Chapter 29 Chapter 29: No Ney Never
Nate slipped in almost unnoticed, a shadow blending into other shadows. I kept mingling, doing my job, smiling, nodding, gently steering a drunk patron back to his seat, keeping the peace as the crowd grew louder and drunker. Nate was locked in hushed conversations with Seamus, then John, his usual boyish charm gone, replaced by a grim intensity. He seemed subdued, almost passive, a man bearing a great weight. Our eyes met a few times across the smoky room, a jolt of connection each time, and we both quickly looked away. Good, I thought. He’s being sensible. Not the charming idiot I first pegged him for.
Then the band struck up No, Nay, Never, and the whole bar erupted: a hundred voices shouting the lyrics, pounding the tables in time with the chorus. The room buzzed with a desperate, cathartic energy, a wave of laughter and dancing sweeping through the grief.
I’ve been a wild rover for many a year / And I’ve spent all me money on whiskey and beer…
But as the second verse ended, the music cut off abruptly, the final chord hanging in the air, severed. My gaze, which had been fixed on Nate, snapped to the door, and there he stood.
Charles.
The party died in an instant, the joyful noise sucked out of the room as if by a vacuum.
“Good evening, friends,” he said smoothly, his voice cutting through the silence. “Please, don’t let me spoil this sad occasion.”
The band, after a nervous glance from Seamus, struck up again, a shaky, subdued tune, but the magic had vanished. The air turned frigid, no one laughed too loud, no one met anyone else’s eye for too long. No one felt safe anymore, not with Charles in the room, his gaze slowly sweeping the crowd like a searchlight.
Drinks still flowed, and people tried valiantly to ease back into the rhythm of the night, until Liam’s mum, unable to bear it, was helped out. Then the atmosphere shifted again, crackling with a different, more dangerous tension. The Irish and English men began to glare at each other over the rims of their glasses, old animosities resurfacing without the unifying presence of the grieving mother. Nate and Charles locked in a silent, venomous stare from across the room. Guy, ever the opportunist, alternated between whispering poison in Lacy’s ear and hurling barely audible insults in my direction whenever he got the chance. Small scuffles broke out at the edges, a shoved shoulder, a spilled drink, but nothing me and the other door guys couldn’t handle, quick and quiet, broken up with firm words and a steely gaze, like always.
Just as I turned away from escorting a belligerent drunk patron to the door, there he was Charles, blocking my path, having appeared as if from nowhere.
“Tillyanna,” he said, his voice a silken trap. “I see you’re enjoying your new work. A step up from… previous employments.”
Charles stood before me, dressed in immaculate suit trousers and a crisp white shirt, the picture of civility. At a glance, he looked polished, professional. But then my eyes, trained to see what others missed, found them: tiny, almost microscopic flecks of fresh blood on his collar and cuffs, nearly invisible against the white cotton unless you knew where to look, unless you knew the scent of it.
“Charles,” I said, my voice tighter than I wanted. “Yes, thank you. It’s a living. I should get back to it now.” I tried to slip past him, but his hand shot out and clamped around my upper arm like a steel vice, yanking me close with terrifying, effortless strength. His grip was immovable, his strength feeling utterly unnatural. His stale breath, smelling of mint and something metallic, hit my ear as he leaned in, his voice a venomous whisper meant only for me.
“Who are the Nephilim?” The question was a dagger of ice plunged into my heart. A cold shiver of pure dread ran down my spine. “We’ll speak soon, you and I. I think I’ll enjoy our conversation immensely.”
Then his tongue flicked out against the shell of my ear, a fleeting, wet, violating touch that left me feeling instantly filthy and utterly powerless. And just like that, he released me, giving me a faint, polite smile as if we’d just discussed the weather, letting me stumble back to my work as if nothing had happened.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of tense normalcy, the bar humming with oblivious patrons. But as closing time neared, I couldn’t shake the deep, cold dread curling in my stomach. I stood by the door as the last customers, unsteady on their feet, shuffled out into the night. Nate’s hand brushed deliberately against mine as he passed, an electric spark of connection in the gloom, but neither of us spoke a word, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between us. As I slid the heavy bolt home, Seamus called me over to the bar, where he slid a shot to me.
“Sláinte.”
The word was a low rumble from Seamus, a ritual that felt both ancient and desperately needed. Our glasses met with a soft clink that seemed to hold the weight of the entire evening. We threw back the whiskey in unison, the liquor a familiar burn that seared a clean line down my throat, cutting through the lingering taste of fear and perfume.
“Not a bad send-off, considering,” he said, his voice gravelly with fatigue. He reached for the bottle, the amber liquid catching the dim light as he poured two more generous measures. “Good work tonight, Tilly. Kept a lid on it.”
“Thanks, boss.” I accepted the fresh glass, my fingers curling around its comforting solidity. “Long day. And I’ve got a lot on tomorrow.” I raised the glass slightly. “Sláinte.”
We drank again, a slower, more contemplative swallow this time. The silence between us was comfortable, filled with the unspoken understanding of people who’d just managed a minor miracle of controlled chaos. He refilled our glasses once more without asking, the gesture one of camaraderie, of not wanting the moment to end just yet.
He leaned forward on his elbows, the wood of the bar groaning under his weight. “Need a word with you, Tilly.” His tone shifted, became more serious, more paternal. “You’re good. You’ve got guts and you’re sharp. But you don’t understand this place. Not really. The currents underneath. Makes you unsafe. Dangerous, even.” His hard, truthful eyes held mine, refusing to let me look away. “And the tension between you and Nate tonight? I could feel it a mile off, a cold spot in the room. What’s the score there?”
I looked down into my whiskey, watching the light play in the golden depths. In the few days I’d been in town, Seamus had become the closest thing I had to a friend, a port in a relentless storm. But was he a safe harbour? The secret of the book felt like a live grenade in my pocket. Could I trust him with a piece of the truth?
“I think we like each other,” I admitted, the words feeling both too revealing and entirely insufficient. “But there are… forces working against it. Things bigger than just us.”
He nodded slowly, as if I’d confirmed his suspicions. “Listen, and listen good,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I like Nate, I really do. He’s got heart. When the revolution comes, if it comes, he’ll have me and mine behind him. But these are hard times, Tilly. Harder than you know. And I don’t think he’s got the stamina, the sheer ruthless fucking stamina, to see it through. Those other bastards, Charles, the Church, they’ll gut him and serve him up for breakfast if he gives them half a chance.” He fixed me with a stare that brooked no argument. “My advice? Leave well enough alone. Walk away. And for Christ’s sake, stop pissing on Guy’s chips. He’s a weasel, but he’s a weasel with backing. They’ll come for you too, girl. You’re new here, so keep your nose clean, your head down, and let things take their fucking course.”
We downed the third shot in a shared, grim silence. The whiskey was starting to warm the cold knot in my stomach.
“Hopefully, things are changing for the better,” he mused, almost to himself. “If they do, Nate’s the best man for the job, no doubt. Treats everyone as his own: Brits, Irish, mutants, everyone in between. A rare thing.” He poured one last finger into each glass, a final nightcap. “But Charles and that fucking Church of his won’t give ground easy. They like their power. And you” he pointed a thick finger at me “you don’t wanna be caught in the crossfire when the shit finally hits the fan. It’s gonna be messy.”
Another drink. This one tasted like farewell.
“Now, away home with you, Tilly.” He gave me a weary, genuine smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “See you tomorrow night. Get some rest.” He reached out and squeezed my shoulder, a brief, rough gesture of affection. “I do like you, girl. For all the trouble you bring, you’re one of us now.”