Chapter 6 Queen of Tavern Rats
Dawn burned through the tavern’s stained-glass windows, painting the scrubbed tables in patches of red and bruised purple. I craved this stillness after a rough night like last night.
I decided it was too dangerous to visit my mother. Sometimes thugs waited till prey had their defenses lowered. I wouldn’t after last night, but I didn’t need to bring that to my mother's resting place either. Maybe they would get bored with waiting for me and would leave the island. I doubted I would be so lucky.
The early morning hours was the only time the place belonged entirely to me, before the world woke up and remembered this tavern. My bare feet whispered over the warped floorboards as I carried towels still warm from the oven’s back. The smell of yeast lingered in the air, thick and comforting, braided with salt and old ash. Cookie wouldn’t be in for a few more hours.
I wiped the tables even though they were already clean. I stayed up late last night cleaning the anxiety away and drinking half of a bottle of Rum.
The repetition steadied me, as nerves from last night still clung to me. Crumbs. Splinters. Stains. I erased them one by one, pretending I could keep everything in my life this simple. Here, at least, I decided what stayed and what went.
The bread knife rested beside the ledger under the counter. My mother’s knife. Its edge caught the light, bright and eager. I picked it up and cut the loaves heel first, then into neat slices for the regulars who would crawl in later, hungover and ashamed of themselves. I tore off a chunk for myself and chewed slowly, soaking up last night's rum.
I counted everything.
I needed to do whatever I could to stop the mental spiral I was fighting.
Plates. Tankards. Bottles. The way the dust rose and fell in the morning light. Even alone, I kept count. Behind the bar, I counted the bottles twice. Syrups. Cordials. The Rum I kept hidden for myself. The ledger didn’t always match, but it didn’t matter. I would make up the difference. I always did.
I was polishing a pint glass when the front door shivered on its hinges.
BANG
I froze.
The “Closed” sign hung there, clear as a sunny day. Most folks respected it.
Not these men.
The door slammed open hard enough to rattle the frame. Five of them filled the entrance, broad and heavy, their coats swallowing the light behind them. For a moment they were nothing but one large shape. Then they stepped forward, and I saw what awaited me.
I recognized the leader immediately.
His features were clearer in the daylight. His jaw looked as if it had been broken and put back together wrong. A scar hooked beneath his left eye, pale and crooked. He stood in front, smiling like he already owned the place.
His eyes found me and stayed there. His smile widens. Scarier than before, it took all my mental strength not to react like I wanted to. It wouldn’t do me any good.
“Well, well,” he said. “Our little Queen of tavern Rats.” His voice scraped across my nerves. I set the glass down carefully and leaned both hands on the bar, forcing my shoulders loose.
“You’re early,” I said. “ I figured you’d be still sleeping off last night’s mistakes?” I ignored the nickname.
They spread out as they entered, filling the tavern with their heat and stink. Sweat. Cheap spirits. Something underneath that smelled like blood left too long in the sun. Their boots dragged sand and mud across my clean floors. I let them. Floors could be scrubbed. Some things couldn’t.
The leader drummed his knuckles against the counter.
“We got a taste for your place,” he said. “Thought we’d make it our morning ritual today.” The smile on his face was anything but friendly.
“You don’t strike me as the ritual type.” I retorted.
He leaned closer. His breath was sour enough to turn my stomach.
“Oh, we got rituals,” he said softly. “None of ’em nice, but they sure are fun for us.”
His hand slapped flat against the bar. The sound echoed through my chest. I tried not to flinch.
Behind him, one man drifted toward the windows. Two more overturned a table just to hear it break. The last one lingered by the side door, thin and sharp-eyed, watching everything.
My fingers slid beneath the bar without looking. The wood was smooth where I had worn it down over the years. I found the short blade exactly where I knew it would be. Its handle fit my palm like it had grown there.
The leader watched me watching him.
“We could’ve gone anywhere,” he said. “But you got a mouth. We like mouth.”
I shrugged.
“You know what? Now that I think of it. I think I do know you. I heard a rumor about a man with a crooked jaw and scar about getting banned from…” I paused, like I was thinking, “four or five brothels,” I looked pointedly at him. “Something about a rash.” I proceeded to look him up and down. “Would you know anything about that?”
The men laughed. It was ugly laughter.
His smile vanished. I knew I sealed my fate with that comment. But I rather go down fighting then rolling over to whatever was about to happen.
He lunged.
I tightened my grip on the knife, shifting my weight before my mind even caught up. He stopped just short of my throat, his hand hovering there, close enough that I could feel the heat of him. He looked me over as I held the knife out.
“Sharp tongue and sharp toys. Queen of tavern rats. I think I will have fun breaking you.” He was practically drooling as his thumb brushed over his scar. His eyes went to my chest and to my weapon.
This was a game to him.
Rage flickered through me, hot and clean.
“Maybe you forgot,” I said quietly. “This is my house. You want something, you pay.”
The thin one by the door laughed, high and eager.
“She’s got steel, boss,” he said. “Wonder if it’s just the tongue.”
The others moved closer. Five of them. One of me.
I measured the distance between us. Who had knives. Who moved slow. Who watched instead of thinking. I could take the leader. Maybe one more. Not all of them.
Not before they reached me. I was out matched. And they knew it.
“Here’s the deal,” he said. “You pour us drinks. You smile. Warm my lap and maybe we leave you breathing.”
My chest tightened, but I didn’t let it show.
“Whatever you think happens next,” I said, “you’ll regret it.”
I grabbed the nearest bottle, pulled the cork, and slammed it onto the counter in front of him.
“First round’s on the house,” I said. “You get nothing after that.”
He studied me, then poured himself a shot and swallowed it in one go. His eyes never left mine.
My hand stayed on the knife. My knees bent slightly, ready.
The tavern went silent. Even the dust seemed to wait.
“Last chance,” I said. “Get out. Or get cut.”
He smiled.
“After you, darling,” he said.