Daughter of Nightmares

by Kyra Quinn

  “My grandfather built this tavern from the ground up.” Maev’s chest swelled with pride. She rapped her knuckles against the timber siding of the wall. “She’s not the fanciest joint, but she’s my baby.”

  “It’s lovely.” I took a step towards the center of the room. “It seems like a cozy place to gather with friends.”

  “When the sun’s up.” A wicked grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. “When the moon’s out, though, this place gets wild.”

  I couldn’t imagine the drab interior as a festive party location, but I nodded anyway. “I’ve never met a woman who ran a tavern before. Not one as fancy as this.”

  “Thank you.” Maev tilted her head to the side. “You said you’ve just turned eighteen. Have you ever sampled ambrosia?”

  Father’s nights of drinking with the other men ended long before my birth. I’d stolen a sip off a neighbor’s cup at some social event, but I couldn’t remember the flavor anymore.

  “No. My father is—was—a pious man. I can’t recall alcohol being in our house.”

  Maev’s grin stretched. “In that case, happy birthday, Lili.”

  She buzzed over to the bar like an insect in search of pollen and ducked behind the old oak structure. She popped back up and slammed two short square glasses on the bar. Maev reached for a tall black bottle next to her arm and removed the cork with her teeth. Half a glass of the thick plum liquid went into each cup. She replaced the cork as she whistled. She shimmied back over, a glass in each hand and a toothy grin.

  “Here.” She shoved a glass towards me. “Try it and see what you think. This is top-stock stuff. One of our most expensive brews.”

  “But I have no money,” I said in hopes she might change her mind.

  Instead, she threw her head back and cackled as she forced the drink into my hands. “You don’t think I know that? You don’t even have shoes on. Consider it a gift.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek. Out of excuses, I nodded and raised the glass to my lips. The bitter scent of alcohol and wild berries teased my senses. My gut churned as my mouth watered. I’d never seen a person wasted on ambrosia behave well, but I’d heard stories of plenty of people drowning sorrows in empty bottles. I threw the liquor back and hoped for the same fortune. The drink burned my throat as it blazed a path into my abdomen.

  Maev wiggled her eyebrows. “Good stuff, right?”

  “It’s sweeter than I’d expected. Almost like a drink of dessert.” Aside from the lingering burning in my throat, anyway.

  “Only the good brews.” Maev winked. “The cheap stuff tastes like gazora piss.”

  I wrinkled my nose as I handed her the now empty glass. “Thank you. Do you have a washroom I could clean up in?”

  “Through those doors, take a right and head to the last door on the left. Here, I’ll show you.”

  She guzzled her own drink and set both cups on the bar. She waved for me to follow as she marched towards the swinging doors and pushed them open without slowing her pace. I scurried behind her through the bar and into the micro-kitchen tucked away in the rear.

  Most of the appliances looked older than my father. A clay oven sat against the back wall, a small copper sink positioned next to it. A miniature island stood in the kitchen’s center, metal bowls stacked in piles on top. Maev led me straight through the kitchen and stopped in front of a closed door.

  “It’s not the cleanest, but I’m sure you can make it work.” She gestured to the door with her thumb. “Wash up as best you can. If I dig around behind the bar, I’m certain we have a spare uniform.”

  I muttered my thanks and stepped into the closet-sized washroom. I closed the door behind me and locked it, a short sigh of relief escaping my swollen and blistered lips. Within seconds I could understand what Maev meant about the cleanliness. The floors and walls didn’t sparkle, the building worn with age. I gagged the moment the door closed behind me as a foul odor violated my nostrils. Remaining filthy almost sounded better.

  However, I didn’t have many options to work with. There was no washtub or shower, not that I’d expected to find one in a tavern. A small porcelain latrine sat against the wall, a metal sink within spitting distance. A smeared rectangular mirror hung above the sink. No hand towel hung from the silver hoop mounted to the wall.

  “Swell,” I muttered under my breath. But I had no choice; it had to work. I stepped in front of the sink and lifted the handle. The water sputtered, then gushed from the antiquated faucet. As I waited for the water to heat, my eyes drifted to the mirror. I almost didn’t recognize the sad, disheveled girl on the other side.

  Dark circles rimmed both of my eyes. Hair sat matted against my face, the occasional twig or leave poking out from the mess like a bird’s nest. My bottom lip swelled, my skin covered in a thick layer of dirt. My hands gripped the side of the sink to steady myself as I shook my head. I’d been fortunate to run into Maev. I was in even worse shape than I’d expected.

  When the water warmed as much as it could, I grabbed the lavender bar of soap from the holder above the sink and lathered it beneath the stream. I took care of my arms and hands first; water scalded my skin as I scrubbed. Raw, red patches of skin replaced the dirt. I resolved to ask Maev for help with my hair. It didn’t seem like the best idea to wash it in the sink. When I finished I gave my body a violent shake to dry. I gave the mirror one last glance. Better. Not passable, not in the ripped and soiled nightgown, but a small improvement.

  I hurried back through the kitchen and towards the bar to find Maev. A proper outfit was my best chance at looking presentable to the outside world. I found Maev seated at the bar, a fresh drink in front of her. She flashed a knowing smile as I entered the room.

  “Feel better?”

  “Quite.” It seemed easier to give Maev the answer she wanted than to tell the truth.

  “Another drink?”

  “I wouldn’t want to cut into your profits…”

  Maev barked a laugh. “The cellar holds twice as many bottles as behind the bar. Trust me, our supply never runs dry.”

  I shook my head. “About those clothes—”

  “About that.” Maev held up a finger. “Turns out the only spare uniform I have belonged to a girl half your height. There’s no way you’d fit it.”

  Disappointment hit me like an oncoming train. “Oh.”

  “Not to worry though.” She took a sip from her drink. “I ran over to talk to my neighbor while you were in the washroom. Thalia runs the bakery a few doors over. She has something that should work for you. She will stop by when she finds it.”

  I exhaled a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Maev. For everything.”

  Maev dismissed my gratitude with a wave of her hand. “Don’t thank me. Come have another glass. Afterward I’ll fix you something to eat while we wait.”

  No energy left to protest, I slid onto the seat next to Maev and offered a grateful smile as she poured me another drink.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Beast Within

  The morning sun sat above the tips of the aspen and pine trees. A soft copper-rose light bathed the garden as Viktor Kinzhal stepped out of the house and down the stone steps into the grass. Saltwater and hay tickled his nostrils as his boots sank into the squishy damp soil. He cracked his knuckles and as his eyes locked onto the rundown stables below. He straightened his posture and strode down the hill and around the backside of the lopsided timber structure.

  It had taken the better part of a week for Viktor to assemble, but his lips curled as he eyed the practice opponent he’d crafted out of timber and rope. He rolled his neck and stretched his arms towards the clouds. Blades of grass and overgrown weeds brushed against his well-worn trousers. A frog croaked somewhere in the distance. Viktor hardly registered the sound. He had little time before Remiel assigned some new busywork to complete. His mouth twitched at the thought.

  Viktor held his breath as he slipped into the stables. He concentrated most of his weight into his tiptoes. If Roscoe
or Diego heard him shuffling around, they’d kick and whine until he gave into their demands and filled their trough. One thing would lead to another as it always did, and soon he’d find his quiet hours of peace spent picking the gunk from Diego’s hooves. But mundane errands brought them no closer to answers.

  As Viktor approached the back wall, he tried to dismiss Remiel and their mundane squabbles from his mind. Roscoe snored inside of his stall, his snout shaking with each exhale. Doubt and frustration did nothing to steady Viktor’s hand. He rested his palm on the massive wooden trunk pressed against the wall, the lid cold beneath his palm. A small pang of guilt twisted his gut. Viktor disregarded it and opened the trunk. He rifled through the contents, dismissing the curved wooden bow and an unloaded pistol. He smiled when his hand wrapped around the leather scabbard. The bullets and arrows had their charms, but the tip of the blade never disappointed.

  Viktor tossed the scabbard onto his lap and closed the trunk as gently as he could manage. Six identical black handles poked from the top of the sheath. He slung the straps over his shoulders and strapped it into place. The weight of the knives against his chest filled him with the comfort of reunification with a long-lost friend. He gave the cool leather a pat and crept out of the stables with his head down. He said a silent thanks to the goddess Anja as the sunlight warmed his cheek once more.

  But an uneasy feeling settled in his body moments after he left the stable. He paused a few paces away from the homemade combat dummy. His fingers curled around the top dagger in the sheath. He cocked his head to the side and listened for movement. Only the coo of pigeons answered. Bloody sky rats.

  “Focus, Vik,” he whispered under his breath. He shook his head as if the motion might clear his mind. “A warrior must always remain focused.”

  But even as he chastised himself, his thoughts wandered. His mother’s face—or what he could remember of it—sprang into his thoughts unbidden. His jaw clenched as he pictured her gentle smile when she pushed the more rebellious strands of dark hair from his eyes. Her soft, musky scent filled his nostrils. He could still hear the bells of her voice as if she’d tucked him in and sang him to sleep only the night before.

  A sound of frustration escaped his gritted teeth. He had no time to waste on sentimentality or strolls through his childhood memories. Not if he wanted to find the beast who took his parents from him and avenge their deaths. Almost two decades later, the evil bastard remained as elusive as ever. But Viktor refused to be discouraged by his lack of progress. Even if it took the rest of his life, he’d find the miserable scum who killed them and rip its spinal cord out from its throat.

  He focused his gaze on the makeshift opponent. He slid the first dagger out of the sheath as he pictured the demon’s glowing red eyes and fanged smirk. His pulse raced as he squinted. He waved his arm back and forth a few times to line up his aim against the breeze. All the surrounding noises faded as he flung his wrist and released the knife. The blade whistled as it soared through the air. His shoulders relaxed as he smirked when the tip landed in the center of the red X he’d painted on the wood.

  But everyone knew one good throw proved nothing. He pulled the second knife out of the sheath and squinted once more. The cold blade weighed little more than a feather in his hand as he lined up his shot, his breath held—

  “There you are.”

  A voice from behind startled the knife out of Viktor’s hand. He jumped back as it dropped to the ground. His shoulders slumped as heat rushed to his face.

  “Sorry, Remi,” he mumbled.

  “What is this? What have you built here?” Remiel asked as he appeared next to Viktor.

  Viktor rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh, ah, it’s nothing important. Just something to mess around with passing the time.”

  Remiel snorted. “Is there not enough work to do around here? Diego and Roscoe had no food in their troughs last time I looked.”

  “Believe me, they won’t starve from the lack.”

  Remiel folded his arms over his chest as his eyes narrowed. “What has your knickers in a bunch this morning? What is all this about, Vik?”

  “I’ve told you, it’s nothing. I come back here to practice from time to time before I start the day. Helps me focus.”

  But Remiel didn’t appear convinced. His eyes shifted between the scabbard full of throwing knives and the improvised opponent. He pressed his lips into a thin line. “Have the dreams returned?”

  Viktor shook his head, his jaw tight. His sleep—or lack thereof, as of late—had nothing to do with the topic at hand. “You know as well as anyone the importance of preparation and practice. Those red-eyed bastards could show up anywhere. A wise warrior doesn’t relax his guard.”

  Remiel groaned. “I cannot recall the last time we received reports of demonic activity this close to the coast. Mulgrave is full of heretics and heathens. Nothing of interest for them here.”

  “For now.” His chest puffed. “Change is in the air. I can sense it.”

  Remiel clicked his tongue. “Not this again.”

  “Believe me or don’t.” Viktor dug his dagger out of the bed of grass. He slid it into the sheath. “I’ve never called your abilities into question.”

  Remiel stiffened. “You mean what little I have left? And I have never once challenged your talents. Only your ability to tell the future.”

  Viktor marched over to the trading post and dug his blade out of the wood. He slipped it into the last open space on his sheath and tried to ignore the warmth of his face. Nothing he said would change Remiel’s mind. The angel had lived for too many hundreds of years to take advisement from anyone in Astryae.

  “When you finish with the horses, I need you to run into town for me,” Remiel said, the tone of his voice back to business as usual. “We have no wood left for the fire tonight. The storm last night soaked the logs on the patio.”

  Viktor clenched his jaw and bit back the urge to remind Remiel how he’d told him he smelled the rain coming. “I’ll take care of it. I may stop in at the ginhouse and have a drink while I’m there.”

  Remiel shook his head and swore under his breath as he turned to trek back up the hill towards their cozy house. “We have enough ambrosia in this house to drown both horses, but sure. Waste valuable daylight hours. Who am I to complain?”

  A smile tugged at Viktor’s lips despite Remiel’s curses. Stubborn and set in his ways, it took an act of divine intervention to convince Remiel to venture into town most days. Viktor remained frozen until the angel’s back disappeared inside of the door. At least he had one surefire way of enjoying a few hours to himself.

  * * *

  Out of all the villages and towns in Astryae, Viktor liked Mulgrave the least. He had no concrete explanations for his opinion—nothing about the small coastal port stood out as any better or worse than anywhere else he’d traveled. His nose crinkled as he studied the sea of bodies swimming through the town’s center. Perspiration lingered in the air. He groaned at the sheer number of people loitering in the streets. For a town with so little to offer by way of entertainment or culture, Mulgrave had twice the population Viktor would’ve expected.

  It hadn’t taken Viktor long to figure out why. Mulgrave attracted a particular sort of inhabitant. Where the larger and more progressive cities provided sanctuary for the Feyfolk, Mulgrave offered refuge to the more devious residents of Astryae. Every flat worker and hustler run out of the other towns and settlements found a home in the port.

  Still, Viktor supposed the congested town held a certain charm. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he strolled towards the woodcutter’s shed on the far edge of town. He locked his eyes forward and refused the eyes of anyone in his path. He had no time to entertain the latest gossip.

  Long, bony fingers gripped his arm. Viktor jerked to see a middle-aged woman with hair like a beehive licking her painted lips. Dark circles rimmed her almond eyes. Her plump breasts all but spilled from the low neckline of her gown, the dress too short to
consider fit for public. Her ruby lips curled into a yellowed smile.

  “Afternoon, sir. Care for a little company?”

  Viktor pursed his lips. “Not today, madam.”

  “Oh, come on.” She pouted in his direction as her grip tightened around his arm. “I’ll even consider a discount for a handsome thing like you.”

  Viktor shook his head. “I should take my leave. There’s much to do before the sun sets.”

  “Oh?” The woman’s face lit up. “We can revisit this conversation after dark if—”

  “Viktor!” A shrill voice interrupted the woman’s pitch. “Get over here you big, dumb goof.”

  “My apologies,” Viktor said to the stranger. He tipped his hat as he turned, his mouth stretched into a grin. Celia Welsh stood in a doorway a few buildings behind him. Thin, translucent wings fluttered behind her slender back. Her lacy white gown hung over her feet. Her inky hair shone beneath the sun. She frowned as she waited for him to approach, her arms folded over her chest.

  “Cece!” He sauntered over to her. “Love the dress. How is business?”

  Celia scowled. “I’ve told you not to call me Cece in public.”

  Viktor shrugged. “You’ve told me a lot of things over the years. Hard to keep them all straight.”

  As he neared her, his eyes flitted to the hand-painted sign on the building behind her. The Den of Dreams had seen better days. Viktor could still remember the days when The Den never had an empty chair. Judging by the clove cigarette between her fingers, no one inside needed her attention.

  “What are you up to? Besides soliciting questionable company, that is.”

  Viktor rolled his eyes, but a chuckle still snuck out. “Thank you for the intervention. I had a difficult time dissuading her.”