The Source (Witching Savannah #2)

The Source (Witching Savannah #2) Page 9

Claire hung up the phone, and Adam slid the pad into his pocket, his attention returning to her. Still, Adam had excellent instincts, and he was nothing if not tenacious. He’d circle back to me. I knew that much for sure.

“He’s on his way,” she said to Cook. “Mercy, will you stay here and help Peter open up if we don’t return in time?”

“Of course,” I said.

Claire leaned in to kiss my cheek as she passed me. “There’s a good girl,” she said. “Officers?”

The four of them left, letting the door bang shut behind them. I felt a sudden wave of panic rush through me, and I forced the door back open, nearly stumbling outside. The fresh air embraced me like a welcoming friend, but then a cloud passed over the sun, leaving me chilled and uneasy.

FIVE

I stood outside the tavern’s door fighting off panic. I drew my arms up around myself, rubbing away at the goose bumps that prickled along them. Who was the old fellow who’d stumbled across my path? How could he possibly be connected to the Tierneys? Why had I been stupid enough to think I could resuscitate him?

“What’s wrong, pretty lady?” a man’s voice startled me. Muscle-bound; taller than me, but still short for a man; clean-shaven head. He wore a rebel-flag T-shirt cut into a tank top that revealed a sleeve of tattoos on his right arm. Even though my conscious mind failed to take in the many pieces that came together in the tattoo’s intricate design, my subconscious registered a few of the symbols and interpreted them as bad news. His accent, the way he moved, everything about him said “backwoods.”

I knew the first instant I laid eyes on him that I didn’t like him or his entire gestalt, but I forced a smile. My instincts told me to be civil. Not to challenge him. “I’m fine, thanks. Just had a bit of a morning.” His eyes—dark, hard, spaced a little too closely together, and shadowed by his brow—twinkled. He took a step closer. The sun glinted off the handle of a hunting knife, the kind you often heard called a “pig sticker,” that he wore strapped to his leg.

A woman, homespun bleach job worn in a braid and makeup spackled over bad skin, stepped up to him and slung her arm around his shoulder. “Looks more like a little bit of morning sickness to me,” she said. She turned her chin down and glared at me through narrowed slits. She was marking her territory. This man, she informed me wordlessly, belonged to her. Lord help her, she could have him, but he shrugged off her arm and drew up closer to me.

“Naw, that can’t be. She ain’t got no ring on her finger. You can tell by looking at her that she ain’t the type to spread her legs just to say howdy. Am I right there, boy?”

In my peripheral vision, I noticed movement. Another of their group, this one much younger. High school age? He already stood several inches taller than the leader of the pack. The younger man’s build qualified him as an ectomorph—very muscular, yet much leaner than his buddy. He skulked up behind the other two, hovering close enough to imply his complicity, but only just. Filthy jeans, dirty blond hair, angry blue eyes, a crooked smile. He was a good-looking kid, too good-looking to be theirs, and truth be told, a little too old to be theirs, even by bayou standards. A brother? Cousin? Cohort? Regardless of how they fit together, he still stood out as the prettiest of the trio. A look of excited expectation shone in those spiteful eyes. I felt my stomach drop when I realized that whatever excitement he expected had something to do with me.

“I should get back inside,” I said, feeling behind me for the doorknob.

“Ah, no need to run off so soon,” the older man said. “We were hoping to get to know you a bit. Learn a bit about your beautiful city here. Come on over here, Joe, and introduce yourself to the lady.”

The kid stepped up and completed a semicircle, blocking my path. The single escape was back through the door to the tavern. “Hello,” he said, and I could smell the excitement coming off him. Up close, I could tell he was a little older than my first impression had led me to believe. Sixteen? Eighteen? His eyes lacked any sense of empathy, humanity. He carried an aura that was exactly the right combination of innocence and danger to fascinate a girl who had a taste for crazy. I feared for any girl who’d let herself get caught up in his charm.

“See, that ain’t so bad, is it?” the man asked, but I wasn’t sure if the question had been aimed at me or at this Joe. “I’m Ryder. Ryder Ludke. This here is Birdy. Say hello, Birdy.”

The woman stayed silent until Ryder tilted his head slightly toward her, a promise of uncontrolled violence concentrated in such a slight movement. “Hello,” she said, cringing and taking a step to the side.

“Maybe you would like to invite us into your fine establishment and offer us a libation?” The question carried the weight of a command.

“Libation,” Joe parroted, and then guffawed. He and Ryder shared a glance that celebrated Ryder’s wit. These were train people, modern-day hobos with all of the nasty and none of the romance, I surmised. A race of panhandlers that had taken root in Savannah, taking over and occasionally scaring off the regular folk, the ones who sold palm-frond roses or picked out tunes on instruments. The train people used intimidation rather than souvenirs to liberate spare change from tourists’ pockets.

“I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m not the owner, and the bar doesn’t open until five. We could lose our liquor license.”

“Come on. You’re free, white, and twenty-one, ain’t you?” Ryder asked. “You can do whatever the hell you want.”

“And what I want to do is get back inside and get ready for opening.”

I found the doorknob and grasped it. The three were standing too close to me. I’d have to move quickly or they’d be able to rush the door. I twisted on the knob and forced my back into the door, but it didn’t move. It had locked behind me.

“Here I thought y’all called Savannah the ‘Hostess City,’?” he said, taking another step closer. Following his lead, the other two constricted the circle. “You ain’t being very hospitable. A man could take offense.” His hand lowered, and his finger traced around the top of his knife’s handle. Twelve and a half seconds ago, this place had been crawling with cops. Now that I could use one, there wasn’t a single officer in sight. I wondered if my visitors had been watching for the police to take off before coming this way.

I considered using magic to open the door. But they’d still be able to follow me into the bar unless I moved fast enough to slam the door in their faces. They had ambled another few steps closer as I considered this. I’d be able to reach out and touch them in another step or two. Or they could reach out and touch me.

I considered using my best trick—well, truly my only trick—to slide myself out of there, but I figured it would be best to try something a little less overt. The last thing I needed was to piss the families off further with open displays of witchcraft. I pushed back a wave of anger at how the families stripped me of my ability to adequately defend myself. I had to keep a clear head, and anger at people who were not even present would not help with that. I decided to pull something from my Uncle Oliver’s bag of tricks. Oliver reigned as the king of magic persuasion, half of which he seemed to back up with plain old self-confidence. “Well, on behalf of the Savannah Visitors Bureau, I apologize, but I do think it is time for y’all to move on.” I pulled myself up taller and crossed my arms, trying to look firm but relaxed, like I was the one in charge. Joe and the woman called Birdy took a few steps backward, but Ryder didn’t budge. “Go on now,” I commanded.