Crossroads is a little hole in the wall bar at, in a surprising turn of events, a crossroads. There is no sign on it – the locals started calling it Crossroads when the owner couldn’t bother to come up with a name of his own. Eventually, it stuck. It has a 1920’s vibe, exposed brick, dim lights, heavy red fabrics that cover the booths. But the best part and the only thing that matters: they can mix a damn good bevvie.
As Orin and I walked in, I gave a quick nod to Connor, the barman. He was he wiping down the bar, gearing up for a typical Friday night of bedlam.
Off in the corner, Weylyn and Brann sat at our unofficial table, which is up against the wall, with a view that lets us gawk at the entire room.
“Well, look who decided to show up!” Weylyn said as he finished the last of his pint.
Next to Weylyn, face buried in a book (as usual), sat Brann. Cuts an odd figure, does our Brann. A black-clad young scholar, wrapped in a black leather jacket. And his eyes, I notice, look an awful lot like those black, bead-like peepers on those poxy birds I’d seen earlier. Figures, I mused. That’s Mr. Brann Pritchett, all right. As dark as his magic.
“What took you, then?” Weylyn asked as he gestured for us to join him and Brann at the table. Brann acknowledged us, albeit with naught but a curt nod. Then his puss was back in his book. He was studying how to creep people out, is my suspicion.
“Keegan lost his keys,” Orin said flatly. “Again.” He flopped into a chair by his brother Weylyn, announcing “I’ve got a throat on me. Whose shout is it?”
I felt a sulk coming on. “From now on, I’m just going to embrace the chaos.”
“Bite the back o’ me bollocks, why don’t ya?” Orin opined.
“I tried to clean the house with an enchanted broom today, but me charm backfired, and the broom tried to sweep me up instead.”
“Lucky the bloody thing didn’t shove itself up your arse,” Weylyn observed.
Brann arched an eyebrow at this, and punned: “Get a Roomba.”
The quip made Weylyn and Orin burst out laughing, and Weylyn clapped Brann heartily on the shoulder. Brann winced, and turned his attention back toward his book. To bust me yockers, Weylyn opens his cake hole again. “Since you’re up, Keegan, why don’t you get the next round.” He pushed his empty glass towards me.
“Fine.” I huffed, snatching his empty pint, and made for the bar.
Connor had just dumped a tub of ice in the metal bin. He pulled out a dirty bar rag and wiped the bar in front of me. “What’ll it be, my friend?”
“Another round of pints for me and the boys, if you would.” Then, leaning in, I added “Plus, two shots for you and me!”
“But of course.” With a flick of his wrist, two shot glasses magically appeared on the bar, as Conner flipped a bottle of whiskey into the air with flair.
“Goddess,” I groaned. “You’re showing off too?”
“No one is paying attention, it’s much quicker this way.”
Not a lot of folks know it, but Conner is what I’d call a closet leprechaun. “And why not?” he’d tell you, “People after me arse for three fuckin’ wishes, or a pot ‘o gold, with an order of four leaf shamrocks on the side? Don’t need that shyte in me life,” he had told me many times.
He raised his glass. “Here’s to you and here’s to me, I pray that friends we’ll always be, but if by chance we disagree, the heck with you and here’s to me!”
I clinked my glass with his before downing my shot. I leaned in again, and whispered to him, “These will all go on Weylyn’s tab.”
Connor nodded and winked his agreement. “Cheers mate!”
After our shots, I took a gander back at the table. The three others were chatting happily with each other, or at least, Weylyn was talking. Orin grunted a response when necessary, and Brann nodded occasionally, to ape listening.
Suddenly the air grew muggy. Weird it was, as it pressed in on me. A phantom bead of sweat rolled down me back, and I let out an involuntary shiver. This vaguely troubling sensation felt distant, yet distinct at the same time. Without even thinking, I summoned my lucky gold coin and ran it across my knuckles. It was a simple gesture, a reflex, but it always helped to calm my nerves. If those weird birds followed me and are shitting all over my car, I’m going hunting.
“Connor, do you feel that?” I asked.
“Feel what?” He looked up and down the bar with a confused expression on his face. “I don’t feel anything.”
I shook off the strange feeling, tossed the coin up... and it never came down. Just vanished into thin air. Just as it’s supposed to, I gloated. It wasn’t much, but it was one spell I got right. Most of the time.
Conner laid a tray with four Arthurs. (Arthur Guinness, it need not be said). After my success with the coin, I felt like throwing shapes. I concentrated on a spell. Sure enough, the tray raised up and hovered six inches above the bar. I grinned. Conner put up his hand, covering his eyes.
“You’ve no faith, you tosser,” I ragged him.
The tray began to float over toward our table. But the farther away it got, the less control I could maintain. Then, I got distracted, just for half a tick, by the sight of a right tinker as she sashayed past. (Ah, but she had a
