Oracle's Moon (Elder Races #4)(73)

Suddenly Grace shouldered into the midst of all of them, pushing the young men away, and inserting herself between them and Khalil.

“Go on, guys,” she said with cheerful firmness. “You’re interrupting my date.”

One of them grinned at her. “Sorr-ee.”

Khalil watched malevolently as the one who had dared to touch him edged away to the other side of his group. “Didn’t mean anything by it,” the young man grumbled. “All I wanted was to know what he did to his eyes. Thought I might go to his ophtha…ophtha…Is it ophthalmologist or optometrist?”

One of his friends exclaimed impatiently, “Oh, it doesn’t matter, numbskull. Eye doctor.”

Arguing now and shooting wary glances at Khalil over their shoulders, the group edged down the street. Khalil watched them until they had gone half a block away, and he was sure they wouldn’t be back. Then he turned back to Grace. Her arms were crossed, and her eyes were narrowed. The sparkling expression of pleasure had disappeared from her face. He sensed storm clouds gathering in her energy.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

His face stony, Khalil said, “He touched me.”

She took a deep breath, and the storm clouds dissipated somewhat. “You must make allowances, Khalil. Peoples’ decision-making skills are impaired when they’re drunk. They didn’t mean any harm.”

He still didn’t have to like it or allow it. But as he walked over to put his arm around her, he took her point to heart.

Intoxication could make one do foolish things, even intoxication of the senses. He would do well to remember that.

Grace sighed and slipped her arm around his waist. Together they crossed the street, and he opened the door. A blast of chaotic light and noise assaulted all of his senses as they stepped into Strange Brew.

Fifteen

Grace had been in Strange Brew perhaps a half-dozen times since she had turned twenty-one. The interior of the pub was the same throughout, bare brick walls and lots of wood—wooden bars, floors, stools, tables and chairs. There were three bars: one at the front of the building, one toward the back and the third in the basement. They all had a patina of age that darkened their surface. They were scarred from years of use and glossed from countless polishing.

The basic decor was original and bright, with colorful posters and prints hung on the walls, gathered, Grace had heard, throughout the years from the owner’s travels. There was also a thoroughly modern sound system installed, which was currently blasting the Rolling Stones over the speakers.

The pub was packed, of course, with people shouting to be heard over each other and the pounding music. Grace paused to get acclimated.

Sparks of Power blinked throughout the crowd like fireflies. Several human witches were in the room. She could sense them by the feel of their Power, although she didn’t recognize anyone. Through the brick archway that led to another section, she saw a couple of Dark Fae standing close in conversation. A dwarf headed toward the back rooms shoved her way aggressively through the crowd. Grace caught a glimpse of the dwarf’s craggy face. Her beard hung to her short waist in several braids and was threaded with colorful beads.

Grace didn’t see any Light Fae. Perhaps the owner was in another room, or he might be at the other location. Grace couldn’t remember what his name was, but she would bet he was wealthy enough that he didn’t have to work on a Saturday night if he didn’t want to.

Further down the bar, she noticed a male Vampyre. Like most Vampyres, he was attractive, although somewhat di-sheveled. He leaned against the bar as two humans, one male and one female, hung off his shoulders. All three were flushed and looked inebriated.

Grace’s forehead wrinkled. Either they were all on a date, she guessed, or the Vampyre was a bottom-feeder. A few Vampyres couldn’t give up drinking. Vampyres couldn’t feel the effects of alcohol through direct consumption, but they could if they drank from intoxicated humans. Nicknamed bottom-feeders, they trolled bars and looked for willing participants, offering to buy drinks in return for sips of the humans’ blood in a kind of quid pro quo.

Usually they found no lack of willing participants, as drinking increased the sense of euphoria caused by a Vampyre’s bite—or so Grace had heard. As long as the humans were of legal drinking age, the transaction was entirely legal, although it could get dangerous. Continuing to drink on top of blood loss also increased the effects of intoxication for a human, and if a Vampyre grew impaired, he lost his ability to gauge when to stop feeding.

She shook her head at the sight of the trio, turned away and shouted at Khalil, “I want to go to the bar and ask if they’re still serving food.”

“As you wish,” he said. That was when she noticed how rigid he had become. His expression had turned stony again, and his eyes blazed with a brilliant, sharp-edged light.

She paused, staring up at him. She had no idea what Khalil was thinking. Djinn are Powerful and unpredictable, Brandon had said. They make folk nervous. Shoving that unwelcome thought aside, she asked Khalil, “Are you okay?”

He had been surveying the room, his mouth tight. His gaze came down to her. “Do not trouble yourself with concern over me,” he said. “Order your food.”

“All right,” she said. She glanced around again. “I didn’t think about how hard it might be to find a place to sit on a Saturday night.”