Page 54 of Wolf of Ashes
With this cute face, I’d look like a sweet, little pixie from a children’s book, except that I asked Diavolo to give me a tattoo down my right arm.
As much as I like the contrast with my otherwise cute appearance, the tattoo isn’t for show. Rather, it’s my warning system. I can easily see if the ink is vanishing, which will help me keep track of my illusion.
For all intents and purposes from this moment on, Diavolo is a warlock and I am a pixie. Of course, if I need to use my claws, I’ll look like a wolf shifter, but the visual confusion can only be to my advantage and I’ll deal with that if or when it happens.
I prowl to the end of the alley, grateful for the gauze over my eyes when I’m confronted with the streetlights. Sadly, there isn’t much I can do to dampen my sense of smell, which is currently being assaulted by all kinds of sweet and cloying scents—primarily coming from the flowering vines crawling across the alley wall on my left.
The keeper is a shadow at my back as we round the corner. Music filters from the tavern a short walk up ahead, the front wall of which sports more vines and flowers above the windows.
As we walk, Diavolo murmurs the names of objects all around us. I don’t stop him because as much as it sounds like he’s listing things off for his own benefit, it’s helping me confirm my knowledge of the world.
Lamppost. Streetlight. Pavement. Curb. Fire hydrant. Sports car. Tow truck. Crosswalk…
I’m distracted from his murmurings when a human passerby jumps at the appearance of the four Dobermans.
I bare my teeth at the stranger in what I’m sure is a sweet smile. Here I am, all pixie-like, taking my vicious doggies out for a walk. Just for fun.
When we reach the tavern door, my focus is quickly on the vines and flowers that continue to curl across the front of the building. My senses tingle a second before the female panther gives a soft growl and the keeper leans in at the same time.
“The flowers reek of magic,” he says.
“I can smell it.” I’m not sure how or when those innocent-looking vines or flowers might attack, but they could be capable of anything—sprouting poisonous thorns or spraying deadly mist. I’d rather not find out.
Through the glass windows, the tavern appears completely normal inside: soft lighting, neat tables, a bar at the side. It’s full of human patrons.
The green door in the far shadowed corner makes me smile. Mostly because Mom’s information was correct.
It’s not that I doubted her. Rather, I doubted my ability to apply what she taught me. Seeing the door, exactly where she said it would be—exactly where Irememberedher saying it would be—is the validation I need to feel confident proceeding inside.
Carefully pushing open the tavern’s front door, I hold it open for the panthers to slide in ahead of me.
The human, who stands at a little counter near the entrance, splutters at me. “Uh, miss? Excuse me? You can’t bring those dogs in here. Miss?”
I keep on walking, gratified when ribbons of dark light waft around the restaurant, reaching every human in the place, and the keeper’s voice sounds clearly in the sudden silence. “You don’t see any dogs. You don’t see us. We were never here. Now, carry on.”
The human returns to the list in front of him and the chatter around us resumes as if we don’t exist.
As I head straight for the far door, movement above me catches my attention. I glance up from beneath my lashes to see that the ceiling, and a portion of the wall directly above the green door, is painted with a pattern of the same kind of vines and flowers that grow outside.
Strange.
Stranger still is that the painted flowers seem to turn to follow our movements as we approach the door.
“Careful,” the keeper warns at my back, indicating he’s noticed the painted flowers too. “It could be some kind of security system.”
I’m not about to back out because of it.
When my hand lands on the door’s handle, I focus on what I can sense beyond it. There’s a hollow, which could indicate a corridor of some sort, and the sounds are fuzzy, but I sense a much larger space beyond the corridor.
“We should prepare for a welcome party,” I whisper to the keeper before I push open the green door and step into the corridor.
The female panther and the male with the blaze on his paw immediately surge forward, acting like guard dogs ahead of me. The other two males remain close at my sides while the keeper stays at my back, his shadow casting ahead of me now that the light from the tavern is behind us.
The door slips closed, leaving us in darkness.
The corridor is only short and I can see the room beyond it. It’s large and filled with tables, maybe ten or twelve, with men sitting around all of them. Some of the men are holding glasses that undoubtedly contain liquor. Others are flipping coins and nursing squares of paper close to their chests—some kind of game, maybe.
I expected to be able to hear their conversations.
