Free The Crown of Stones: Magic-Price by C. L. Schneider Page B

them—which we don’t. To cite our great and wise owner,” Imma deepened her voice and slowed it to a coarse drawl, “why in hell’s name would I pay for some friggin’ lout to learn his future when he’ll be too drunk to remember it come morning?” Slapping a hand on the jug between us, she lifted it high. “This is all the entertainment these good-for-nothing, tightfisted, lousy, pricks need.”Putting the bottle down, Imma ended her impression with a laugh. “You’re in the Wounded Owl, handsome. If you want oracles, you need to go uptown a bit.”
    “Nah, I think I’m good here.” I tossed back the drink in my hand. It was like liquid fire. I was still trying to breathe when the blacksmith stumbled into me.
    “I heard about you,” he said.
    I didn’t even glance at him. “Don’t suppose any of it was good?”
    “It was shit. Must be shit,” he said, his words running over each other. “Since you look like just another ugly, spooky-eyed witch to me. Cowardly and cock-lovin’ too, I bet.” He shoved his shoulder into mine. “Prove me wrong.”
    “You really don’t want me to do that,” I told him.
    “Let’s say I do. Let’s say I grab your head and slam it,” he smacked his hand on the bar for effect, “until it cracks. What would you do then?”
    “Something you wouldn’t like. Now, if you don’t mind?” I held my cup out to Imma. She re-filled it, but her posture had changed. The lighthearted casualness of before was gone. She looked angry.
    Then she looked scared as the blacksmith shoved me again. This time he pushed me forward, so hard, I bumped into her, dropped my cup, and spilled my drink on us both. She lost her balance and I had to grab her with one hand to keep her from falling, while my other gripped the edge of the counter; fingers digging into the wood as I furiously struggled to re-route my anger.
    “You okay?” I said. She nodded and I let her go. I let go of the bar, too. Shaking the wet off my hand, I turned around, hoping to find a way to get rid of the blacksmith without it turning violent—and he hit me.
    Knocked once more into the bar, I rubbed my jaw as I righted myself. I spit a generous amount of blood on the floor and the bastard scowled at it as if it wasn’t enough. As if I should have been flat on my back, out cold with one hit.
    “Are you Ian Troy?” he said then.
    I had to spit again before I could answer. “Maybe you should have asked that before you hit me.”
    The brute grunted, possibly in agreement, but he was too busy trying to stare me down to elaborate. He couldn’t manage it, of course. My reputationregularly drew in aspiring challengers like flies and I’d spent years perfecting the right amount of unshakable, belligerence it took to warn them off with a glance. Not to mention that too much ale swam in this one’s veins for him to see straight.
    Still, I let him win. I had to. My nerves were jumping like hot embers from a fire and the effort it was taking to
not
put the bastard down, had spasms running through me, so intense, I picked up the jug and took a long, desperate swig.
    Imma frowned at me. “You don’t look so good.”
    The jug wobbled in my grip as I lowered it. “It’s nothing.”
    “Really?” She put her hand on mine to stop it from shaking. “You should get out of here. Before someone catches what you have.”
    “They can’t.” But she was right. I couldn’t stay. The sickness and disorientation had finally reached that critical point. I had two choices now. Continue to deny my body what it yearned for. Or give in.
    I didn’t want to even consider the latter. But as long as another was in charge of my spells, it was futile to suffer through the pain of abstinence. Whatever gains I might make would be undone at his whim. Not to mention that, physically, I would be a mess. From here on, there was only one way to stay sharp. I had to alleviate my symptoms as they came on. I had to cast regularly and willingly, and I