PROLOGUE
It's the wind, just close the window.
Or at least that's what he tells himself.
It's chilly- cold enough for goose pimples to rise on his skin and be felt against his bones, but not so cold that his teeth chatter. It's not the season for such taciturn winds and clandestine weather, it's mid-summer, and even at this midnight hour the comfortable warmth could be felt. Then why is it so cold in here?
Closing the book in his hand, he looks up, across the light of his lamp and into the dim room adjacent to the sitting room he is in. the still forms of tables and chairs could still be faintly made out, and even further back, from wall to wall, the strong black line of the bar was visible. Behind it the glistening reflections of the drinks he stocked.
He is a barkeep; and his hours are long and often monotonous. The wooden floors of his bar are smooth- polished by the many feet that pressed against them. Dim embers glow in the aged fireplace, surely they should be warm- but their warmth is not felt where he sits. He had closed earlier than usual tonight. Getting rid of the few people in the bar was easy when he started packing the chairs away and declared the taps were off for the night. There had been a few grumbles- good natured ones- and the five or six people in the bar had left, promising they would come back for some free drinks. He had agreed.
He thinks he hears a shuffling through the door the leads down to his living quarters and cellar. But he discards the thought quickly. It's just the wind passing through the gap in the door.
Close the window. A part of him says, though he chuckles mockingly to himself, re opening his book. "Ha, what are you thinking, Trick? Nobody here but you." He murmurs to himself, flicking through the weary and worn pages of his book, intent on getting back to his studies. The pages are thin, like hair, and they whisper quietly, little puffs of breaths against each other.
He's not sure why he started reading this particular book- it had been partially hidden behind a much thicker volume of To Kill a MockingFae: Racism in our Hidden World. He had wanted to relax with some light reading, maybe some television- but it had been so long, he had almost forgotten he had owned it. He shouldn't (technically speaking) be reading it. And he knew it. Sometimes even words unspoken could disturb the sleep of different beings.
Not that he could say anything about different beings. He himself wasn't normal. At least to human standards.
Flipping a page, a fine lined illustration met his gaze. Golden eyes stared up at him for long moments as his finger smoothed an imperceptible crease from the corner of the page, where he had dog eared it many, many times before. His finger traced the title, written in ancient runes. The golden eyes of the creature seemed to study his inner self, even in their inanimate form. He flipped to the next page, reading the title.
"The Garuda..." He muttered absently, his brow creasing slightly as the word crept unbidden from his mouth. A slow breeze from the quiet street outside glided in through the window, flipping a page unbidden in his hands, and making the candle beside him flicker as if about to be snuffed. The champagne glass near his lamp seemed to shiver, as if alive, and its contents rippled. A faint ringing arose from the fine crystal-
CLOSE IT! He slammed the book shut, and all at once complete silence filled the room and the candle light was snuffed out. He almost throws the book onto the table next to him as he stands, and rushes over to the window, taking the gilded handles and guiding the two doors closed.
He remains in that position for a short while- his hands pressed against the wooden frame of his window- listening. Silence clashes against his beating heart for precious more seconds, before the speedy glug-lug, glug-lug, glug-lug of his chest quietens in his ears, and then he hears it.
A whisper, like a puff of breath against paper.
And even now, in the dim moonlight, golden eyes stare up at him.