Free Dead Men's Tales (Tales of the Brass Griffin Book 5) by C. B. Ash

welcoming rush of warmth.  
    Shutting the door behind them, Tonks glanced around the shop. Worn wooden beams crossed the ceiling, and were secured tight with the intent to support the weight of a second floor above. Around the walls, wrapped and dried sausages and salamis hung in silent display. The most curious to him, however, was the inside of the front windows.
    “It’s not a storefront window,” Tonks said after a moment, “it’s a glass box.” He lightly rapped a knuckle against the glass in questionand was rewarded with a dull, hollow drumbeat. “Wood with steel rivets holding it all together. Sealed glass, too. Most shops don’t go to all that much trouble.”
    “Toughened glass, ta be exact,” replied a Canadian accent from across the room. From behind the long worn, dark wooden counter, a tall and quite bald – save for a memory of hair that encircled the crown of his head – orc looked over at the pair curiously. Carefully he set a butcher’s knife down on the cutting board where he had been dissecting a side of beef. In his bloodstained leather apron, worn white shirt, and dark trousers, he was an imposing figure.
    The orc stepped out from behind the counter towards them. Picking up a rough cloth from a nearby brass bar, he wiped his hands clean, then replaced the cloth back where it came from.
    He untied, adjusted, and retied his leather apron while watching the two newcomers from beneath his bushy black eyebrows. “Y’see, that glass is sealed, even around a little door off to the side that I use to get in and change things about some. I also have a steam driven refrigeration unit set to help the outside air chill the meat, but blow spent steam into the shop.” The shopkeeper shrugged. “It’s how I keep ’em all cold yet me warm. Ah, but I doubt either of ya want ta hear about that. What brings ya here, eh?”
    “You must be the ‘Fitzcarin’ mentioned on the sign, yes?” Thorias asked.
    The shopkeeper gave the doctor a smirk, “Aye, I’m ‘Fitzcarin’. One Peter Blackeagle Fitzcarin. Owner and proprietor of this fair place.”
    “Ah, well, good day to you, Sirrah.” Thorias replied with a small nod and a smile. The doctor gestured to the case, “we are interested in some jerked beef, if you’ve some to spare?”
    “Ya both are in luck. I just got a fresh cut o’ Highland beef in yesterday. Oven-jerked it as soon as it arrived.” Peter walked over to the storefront window, fishing out a key from his pocket.
    “Oh? Quite our luck then. A half-pound of jerked beef, if you please, Sirrah?” Thorias asked, while Tonks folded his arms over his chest, watching the entire spectacle with a raised eyebrow.
    At the glass wall, Peter Fitzcarin stopped at a small metal framed door – just a few inches shorter than Peter’s six foot tall physique   – situated where the tempered glass of the showcase met the wooden shop wall. The door was lined with a trim of black rubber to seal.  
    Peter slipped the key into an iron lock that bound the door closed. Quickly,herecovered a large mason jar that held a thick knot of dark, oven-dried meat, then shut the case behind him, blocking out the cold air. He motioned for Tonks and Dr. Llwellyn to join him at the counter.
    “The half-pound will do us some good while we search,” Thorias told Tonks. “We need to keep our strength up if we’re ever to find her.”
    “Right,” Tonks said, quickly understanding the doctor’s intent. “Once we find her, she’ll probably be starving. That’s plenty for us and her.”
    Peter, who could not help but overhear the conversation, hesitated a moment before he set the jar down. “Should be about a half-pound there, Sirrah. Anything else?”
    Dr. Llwellyn shook his head sadly, “no, thank you, Sirrah. We’ve a cold day ahead. How much?”
    The shopkeeper considered the two men a moment, “a threpney bit will do it.” When Thorias handed over the coin, Peter looked at both Tonks and Thorias