Four on the Floor, Part Nine - Steemit Exclusive Urban Fantasy

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Part Nine

Instead, I take a deep breath, and look just beyond him, in the mirror behind the bar, see the shadowy figure there. It’s a disturbing image, to say the least, or would be if I hadn’t been raised on Italian and Japanese horror films.

It’s a figure that’s similar to the bartender, but bloody, several wounds that look like they’re still bleeding, and the figure is following him when he moves this way and that behind the bar.

“My apologies, but braiding hair is not one of my fortes.” I keep my attention on the, well, troll is the term to use. I’ll avoid any Internet jokes, it’s too easy and I have my self-respect.

Bjorn, it seems, doesn’t respond. I’m human, not worth his attention.

“Did you make a promise to your father before he died?”

And now I am.

Of his, and everyone else’s, if the stillness in the bar is any indicator. I show my hands, open.

The sound of the gun on the bar, pointed at me, but not held yet, is enough to stutter my breath. I may be a necromancer, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to die.

His black eyes focus on me, fingers on the grip of the revolver. “I will count to three.”

I can imagine where this is going. My choices are to run, and break my promise, or… “I can see you. What do you want?”

“Of course, you can see me, girl. It’s not what I want, it’s what you need to do. One.”

I take a deep breath, try to keep my focus. “Speak up. I can’t hear you.”

Bjorn’s fingers on the grip are closing, his arm taking up the weight easily, raising it. “You heard me. Two.”

It’s taking everything I have to keep my eyes off the barrel of the gun looming in my peripheral vision. “There is no one else here that can hear you. What is holding you back?”

The hammer is pulled back with an audible click. “Three.”

“I bid you to speak!” The words flow out with my intent. I don’t want to die.

I can feel tears as the barrel is pressed to my forehead. Not like this. Not like-
“His brother still has the knife! Its name is Icefavor!”

The cold metal warms against my forehead from the skin contact. “How do you know that name?”

“Please…” The tears are freely flowing. “Put the gun down.”

“What is my father’s name?”

“The same as his… maternal great uncle’s. I won’t say it aloud. Please. Put the gun down.”

“You’re a witch.” The gun is pressed firmer against my head. There are sobs, I’m sure they’re mine.

“He was killed for the knife. With the knife. He’s barely holding on. He needs to go to his rest, but he can’t until his brother faces justice. He’s right behind you and telling me all of this!”

“You think I’d be so foolish as to look behind me, witch?”

“Your message has been delivered, sir,” I say, trembling, throat hot, “You are not bound by name. Whether your son chooses to follow your request is his decision and his alone.”

Bjorn’s finger closes around the trigger.

I close my eyes.

I wasn’t expecting a gun going off to sound like shattering glass.

When I open my eyes, the troll is looking away toward the array of bottles behind him, one is broken. It’s still quiet in the bar outside of breathing.

It’s a short, thick bottle, blue glass. No label.

“How did you do that, witch?” The gun still hasn’t been pointed away.

“Spirits can do a lot when they’re angry. And he’s very angry. Because you’ve never listened to him. You were supposed to be a warrior, not a barkeep.”

“This is my path, father!” He’s looking around, shouting at wherever he thinks the spirit is. He hasn’t looked right in front of him yet. “I promised you nothing! Uncle is dead, killed by a half-blood squire.” He reaches under the bar, slams a sheathed dagger on the wood, frost spreading from where the hilt touches the wood. “Icefavor is here! What else do you want of me? To renounce myself from the clan? Renounce Uncle even in death? Fine!” He bellows words, what sounds like a name, and several patrons use this as a reason to leave.

The spirit seems calmer, at least, but his is no longer the anger I’m worried about.

Bjorn is turned back toward me, showing teeth. “So, witch, what does my father say to that?”

“Will you put the gun down, first?”

He doesn’t, but he uncocks it, at least.

“He says… He always knew you were…” I look beyond him again, to the spirit. “I won’t say the name, but I assume it’s his mother? Yes?” My gaze returns to Bjorn. “He always knew you were your mother’s son.”

The gun makes a heavy sound as it’s laid on the bar. “He still thinks that’s an insult to me.” He turns to look toward the broken bottle, and shouts, “Even in death he never changes!” Directed at the spirit. And then, to me, “Tell him to leave. Now.”

I have no idea how. Usually they leave on their own, or go on to their version of reward or punishment with a little help from me.

“I… can’t.”

“You refuse?” Hand back on the gun.

“I don’t know anything about your culture or funerary rites or afterlife. I don’t know what makes your people remain after death.”

“His geas is fulfilled. Tell him that.”

“Your geas is fulfilled?” Nope. Still there.

“In Sigil, you foolish witch!”

“I don’t know how to say it in… What the Hell is Sigil?”

“The language of magic</em.” The other patron, the prettyboy, speaks up, shocked. “What kind of Keth are you?”

My only response is a blank look.

“Your geas is fulfilled.” Bjorn practically growls it, but it sounds like the language Pumpkin gives me crib notes on.

“The sworn purpose of you and family people is the finished promise of loyalty value yes.”

Bjorn shows me what a dumbfounded troll looks like. “That… was a travesty.”

The other contributes, “Bjorn, you expect a human to understand what geas means? I’m amazed she didn’t set the bar on fire. It sounded close enough, at least.”

It seemed to work, as the spirit isn’t there anymore.

The troll grumbles, “That’s enough out of you, half-blood.”

“We prefer twin blooded.”

“Then you can clean up this mess twice as fast.”

The younger male swallows, and then slips off the stool to walk off to… somewhere else.

“Is he still here, witch?”

“He’s gone. And I’m not a witch.” I mean, I have, well, had friends who thought of themselves as witches, but, “I’m a necromancer.”

The troll scoffs. “You’re a sorcerer.”

“And you, sir, apparently have a penchant for telling women what they are even when they correct you. A barkeep must be a courteous host, after all.”

He leans down to meet my eyes, inches away. “And who made that decree, little sorcerer?”

I hold up my phone. “Yelp.”