Page 7 of Grim Tidings

“Sure.”

He extends his arms, twisting them beneath the light. “You don’t like them?”

“They’re … interesting. I like the—ah—hot dog? On your wrist.”

Both of his eyebrows jump up. “It’s a bumblebee.”

I look at it again, squinting. “Oh.”

“Have you seen a hot dog before?” He grabs a coaster from farther down the bar and tosses it in front of me. I get a glimpse of a long, deadly-looking sword tattooed from elbow to wrist. That one, I think, is not a doodle. “Better yet, have you seen a bumblebee?”

“Maybe you should look into finding a new artist.”

He laughs again. “Yeah, maybe I should.” He drums his hands on the bar top. “All right, trouble. What are you looking for tonight?”

“I don’t know,” I deadpan, thrilled at the nickname and desperately trying to hide it. This is the most a mortal has talked to me in … decades. “Someone took my menu.”

“I didn’t ask what you wanted, I said what are you looking for.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Yeah, I mean, you could say you want a martini, and I’d tell you you’re full of shit.” He tips his head to the side, his sharp eyes locked on mine. “Why’d you come out tonight?”

“Because I wanted a martini.”

Another low laugh rumbles out of him, his eyes squinting at the corners. “Yeah, okay. See, I knew you were trouble.” He leans down on his elbows. “Try again, sweetheart.”

“A beer?”

He shakes his head slowly. “Nah.”

“A handful of stale peanuts.”

“Good. We got plenty of those.”

I laugh and decide maybe honesty wouldn’t be the worst thing. Not with this strange man who eases closer instead of running away.

“All right,” I say. “I came out tonight because I wanted to try something different.”

He hums and leans a fraction of an inch closer, his forearms bracketing either side of my elbows. Bare skin against black wool. If I shifted in either direction, I’d be tucked neatly against him.

“There we go,” he rumbles, sounding pleased. My stomach swoops. “I think we can manage that.”

“So, you’ll make me a martini?”

“Like I said, that’s not what you want.”

“How do you know?”

“Call it professional discretion.”

“I’m not convinced you actually work here.”

He taps two fingers over his chest. The word BAR is printed there in nononsense, bold black lettering. “You can trust me.”

And that’s the odd thing about it. I feel like I can. “Okay,” I agree softly.

“Okay,” he says back. “Tell you what. All I’ve got at the bar tonight is a bunch of old heads who aren’t interested in talking and a table full of navy boys doing Jäger shots. You want something different and so do I. Save me from my fate, I beg of you.”