Page 7 of A Kiss From a Wolfman
“You can investigate it for yourself, old man. For now, I want to celebrate being alive with another pint of ale.”
He produces another gold coin and pushes his empty mug towards me. My clammy hand extends toward it, but Old Bill intercepts me. He pushes back Timson’s coin before reaching beneath the bar and pulling out an entire bottle of whiskey. The amber liquid swishes behind the thick glass.
Handing it to Timson, Old Bill says, “For keeping the town safe, why don’t you and your hunters treat yourselves? On the house.”
Timson nods his thanks as Old Bill turns towards me.
“Stella, get our friends here some glasses.”
My hands feel numb as I reach below the bartop to locate them. The other hunters have gathered at a far table, and soon, only Old Bill, Timson, and I are gathered around the bar. Most of the other patrons have left for the evening, having had their fill of the hunters’ tale.
“Don’t forget a glass for yourself, beauty. We should all celebrate that this beast didn’t get the chance to eat us.”
I nod, unable to even form one of my fake smiles. My hands knock into a few glasses beneath the bar. I’m afraid I’ll drop them due to my sweaty palms.
There’s a creature out there confined and scared—suffering. Its death is looming at the hands of such cruel captors. Perhaps it is misplaced, but I can’t help but feel a kinship towards the chained beast. Was I not once just like it? Kept against my will as my future was torn away?
The thought of any creature suffering has never sat well with me, but this feels different. It is as if my very soul is compelling me to act. But what would I do? WhatcouldI do?
I set the glasses in front of Timson, who fills one up partially with amber liquid and pushes it towards me. I stare at the glass, my reflection faint in the sparkling liquid. Leaning over the bar to collect the rest of the glasses, Timson’s voice is a low caress.
“Join us by the fire, Stella. We didn’t get to finish our earlier conversation.”
Taking the glass, I try a sip of the whiskey. It burns down my throat before settling in my riotous stomach. The pain allows me to refocus and kindle my resolve. I am not as helpless as I once was. An act of kindness saved me, and I will be damned if I do not repay it to another in need.
“I’m sorry, Timson,” I say, knowing how much he likes it when I use his name. “The washing up still needs to be done.”
The hunter looks displeased, but remembering the free whiskey in his arms, he turns on a booted heel toward his men. They pat him on the back and cheer; soon, they are lost to their cups. Timson throws me one final look over his shoulder.
“You cannot avoid me or this conversation forever, Stella.”
Icy nails drag up my spine as I collect discarded mugs from the top of the bar. Old Bill lingers behind me as I gather a soapy water basin and begin cleaning.
“There are worse husbands than Timson, Stella. Someone like him could keep you safe—especially alone in that cottage.”
I barely glance up from my washing, my voice a whisper.
“But who would keep me safe from Timson?”
Old Bill huffs humorlessly and begins drying the clean mugs beside me.
“I just worry about you—I have since you started here. Stella, you’re a hard worker, but this is no life for a young woman.”
His statement is from a place of concern, but it stings just the same. It seems that no matter how you are born in life—a princess or a peasant—women are constantly forced into roles that men believe are fitting for us.
Do I want a family? Yes, I always have. However, I want one with someone of my choosing. I will not bind myself to a man because this village believes I must. I will not marry or have children with anyone I do not love.
“I can take care of myself, Old Bill. I have been doing so for a very long time.” I hand him the final clean mug and wipe off the bar's surface. “It is not my plan to work here forever—I want a family—but not with someone like Timson.”
Old Bill raises a brow. “Well, we don’t get many handsome strangers passing through. I fear, my dear, your options here are becoming slim.”
I merely shrug. “It’ll work out—somehow, things in my life always do.”
Old Bill chuckles as he asks, “Magic?”
A secret smile curls my lips. “Maybe.”
Old Bill laughs again and settles the final mug below the bar. My eyes drift to the hunters around the fire. The orange light paints them in jagged shadows. The bottle is half empty, and they’ll be severely drunk by the time they are done. It is usually up to me to close up, and I don’t have a particular interest in being around here once they run out of liquor.
