Marked by Magic (The Baine Chronicles #4)(42)

I swallowed the argument that rose to my lips, knowing it wouldn’t do me any good to defend the mages, and kept my head down. I couldn’t bring myself to leave these people – they might be refusing assistance from the Mages Guild, but they needed all the help they could get.

“All right,” the female doctor I’d been helping said, wiping her sweaty brow as she turned away from her last patient of the night. “It looks like we’ve done what we can for now. You ought to head home, and the rest of you too,” she said, raising her voice so the civilian volunteers could hear her. “Well done, everybody – we really needed and appreciate your help today.”

“No problem,” I said, relieved it was over. Yeah, I’d wanted to help, but hospital work wasn’t for the weak, and after all these hours of relentless labor, I was beyond exhausted. I filed out with the rest of the volunteers into the main waiting room, then bit my lip as I glanced at the big clock on the wall. Nine o’clock was two hours past curfew time, and anyone seen on the streets who wasn’t an enforcer or a mage was subject to arrest. Yeah, I was technically both, but I’d just adopted this new disguise, and I didn’t want to lose it just yet by being forced to reveal myself.

Dammit, why couldn’t I have been born a bird shifter? My life would be so much easier if I could just fly places.

“Hey.” The guy who’d commandeered me into helping out clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t you come join us for a drink?” I turned to see him standing with two other guys, all of whom I’d worked with at some point in the evening. “After the day we’ve had, we could all use a chance to wind down.”

“Sure,” I said easily – a cool drink would be very welcome, and besides, there was no place else to go. “Where we headed?”

“Branson’s, of course.” The man gave me a strange look, as though he couldn’t understand why I was so clueless. “Where else?”

‘Branson’s’ turned out to be an underground beer cellar just a block away. It was located in a back alley, behind a thick wooden door with a sliding grate for a peephole. The man who’d invited me rapped on the door, and my sensitive ears picked up on a pattern that must be a sort of code.

The grate slid open, revealing a pair of dark, suspicious eyes. “Password?”

“Humanity.”

The grate slid shut, and a series of locks clicked before the door swung open. The bouncer, a big fellow dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans, gave us all a long once-over. Once he was satisfied we were all humans, he stepped aside and allowed us to descend the long, steep staircase into the cellar.

To my surprise, the place was packed. It was a large cellar, with enough space to fit at least three hundred people. There were so many wooden tables that the servers barely had enough room to squeeze by with their trays, and a bar at the back. Somehow, we managed to grab a table right behind the stairs – not the greatest spot for people watching, but it allowed us some privacy and shielded us somewhat from the loud buzz of conversation.

We all ordered beers and pretzels, as well as an assortment of plain food, and then the man who invited me leaned back in his chair and looked at me. “So, what’s your name?” he asked, and though his tone was friendly enough, there was just a hint of suspicion in his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around town.”

“Brandt Urson,” I replied, the name coming easily to my lips as I’d already decided on it hours before. “I live in Rowanville.”

“Rowanville!” Another man, this one steel-haired and pot-bellied, spat. “So you’re one of those fools who think we can co-exist with the others.”

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not.” I lifted my chin, speaking coolly. “Or maybe I had a good job over there. What’s it to ya?”

The man who’d invited me laid a hand on Potbelly’s beefy shoulder. “Now, Jemin. Let’s not jump down each other’s throats. We haven’t even made introductions yet.”

Jemin grumbled a little, but he relented. “I’m Jemin Fillbaker,” he said.

“Fiden Trumbel,” the third, a lean, curly-headed blond chimed in. He had blue eyes and the kind of earnest baby face that made you think pure souls might really be a thing. “Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Manson Grandish,” the first man said, “and yes, we appreciate your help, especially since you’re not a Maintown citizen.”

“It’s no problem,” I said as the beer arrived. “I would have done the same for anybody. I was on my way back from checking on my grandmother, and she taught me that everybody deserves to be treated with the same level of respect, no matter what race or background you come from. Beneath it all, everyone’s worth the same.”

Jemin scoffed, and Manson leaned forward on the table, his expression growing serious. “Do you really believe that?” he asked. “That we’re all the same?”

I picked up my beer, took a long drink, and pretended to savor it as I considered my answer. It was warm, but the brew was decent enough. “I don’t believe we’re the same,” I finally said as I put my mug down. “That’s impossible. We all have different personalities, different levels of intelligence, different abilities, et cetera. But underneath all that, as a whole, we’re not that different, right? Mages came from humans, and so did shifters.”