Free Vesik 3 Winter's Demon by Eric Asher Page B

innkeeper nodded. “You want a mug?” she said to Zola as she pulled out three more.
    “Yes, thank you.”
    Foster and Aideen settled on an ancient five-shelf spice rack with jars the size of the coffee mugs as Zola seated herself in a rocking chair at the table beside Edgar. Sam was leaning against a small island between the two parties, so I pulled up a stool closer to her and the spice rack. Dad hung back, just on the other side of the island.
    “I want you all to be prepared before we approach the pub tonight,” Edgar said as he sipped his coffee and then set it down. “Our friendly innkeeper has informed me there are at least three necromancers in the city. Two have tried to enter Rivercene, but this is a fortress against our enemies.
    “I don’t know if Philip is with them,” he said with a glance toward Zola.
    “It doesn’t matter,” she said as she took a cup from our host.
    The innkeeper handed me a steaming mug and I thanked her for it. She offered a brief smile and left the room. I sipped the coffee and sighed at the slightly bitter warmth. It was damn good coffee.
    “What about the Thunderbird?” Sam asked.
    Edgar shrugged. “It may help us. It may try to destroy us. It may do nothing. It is an unpredictable creature.”
    “Super,” Foster muttered from the spice rack.
    “Finish your coffee,” Edgar said. “We go armed. Anything you brought, wear it.”
    Does anyone need to get their weapons?”
    We all looked at each other and shook our heads.
    “You learn quick,” he said with a small, humorless smile.

CHAPTER EIGHT
     
    W e lucked out with a parking spot a few doors away from the pub. My breath fogged in the crisp, night air, and I was glad I had a leather bomber jacket in the trunk. Everyone was in their winter gear. Zola wore an ancient leather trench coat almost worn to the same pale brown as her knobby old cane. She adjusted a light blue fabric hat snuggly pulled over her head. Makeshift earflaps made from the same material hung down on either side of her head, and a similar flap covered the back of her neck.
    Sam had on a puffy black coat, with Foster and Aideen peeking out of either pocket on her chest. Dad followed close behind in an antique leather jacket with some obvious signs of wear. Mom hated that thing.
    “Mom may tell you to leave her with the kidnappers if she sees you in that,” I said.
    Sam snorted a laugh and Dad’s face lifted into a small smile.
    Mike held the door open, a padded vest pulled over his usual coarse, unbleached linen shirt and jeans as we all filed past him.
    The old music hit me first as it wove its way through the aged bar, seeming to bring the lengthy stretch of dark wood to life. It was timeless but structured and flowing like an ocean. Two women sat on the low stage with lutes cradled in their arms. Their pale fingers danced, shifting into different positions with inhuman speed and grace. I barely noticed the other patrons, seated at tables along the left wall, opposite the bar. I didn’t have to know what the song was to know I was hearing something few men had ever heard.
    And then they sang. It was all I could do to stay on my feet. It bore a power and grace and beauty matched only by their slender forms. I shivered in the glory of the music, so insubstantial a thing. I would have thrown myself into the seas for such magnificence as it whispered and pulled at my soul.
    Something tickled the back of my brain about that being wrong, but it felt so right.
    The lutes quieted and the audience released a collective sigh. An explosion of applause broke the spell, bringing me back to my senses as I focused on the antique beer signs in the dim yellow light. I caught a glimpse of Cassie talking to Zola. Cara was beside them, waving to me from a corner table. A pale man leaned back in the shadows. He nodded to me and I nodded back as I realized it was Vassili, his white hair fiery in the dim orange glow.
    One of the women on stage leaned forward with a