Onyx Eclipse (The Raven Queen's Harem 5)

The zap is familiar this time as I pass through the disarming wards of the bar. Being so unfamiliar with my magic and abilities, I’m never sure what I’m losing—they’ve only been strong under spells or in the fighting ring—but I feel a specific loss when I step past the bouncer and into the shadowy room.

The music is loud enough to disguise conversations but not overbearing. The crowd is lighter than last time, empty tables are scattered across the room. I don’t see anyone familiar but I decide to wait it out and find an empty stool at the bar.

“What would you like?” the bartender asks. I saw her speaking to Dylan the other night. She’s got creamy brown skin and a shaved head. Her features are tiny, the tips of her ears slightly pointed. I try not to stare at her teeth, sharp at the canines, but fail.

“Whiskey,” I reply, scanning the rest of the bar. I’d come to like the taste of it after being handed a glass so many times at The Nead. She pours the drink and slides it across the bar. “Thanks.”

She helps another customer and I try to search the dark room. It’s impossible, though, without looking nosy. The bartender wipes the counter and says, “You were here the other night. With the Raven.”

I nod and take a sip of the fiery drink. “I was.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Where is he this time?”

I shrug.

“He doesn’t know you’re here, does he?”

“Why would you ask that? I’m an adult. I can go where I please.”

She snorts. It’s a delicate sound. She leans over the bar and I see her eyes, green with flakes of swirling gold. “Tell me, Your Majesty, why are you here? Maybe I can help?”

“Why did you call me that?”

“Your Majesty? Are you not the Queen of Ravens?”

“No,” I say, but it feels like a lie. I look at my drink. “It’s complicated.”

“Not really.”

Another customer approaches and she walks down the bar length. I consider leaving, but the woman may be able to help. When she returns, I take another sip of my drink and ask, “What’s your name?”

“Cirice.”

“Well, Cirice, I’m looking for the Shaman.”

Her head tilts. “No, there’s no way your Guardian knows you’re here.”

“Do you know where he is? The Shaman? I think he can help me.”

“Oh, I’m sure he can,” she laughs under her breath. “That’s one bag of trouble you don’t want to get into.”

“Dylan warned me, but like you said, I’m the Queen and he’s my Guardian, not my boss. I have to make the hard decisions—the tough choices. If the Shaman can help me, I have to take the risk.”

The bartender hesitates but her eyes flick over my shoulder toward a darkened corner of the bar. There’s a small booth tucked against the wall. I can make out a figure sitting alone.

“Thank you,” I say, drinking the remainder of my whiskey and sliding the glass across the counter. I ease off my stool.

“Wait,” she says, holding up a finger. I pause as she grabs a glass and a bottle of a dark liquid in a green bottle. I can’t read the language on the label. “It’s his favorite.”

I reach for the cash in my pocket, but she shakes her head. “The Ravens have a tab. I’ll put it on there.”

Of course they do. Again, I nod my thanks, take the bottle, and start across the bar. I feel the eyes of the patrons watch me when I pass. There’s little doubt they all know exactly who I am. That also means they know I’m responsible, at least partly, for the sickness raging outside. Tran mentioned not everyone was opposed to the Morrigan’s war, but it’s impossible to know what side anyone belongs to, so I keep my chin lifted and walk straight to the booth.

The Shaman sits with his back to the corner, focused on a small book. An empty glass sits next to it. I approach and hold the bottle out first, silently thanking the bartender for giving me an opening line. I open my mouth but without looking up he beats me to it, pushing his glass closer to the edge and saying, “Fill the glass and take a seat.”

I screw off the lid and fill the glass to the rim. The liquid is so dark it looks like ink. I do as he says, sliding into the booth across from him. He closes his book, takes a sip of the drink, and smiles. “Remind me to tip Cirice generously. She’s worked the bar long enough to know exactly what her customers want. Is that why she sent you here? Gift in hand?”

His skin is dark as midnight. His voice deep and smooth. There’s no denying the confidence he carries, the lingering of magic even if the wards have him controlled—something I doubt as the seconds flip by.