Chapter 7 Names in the Wreckage
The first man lunged over the bar, fingers spread wide like he meant to grab and tear.
I moved before I felt afraid. That wasn't something I had time for. I had to trust that all my dad taught me was still with me.
My knees bent, weight dropping low. My left arm stayed tight to my ribs as my right hand brought the knife up in a clean, vicious arc. Not to frighten him. Not to warn him. I drove the blade straight into the soft web between his thumb and forefinger.
He screamed.
The sound split the room open. He yanked his hand back, but it was too late. Blood welled up thick and bright, rolling over his skin and dripping onto my bar. The smell made me want to vomit. I had no time for that.
The others surged forward.
The tavern shrank around me. Tables. Broken chairs. I could worry about the mess if I make it out alive.
If was the key word.
The cold press of shelves at my back. There was no room left for anything but movement and numbers. Five men. Too close. Too heavy. I could not let them surround me.
The scarred leader came around the side of the bar. He kicked a stool out of his path, sending it smashing into the wall. Glass shattered all over, catching my arm and hand. I ignored the pain as I pivoted with him, keeping the counter between us as long as I could. The narrow space was my ally, but it was thinning by the second. I needed to come up with a plan. But nothing came to mind.
On my left, the thin one slid in with a hook blade, eyes bright and hungry. Another brute hauled himself over the bar, thinking weight would win where speed had not.
He grabbed for me.
I ducked under his arm and slashed upward, catching the tender inside of his upper arm. He howled, stumbling back, clutching at the spreading red. I almost dropped my knife with the blood soaking my hand.
“Grab her arms,” the leader said, voice low and steady. “If she swings again, break her fingers.”
My fingers. Fear surged. I forced away as heat flared in my chest. I tightened my grip instead.
Then the front door slammed open.
The sound was sharp and deliberate, nothing like the earlier crash. It cut through the chaos like a blade drawn slow from a sheath.
Everyone froze.
Two men stepped inside.
Friend or Foe?
The taller one led. Broad shoulders. Neat coat. He carried himself like he had been taught how to stand by royalty and had never forgotten. His eyes were a bright, cutting green, sweeping the room once, twice, taking everything in but showing how he felt about the chaos.
The other was shorter, lean and coiled, dark hair slicked back from his temples. He didn’t speak at first. He just watched. Calculating.
The tall one cleared his throat.
“Hope we’re not interrupting,” he said mildly. “Breakfast started?”
No one answered.
The scarred leader grinned, but it looked strained now. “Closed. Got business.” His hand dropped to the club at his belt. “Unless you want in.”
The tall stranger shrugged, almost bored. “We’re just passing through.”
The shorter man glanced at me, one brow lifting as if this were a tavern squabble instead of a knife fight.
I did not look at my left hand, even though it throbbed. I could feel the blood running along my palm, slick against the handle. My grip remained tight.
Were they here for me?
Or for whatever scraps were left?
The leader leaned closer, his breath hot against my cheek. “You think they’ll save you?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “But they look like no one has kicked them out of 8 brothels for a rash.”
The three closest men moved all at once. One rushed the strangers. Two lunged for me.
I slammed my knife into the bar top, wood splitting under the force, and twisted free of a grabbing hand. My knee drove up between a man’s legs. He folded with a strangled sound. I stomped down on his instep and felt something give.
The thin one came at my back. He probably thought that was the easiest way to get a hold of me.
Wrong.
I snatched the nearest rum bottle and swung blind. Glass met bone. The crack was sharp and satisfying. He reeled, blood pouring from his nose.
Across the room, the tall stranger moved like he had all the time in the world. A palm to a throat. A knee into ribs. A quick turn of his wrist. His attacker hit the floor choking. From the split seconds I saw him fight he held no weapon. Just fist.
The wiry one was quicker still. He slipped inside his opponent’s reach and struck three times to the kidney before stepping away. No weapon as well. The man sagged, dazed and useless.
Silence fell again, thick and stunned.
The two remaining thugs hesitated. One glanced toward the door as if he had suddenly remembered somewhere else to be.
I stared at the strangers, chest heaving.
The tall one inclined his head toward me. “You alright, miss?”
I braced my bleeding hand against the counter. “Better than you’d expect.”
The scarred leader was still upright, but the swagger had drained out of him. He looked from me to them and back again, measuring. Recalculating.
He spat on my floor.
“Not worth it,” he muttered. “Not for her.” He jerked his head toward the door. “We’re leaving.”
They dragged themselves out, trying not to limp.
At the threshold, he turned and pointed two fingers at me. “This ain’t over.”
Then he was gone.
The quiet that followed felt heavier than the fight.
The tall stranger offered a faint, almost apologetic smile. “Sorry about the mess.”
A laugh tore out of me before I could stop it. Thin. Shaky. Real. “Nothing I haven’t handled before.”
The wiry one picked up a cracked glass and sniffed the spilled rum. “Could’ve poured better.”
Despite myself, I grabbed a bottle and filled a glass. My hand trembled, but the stream was steady enough. I made sure not to use my bloody hand. “First round’s on the house.”
The tall one lifted his drink slightly toward me. “Fisk,” he said. “And that’s Talon.”
I tucked the names away carefully. Fisk. Talon.
“Sirianna,” I said. “You chose a bad morning.”
Fisk’s eyes stayed sharp over the rim of his glass. “Maybe not.”
We drank in the wreckage of my tavern, the morning sun climbing higher, catching on broken wood and drying blood. I poured gin over the cut in my palm and hissed at the burn, then set about righting the tables.
The tavern still stood.
So did I.
Outside, I could almost taste the promise of their return, sharp as salt on the wind.
Tomorrow, I thought.
Let them come.
I would be ready.