involved that only meant the shadow sight. Still, I knew the others would see my eyes glowing green from my corner booth, if they had cared to spare a glance in my direction.
I watched through a hazy darkness as the shadows began their dance. The ringleader reached a hand over to grasp her shoulder, even before it happened. She reacted as it did, firmly batting away the offending limb. It looked as if she had put barely any effort into the motion. But the resounding crack told a different story.
In my shadow sight, I watched the dark outlines of the men move toward her moments before their bodies followed. One reached to restrain her hands while the others grabbed for her body. They would have had better luck grasping a gust of wind. She moved too fast for a normal human to follow, striking her steel heel down on the foot of the one to her right as she stood. Pirouetting in place, she delivered a spinning kick to the mid-section of the next. A sharp crack filled the air. He crumpled instantly.
She was already moving back towards the one stumbling from broken toes. A flurry of blindingly quick fists to the ribs. A staccato of cracks only I could pick out, as they broke within milliseconds of each other. He finished his fall. The third received a striking elbow to the head. The fourth was the recipient of a strait kick to the midsection. He collapsed at her feet while she moved on.
The last, the leader, was just beginning to take in what had happened to the first, before taking an open palmed blow to the side of the head. His head rebounded off the table as he dropped to the floor. She had moved through them all with surgical precision. The blows calculated to take them out as efficiently as possible. A few broken bones to serve as lessons they would undoubtedly refuse to learn. They may have deserved their fates, but it was still unpleasant to witness.
Even worse, she turned toward me, which caused the remaining two witnesses to look in my direction as well.
"You coming?" she said with a smirk.
It wasn't a question. She knew exactly what she was doing.
As far as I knew, I was the only one like us who showed physical signs of what I was. The only one whose eyes glowed. Forced out of my refuge, I had no choice.
“GET OUT!” the bartender roared in our direction.
I pressed against the top of the table and forced the chair backward as I stood. It grated harshly against the worn floor. A few muffled moans from those on the floor were the only other accompanying sounds. The table itself left a sticky residue on my hands. I had no desire to learn exactly what it was and instead wiped them on my own dirty pants. The last few days had not proven kind.
I made my way around the table and stepped over the unfortunate victims of the recent altercation as the other three watched. The woman stood still, waiting somewhat impatiently for an answer. The biker toward the door watched the proceedings with a sort of grim curiosity. But it was the bartender whose actions I was most interested in.
As I approached the bar, he recoiled back in response. The phone he was presumably going to use to call the proper authorities fell from his grasp and bounced at the end of its coiled cord. I could hear a faint dial tone emanating from it.
I supposed I did strike an intimidating figure. Though not because of my body. I stood a bit over six feet tall and had an athletic build, but was not overly muscled. It was everything else. My movements were far too quick and smooth when I wasn’t trying to blend in. My clothes were worn and dirty from days of use without change. And likely most obvious to him, my eyes were glowing green, a feature I could not observe for myself, but I’d been informed it was quite intimidating. Regardless, to him I was more than human. And thanks to this woman’s actions, he knew it meant I was dangerous.
"One for the road?" I asked.
He reacted quickly enough, though his movements were jerky. I wasn’t sure if it was fear or the small wad of cash I dropped on the counter that acted as the more productive prompt. Either way the result was a very generous pour.
I put down the double shot and followed the woman to the door. I let the burning in my throat distract me from the situation I had been so unceremoniously dragged into.
"It's Ryan, right?" Again, not a question. She knew damned well who I was.
I walked out into the cold, hazy night without answering.
"You have a place we can stay at least?" she asked exasperatedly.
For once it was a real question.
I did, but her place was probably better. I waited for her to lead the way.
"Ok, I get it. Sorry to drag you into this like that. But I need your help, and I think you could use mine," she admitted.
Finally, some honesty. Not that it helped. By her own admission she was going to try to pull me into her business. Though, based on what I'd seen of our world, it was undoubtedly not just her, but them. They were most likely up to something much deeper than just what she would let on. At least trying to figure it out would take my mind off the present; the burn from the whiskey had worn off.
"This way," I curtly responded.
I led her to the cheap motel where I was staying. Cheap motels didn't ask questions. The walk was short. As the rule goes: disreputable bar, disreputable motel not far. My room was almost as empty as the lobby. Just a lone backpack. All I had left in this world. Well, that and the clothes on my back.
I still held on that maybe the next life would hold something brighter; someone. Thankfully, this woman didn't immediately comment on my sad state of affairs, though her face gave her away.
She opened with, "I think I can help you get what you want most in this world.”
"You have no idea what I want," I replied.
"Revenge."
Ok, maybe she did have some idea, but knowing was only half the battle.
"I don’t need your help with that," I retorted.
She walked over to the sole chair, placed behind a sad, wobbly desk. She pulled the chair out and sank languidly down into it. Somehow she made even sitting in that dejected chair in this miserable room look seductive. Maybe that was her talent. I had sworn I'd never let my guard down like that again.
“I can get you directly to him,” she purred.
“Again, not the issue,” I responded more sullenly.
“Without hurting anyone else,” she countered.
“How?” She had piqued my interest.
"First, I need to know your story," she said lazily.
"No. Hell no! Why do you need to know my story? What does any of that have to do with dealing with them?"
I scratched at the unkempt beard that was beginning to form from the lack of a razor’s caress. I could not read this woman at all. I paced in the short space between the bed and the desk.
"It’s simple.” She leaned forward. “I help you get answers, but you have to help me too. And what I need from you right now is to know whether or not I can trust you. The easiest way for me to get an answer to that is to hear you tell your tale, from the beginning. I know some already, but current circumstances do not reveal a terribly trustworthy character. If you want my help, you’ll have to prove you’re worth helping."
I really didn't see how sharing my past with her would be the catalyst needed for her to help me. But hey, I was pretty desperate. It wasn’t even a matter of needing the extra manpower—or womanpower, as it were. Maybe talking through it would be cathartic. Like therapy. Get it out in the open, examine all the little pieces and memories, before shutting them back in their boxes. Then I could feel at peace about it, right? Isn't that how it worked? I didn't even know anymore. I just missed her.
"Ok, but it isn't a happy story," I replied.
I knew I wasn’t only agreeing to this for her help. Maybe she could do what she promised and arrange an impossible meeting, but even if she couldn’t, at least I would get a chance to justify myself and my actions, even if only to myself. I knew more people would get hurt if I simply took matters into my own hands. Enough people had suffered because of my decisions. Would explaining everything that had happened exonerate me? Of course not. But I needed a reprieve. Anything different from the past few days of despair trapped inside my own mind. I stopped pacing and flopped back on the bed in defeat.
"Based on this sad state of affairs, I should hope not,” she said with a dismissive glance around the room, “or you've got some serious problems. And we have more work to do than I thought."
Smartass.