Free The Winter Wolf by D. J. McIntosh Page B

my mouth to fabricate a smile. “Thank God you’re open; I couldn’t have made it much farther.”
    â€œAre you on your way home?”
    â€œNo, I’m going to my grandmother’s place on Rue Dorien. I don’t have power, but she does.”
    The woman glances out the window and shakes her head sympathetically. “You must be freezing. Can I lend you a sweater?” She takes in my dripping hair. “Or a towel?”
    â€œDon’t bother with that. Can I get some coffee, some hot food? What do you have?”
    She shrugs her shoulders. “Sorry, no. We ran out hours ago and nothing’s open I can get to. Booze only.”
    Before I beseech her to ransack her cupboards and find something—anything—to eat, she reaches behind the counter and pulls out a package of chips and some peanuts wrapped in ancient cellophane. At this point I’ll take anything to staunch the ache in my stomach. As I rip open the package of chips, a voice floats up from the end of the bar.
    â€œA hot toddy is what’s needed on a night like this. Nothing else drives away the winter spirits quite as well.” His speech has a brittle quality, like the sound of glass breaking—all shards and broken points.
    I’d forgotten about the man at the table. He scrapes back his chair, reaches into his pocket, and tosses a five on the bar. My heart sinks. Please don’t talk to me. He glances at the mouseywoman behind the bar and ignores me. “Do you know how to make one?”
    Without waiting for an answer he says, “Two ounces of liquor. I prefer rum to whisky but double that amount on a night like this. Mix in a teaspoon of honey and the juice of a quarter lemon. You have that at least?”
    She nods. “Lemon juice in a bottle.”
    â€œTop it offwith hot water and make sure the glass is good and hot before you put it in,” he grunts. To me, he says, “You’ll join me.”
    I struggle to come up with a quick excuse, but I’m not leaving the warmth of this bar just yet. I don’t have the energy for an argument and something about him frightens me. I decide not to challenge him. I’ll be polite yet distant.
    He moves over to a small table near the bar and holds out a chair for me. Faking a tight smile, I shrug off my parka and take the proffered chair. It’s the one next to the wall. I’ll have to push past him when I want to leave. I take it anyway. A pair of kid gloves is tucked into the side flap of my purse. I pull them on to warm my hands and put a little more distance between my bare skin and the germs that I imagine stick to the patterned oilcloth.
    He drapes his army surplus coat over the back of his chair and sets his glass down, half empty. There’s a folded newspaper on the table. I get a better look at him when he sits down across from me and I realize he’s not as old as I’d initially assumed, early forties at most. A rather dull face. But what big ears and eyes he has! It makes his entire countenance appear oddly distorted. His hair and eyebrows are a spiky brown-grey and his skin has a pale, almost translucent quality. He doesn’t spend much time outdoors—either that or he’s been ill. He gives me the once-over, his eyes dropping to the outline of my breasts. I cross my arms over my chest, grateful for the bulky shirt I wear over my turtleneck.
    â€œWe take the weather for granted.” He mumbles this, revealing a set of large teeth with long, prominent canines.
    A noise. I jump at the sound but it turns out to be Mousy scurrying over with my drink. She’s wrapped a tea towel around the glass to keep it hot. She flashes me a quick roll of her eyes, a signal from woman to woman that says That guy. What a loser. I don’t trade glances with her, offended she’d think we had anything in common.
    I put my hands around the glass and find it blessedly hot while I try to think of some way to