Page 8 of The Curse of Ophelia
Many things had changed since those days.
“I am going to the tavern.” I left no room for dispute, charging across the street and turning abruptly down a side alley. My skirts left a swirl of dust in my wake.
Tall, stacked buildings crowded the street, leaving little room to walk. More broken glass and discarded trash swarmed my ankles the farther I traveled from the heart of the city. I looked up at the empty residences around me—faceless skeletons with windows broken in, wooden shutters hanging on hinges, not a spark of life inside.
Everywhere I turned was a stark reminder of the fall.
Tolek and Cypherion followed me, footsteps light for men of their size. It was Cyph’s smooth voice that broke the still air of the deserted alley. “Ophelia, you’ve been at the tavern every night for the past month. Would you not benefit from one night off?” In the moonlight, his pleading eyes against his tan skin were almost convincing. Almost.
“You’re not my father,” I answered.
“As if you would listen to him anyway.” Tolek rubbed a hand across the dark stubble on his jaw, the shadow of which never quite disappeared.
“For fucking Damien’s sake,” Cyph mumbled, and I knew he wished Tol wouldn’t fuel my anger.
I narrowed my eyes at Tolek. “You’re right. I wouldn’t, so why should I listen to you?”
I hadn’t a clue why they always tried to keep me from drinking. It wasn’t like they weren’t by my side every night. It was a hypocritical attempt, if you asked me.
We approached the steep staircase that descended into the back entrance of the Cub’s Tavern, the one Santorina left open for me each night. While I always drank in the barroom with other patrons, I tried to avoid prying eyes from the street and windows overlooking the front door. It was no one’s business how I spent my evenings, but as an Alabath, I was accustomed to everyone caring. I pushed past the boxes and reeking trash bags that crowded the stairs, careful not to slip.
“You can’t honestly—”
“Because we care about you, Ophelia,” Cyph cut off whatever retort Tol was about to make. I wasn’t sure whether I was relieved that he did or annoyed that I didn’t get to respond. Going head-to-head with Tolek Vincienzo was one small outlet I was afforded for my anger.
Cyph continued, “As does your family. You spend every night in a tavern, and you’re not partaking in the casual refreshment. Rina said you drained three bottles of her strongest supply last week.”
I froze, searching for a denial, but only hazy memories surfaced. Hiccuping my way home under the moonlight, engaging in a round of illegal gambling with a small man of elvish descent, staring up at the spinning stars and wondering why my life had crumbled so. I couldn’t even be mad that Santorina and the boys had been discussing my habits when he was right.
“Ophelia, you’re a warrior.” Cyph said it like a promise, though we’d been told we could not become ascended warriors anymore. “Your body is your greatest weapon, and you’re poisoning it every night. What would…” He trailed off, his unspoken words lingering in the air. What would Malakai think?
“You can’t imply that it’s not a part of warrior culture to drink.” It was a behavior seen as frequently as a training session in the pre-war days.
Cyph shook his head. “Not for the reasons you do.”
The implication stung, but it only strengthened my resolve as memories of Malakai and the future I’d dreamed of flashed across my vision. I needed to blur them with something as strong, warm, and intoxicating as his presence. To forget the ghost lurking among us.
I raised my chin and looked into Cyph’s beseeching stare, his jaw firmly set. I cursed his Spirit-damned rationale and how impossibly correct he always was—though I refused to admit it.
“You’re right, I am a warrior. And I make. My. Own. Decisions.” I punctuated each word with cold deliberation.
Holding his stare, I curled my fingers around the metal door handle and wrenched it open, throwing a beam of light onto our trio. As I stepped into the storeroom of the tavern, an ache echoed in my heart.
“We should know by now that with her fire, she wins every argument,” Tol mused from the stairs, and I couldn’t help the smirk that lifted my lips. He clapped Cyph on the back. “Nonetheless, that was a valiant attempt at persuasion, CK. After you.” Tolek held the door open, and they followed me past shelves crowded with dark brown bottles.
When I reached the bar, I pulled my favorite stool out from under the countertop, the scrape of its wooden legs cutting through the dim chatter. The Cub’s Tavern was nearly empty tonight, save for a handful of burly men gathered in a booth near the fire.
My friends and I had frequented this tavern for years, its presence serving as a haven for those under eighteen prior to the war. Post-war, it became a place for those who wanted a little solace and a strong distraction, regardless of age.
In the dimly lit room, I could practically see the past, our group packed along a table in the dining room. Now it was coated with stains and splinters, but then, friends would have surrounded us, drinks being drained and games gambled upon.
I remembered the cool stone wall beside the fireplace biting into the back of my neck as I leaned against it. Malakai’s hands on either side of my head, broad shoulders shadowing me from view of the room as he brushed his lips against mine, almost innocently. A teaser of what was to come later. Now, crumbled stones stood in our place, a fire weakly fluttering in the grate.
Perhaps most painful of all, I remembered the barkeeps. The way Santorina’s parents welcomed us with warmth and ale—never strong enough to cause our younger selves any harm, just a bit of fun. The bar had glowed with their presence, infecting everyone who passed through the door with a buzz of delight and wrapping the room in a familial embrace.
But Santorina’s parents didn’t survive the war, casualties of a Mystique and Engrossian dispute though they shared blood of neither clan.
As memories of two bloodied, lifeless bodies flashed through my mind, their daughter swam into focus behind the bar. “What can I get you tonight?” Her greeting was neither cold nor warm but layered with exhaustion.