Free The Second Coming by David H. Burton Page B

was a bit too acrid. It felt
good to be hot and clean. Diarmuid sang a strange song about three
men in a tub. Paine had never heard it before, but the tune was
catching and before he knew it he hummed along. Had it been two men
in a tub, his thoughts might have drifted to something a little
less proper. He was relieved Puck was there; his fat, pasty frame
deterred any such inkling. He splashed in the water like a
child.
    As the bath
settled to lukewarm, Paine scampered out of the tub and dressed in
a hurry. They rejoined Lya and made their way to the small, yet
welcoming, common room.
    Dinner was
hearty; goat stew and fresh bread. Puck barely chewed his food,
nearly swallowing it whole. Paine barely had any room for the
rhubarb pie. When they finished dinner, they each sat and nursed a
mug of gritty beer, listening to a rather gaunt woman crooning a
ballad in the corner. Idle chatter filled the room, but some
murmurings fouled their spirits; whispers of Witch Hunters
amassing, rumors of purging Haven, the Westwood spreading and
flooding over a place called Lindhome, and claims of wolfen attacks
along the roads in the Outlands. There was also talk of someone
named Pan keeping the Westwood from spreading this far south, but
he was looking for a bride. With the comment a number of eyes cast
glances towards Lya.
    Diarmuid
fidgeted in his seat. “We should retire for the night. It's going
to be another early start in the morning.”
    They did not
question him as he rose, but followed his lead, smuggling stew and
bread for Fang. They thanked the innkeeper for dinner and headed up
to their room, Diarmuid rolling his eyes as the woman winked at
him.
    Paine remained
awake for a time, staring at the ceiling, lost in what was said in
the common room. He wondered what the rumors meant, especially the
part that someone named Pan had been seen dancing in the midnight
hour with goats that stood on two feet.
    Eventually,
weariness got the better of him and he slept.
    Memories of
what his sister had conjured plagued his dreams and he nearly cried
aloud when they were woken by a sudden knock at the door. He sat
up, and in the dark of the room, barely made out Diarmuid motioning
for quiet. The gleam from his knife reflected what little light
shone through the small window. Fang looked ready to pounce and Lya
had her bloodied dagger drawn. Puck sat in the shadows, a deadpan
expression on his face.
    Diarmuid edged
closer to the door. “Who is it?”
    The voice of
the innkeeper was hushed, yet hurried. “I must speak with you.”
    Diarmuid
ushered her in, the candle in her hand inundating the dismal room
with soft, flickering light. “What's going on?”
    “ There was a woman asking about you. She described all four of
you exactly, including the dog. She was flanked by three others,
all of them Witch Hunters. I told her there were no such people
here and to leave. I don't think she believed me, but she was
distracted by two women in the common room. She took them away in
nooses and dragged them into the forest by their ankles. If they
start asking questions in the village, it won't take them long to
figure out you're here. I don't want further trouble. I suggest you
leave immediately.” The stern tone of her voice demanded
obedience.
    “ We're leaving,” Diarmuid said. “Get your things.” He then
handed the innkeeper some coins. “These are for your trouble and
your silence. Thank you.” Leaning over, he kissed her on the
cheek.
    She escorted
them down the stairs, flowing with an agility that was surprising
for a woman of her girth. She cast the candlelight before her,
banishing the shadows, as she sped them through the halls to the
front of the inn where she bid them a quick farewell.
    As the three
waited for Diarmuid to fetch the horses, four men escorted a
staggering young woman down the road. She was drunk with red
berries and wine, her lips as crimson as the innkeeper’s. The men
spoke of goats, weddings, and virgins. They