Chapter One
"So, a werewolf, a vampire and a fae walk into a bar…" Joe says, his lips pursed in exaggerated performance.
"What's a fae?" Frank asks from the end of the bar. He follows his question with a long drink of his Guinness, sloshing a bit out of his glass and onto the counter I just wiped down three seconds ago. Frank’s a beefy type, with a thick body and a thick dark beard that covers his aging skin. He was a truck driver for 40 years and is now a professional barfly.
Joe shrugs, his eyes bloodshot and his beer belly hanging over his belt. "Like an elf. You know, like those movies." His alcohol habit has aged him by at least ten years. Well, that and grief. A broken heart will break your body just as fast. His 50 looks closer to 60, and his formerly brown hair is now streaked with gray.
"Nobody gives a shit about your stupid jokes, Joe," Phil says from his standard spot at a booth in the back. The youngest of them, Phil is tall and skinny, with a blond scruff of hair that dances wildly on his head, like it can hear music no one else can. He works construction, like most of the men around here, so he’s always got filthy fingers wrapped around my otherwise clean pint glasses.
Joe's face falls, but he retains his optimism. "You care, don't ya, Bernie?"
I grin, rubbing a wet cotton rag over the spill Frank just made. "Sure I do, Joe. As long as you tip." I wink to take the sting out of my words, and he chuckles along with everyone else.
It's Tuesday, our slowest night of the week, and these guys are all regulars. They've been coming to Morgan's since before I was born, and will probably haunt the place long after I'm dead.
Joe takes a swig of his Smithwick's. "Okay fine. You're right. Vampires are dead. No one likes those bastards since they started to sparkle. Hold on, I've got another one. The past, present and future walked into a bar," he says, and before anyone can give him a hard time, he wraps the joke up. "It was tense."
That one actually makes me laugh out loud. What can I say? I'm a geek at heart. I just play the tough as nails Irish girl to keep the locals happy. I mean, it’s not all an act. I was raised in a bar, my Irish heritage shines brightly in my pale skin and dark hair, and I’ll absolutely punch a drunk who gets handsy. And if it weren't for these locals, I'd never have made it out of this town, even if I did end up right back where I started.
Fate is a bitch, and if she decides to walk into my bar, I'll show her ass out.
A twinge of pain flashes deep in my abdomen. I lean against the counter, exhaling quickly and holding onto my protruding belly. "Hey there, little one. What's going on? It's not time to meet yet."
Joe glances down at my stomach and is about to say something, a worry line creasing his forehead, when a loud crash sends him into full panic mode as the walls of Morgan's Irish Pub shake.
"What the hell was that?" he asks. "Is it aliens? Is this it? They've finally come for us!" He starts looking around the bar for… what? I'm not sure. A place to hide from the aliens maybe? A light saber?
I roll my eyes and make my clumsy way to the front door. "Relax, Joe. It's probably just a tree knocked down by the storm."
That’s the other reason we’re so slow tonight. A wicked blizzard that’s going to make driving a bitch--if it hasn’t already.
When I open the door, a gust of snow and wind nearly knock me to the floor. I hold tightly to the door frame and grab my coat from the rack, shrugging into it as I trudge out into the cold to check on the damage.
I shiver against the blistering winds, and suck in my breath at the scene before me. The roads are covered in inches of thick, fluffy snow, making it look like a winter wonderland. Winters are always harsh up here, but this is something else. In fact, this might be the worst we've had since I've been alive.
It will take out power for at least a few days, and I shudder to think what the homeless will do, but I can't help but marvel at the temporary beauty it’s inspired.
I stand there so long my eyelashes begin to freeze shut. Blinking, I trudge through the inches of snow to the right, where the crashing sound came from.
I'm expecting a downed tree or power line, but I don't see anything unusual at first. Then I notice a hole in my wall the size of a grapefruit. I scoot closer, tugging my coat around my belly as best I can—I was too cheap to spring for a maternity coat and am really regretting that act of frugality right now—and peer into the hole looking for evidence of what caused it.
Something is stuck deep in the crumbling brick, but it's not a tree or a branch.
I reach in, my fingers numb from the cold, and feel around, hoping I'm not about to get bitten by a radioactive spider or feral chipmunk.
Nothing bites me, but I do feel the smooth edges of a rock. It’s a little warm, but not hot enough to burn. Gripping the ridges, I nudge it out inch by inch as the brick crumbles around my hand into dust.
With one final tug, I pry the object free and hold it in my hand. Before I can get a good look, the light above flickers out. I turn to the road and watch the street lights do the same.
Awesome.
I take the rock with me, my thoughts bouncing between what category storm can toss around small boulders and how strong the generators at the maternity wing of the hospital are.
I hurry back to the warmth of the bar as fast as I can without slipping on the ice and falling on my ass. Heat blasts me as I step inside. Naturally, my alcoholic patrons have already started lighting candles so I won’t kick them out. I love them, even with all their problems.
I take a moment to look at this rock. It's metallic gray with copper veins running through it. Veins that seem to glow, though I'm sure that's just a trick of the light. I shrug off my jacket and tuck the rock away on a shelf behind the bar.
“What you got there?” Joe asks, his voice slightly slurred because even I’ve lost track of how many Smithwick’s he’s had.
I look at it and shrug. “A rock, I guess. A bit unusual looking. You guys ever seen the wind throw stones before?”
I look around at Frank, Joe and Phil, the only patrons of our fine establishment tonight. Well, except Karl, but he's passed out in the back booth as always. There are stories that he has never moved, and he's actually a well-preserved corpse. I can neither confirm nor deny this. But his tab gets paid and he doesn't smell any worse than these other bastards. So we're good.
“It’s bad out there, guys. One last round? Then I’m closing shop before you’re stuck here all week.”
There’s a collective groan at being kicked out before nine (on a Tuesday, God forbid), but I shrug and top off drinks. They’ll thank me in the morning when they wake up in their own beds rather than the floor of my bar. I’m just serving the last beer when the bell over the door dings, and I look up in surprise as a flurry of snow chases three men into my bar.
And by three men, I mean three absolute specimens. These are, hands down, the sexiest guys I’ve ever seen. It takes me all of two seconds to make that assessment.
I place a hand over my baby bump to remind myself what happens when I let a pretty face and a hot body talk me into bad decisions--and these guys look like a lot of bad decisions wrapped in a delicious bow.
Settle yourself, woman. You don’t need more complications with a baby on the way.