Niamh looked at her for a moment before glancing over her shoulder, as though about to impart some juicy gossip.
“Now, I don’t know fer sure like, so don’t go quotin’ me, but it looks like he’s in the market for some extra padding in the defense department.” She lifted her eyebrows in a serious way before leaning back, only to lean forward again and give a little more. There was an art to this sorta thing.
“Seems like someone is tryin’ta take over his pack or something, I don’t know. Or attack it. He’s looking for help, from what I’m gathering. That’s why we’re headed there, at any rate—to see what’s what.”
Niamh shrugged, glancing over her shoulder again before sipping her whiskey.
“And that guy with the cape just there,” the bartender whisper-murmured so Tristan wouldn’t overhear—a futile effort given his enhanced hearing—“he’s with you?”
“Yeah. He’s the head of our outfit. It’s weird, though. He got a counteroffer not to help the pack.
When does that happen? Really strange setup, all of it. I don’t quite know what to make of the whole thing. Something doesn’t feel right.” Niamh shrugged. “But I just go where I’m told. I don’t have any credentials for anything else, and I’m too old to start over.”
The bartender snagged her lip with her teeth, looking at Tristan thoughtfully.
“I’ve seen some strangeness,” she finally said, quietly. “I mean…not as strange as…” Edgar got a side-eye again, met with a smile.
“Would ye stop smilin’ at people?” Niamh told him, elbowing his bony frame. “It gives them the fright, so it does.”
“It’s fine,” the woman said quickly, putting up that bartender bravado again. “But I’ve seen more out-of-towners come through in these last bunch of months than I ever have, that’s for sure. And they’re all a little…”
She made a face like she wasn’t quite clear how to explain it.
Finally she put her hand to her chest and leaned toward Niamh just a little. “I’m a Jane, as shifters call me, so I don’t really know the details about…” She waggled her finger between Edgar and the guys. “These strangers I’ve been getting aren’t shifters, but I can tell they’re not Dicks and Janes either. They’re just a bit…”
“Off?” Niamh surmised. “Magical people can be. I’ve dealt with all kinds. Some I just want to throttle, like the senile vampire sitting beside me.”
“Oh wow, he’s a vampire?” The bartender looked at Edgar more closely now. He frowned at her, probably to prevent a smile. “I wondered if they existed.”
“He’s very old,” Niamh said.
“Very old,” Edgar repeated. Then mimicked zipping his lips again.
“Steer clear of the younger ones,” Niamh went on. “They are incredibly dangerous. Don’t get mixed up with them. But ye’d know it if they were in yer bar, trust me. Yer skin would crawl, for one, and ye’d assume death was imminent. They wouldn’t have any reason to come here, though.”
“Yeah, no, nothing that extreme,” the bartender said, voice still low. “More like… The guys I’m talking about are just odd, you know? Like their clothes don’t really fit right. They have this casual,
almost messy look, but they sound super arrogant and uptight when they speak. Very condescending.
And I’m like—who do you think you are? And why would you spend all that money on a fancy watch when you dress like a goober-hobo?”
Bingo.
“Sure, plenty of Dicks are weird, though, aren’t they?” Niamh said, shrugging. “Or maybe it just seems that way to me because I don’t understand them.”
“Well, I do understand them, and sure, I could understand if one guy was like that. Maybe two if it was some social media fad for middle-aged guys or something, but”—the bartender leaned in, wanting to prove her point—“they all kinda act and dress the same.”
“Is there some commune around here for middle-aged guys who can’t dress for shite and think fancy watches are the next midlife crisis must-have?” Niamh asked, chuckling a little, making light of it. “They’re probably all friends. How long have they been around?”
“See? That’s just it!” The bartender grinned in a knowing way. “When they come in, they don’t talk to each other.” She pushed up to standing and lifted her eyebrows at Niamh, driving the point home. “There could be two at the bar, three stools apart, nursing their watery American beers, and they’ll never once look at each other. But it’s obvious they knew each other.”