Enjoy!

Christine

Chapter 28

The Tavern

The tavern was, surprisingly, bustling - despite the lack of life on the street. Walls of dark stone, floor made of brown wood panels, and tables and chairs fashioned from wrought iron, the place looked like what I pictured a tavern to be. I'd never been in one before, but the dim lights on the wall and the undeniable scent of ale in the air fit my imaginings as well.

Every one of those tables was occupied, and more than one guest turned to look in our direction - at the costumes and masks we still wore - and kept their gazes trained on us. A man at the table nearest us leaned in to whisper something in the ear of his table partner, and the other man nodded slowly, eyes taking Erik in.

I cleared my throat and gripped my husband's hand tightly, looking away. In response, he gave it a loving squeeze. A bit of calm washed over me.

The bartender on the left-facing wall, where the mahogany ceiling gave a low diagonal dip, looked up from where he wiped down the counter. He was a large man, seeming to be all muscle, with short-cropped yellow hair and facial hair that wrapped around his lips. His eyes caught us, and he paused, a vertical line appearing above his nose. Then the line disappeared and a wide smile overtook his face.

"The costume party arrived, eh?" he called. "I don't believe I was notified."

A few people laughed, lightening the mood fractionally.

"I don't think there are any tables available at the moment," the bartender continued, "but you are welcome to buy a drink while you wait." He glanced at Erik, then at me, for a long while. In fact, many people were staring at me by now. It dawned on me how few women there were here - and the ones that did exist looked to be barmaids. Even without the costume, I was out of place.

Ibrahim, for once, was not out of place. He'd spoken of the distrust he'd face upon his arrival in Paris for his skin color and accent. At the party, one or two had looked too long his way, though since he was obviously a guest welcomed by Philippe himself, no one sneered or commented - at least not in earshot. But here, there were a few patrons of varying skin shades. Not many, but enough that Ibrahim could very well fit in.

He leaned in, whispering, "I wouldn't mind another drink." He grinned, but when no one else responded, stood up straight and lost his smile.

My father cleared his throat. "Should we...ask for...well-" He eyed the paper in Erik's hand, the one bearing this very address.

I looked up at Erik, who was ignoring them both and rapidly scanning the establishment. Wherever Vincenzo was, my husband clearly wasn't seeing him here. He opened his lips slightly and let out a sharp exhale, then looked down at me. "Will you come with me to the bar?"

"Oh-" In his eyes, I saw trepidation. I saw an unwillingness to let my fingers go. I could see that he was glad I had come. I gave his hand another squeeze and nodded my head. "Of course."

For a moment, he looked as though he were about to lean down and kiss me, but apparently thought better of this public display of affection here in the crowded tavern. He cleared his throat and began walking toward the bar, with me firmly next to him. We were several paces ahead when I heard Ibrahim and my father stepping behind. The people we passed stared at us, a few sniggering, no doubt puzzled and amused at our choice of dress.

"What will you have, then, gentleman?" The man at the bar gave a bow of the head to me. "And lady, of course."

"No drink," responded Erik stiffly. "Actually, I am looking for someone named Vincenzo. Vincenzo Santi."

The couple of tables directly behind us went quiet. But the bartender gave no indication that he'd heard; instead, he set to work on preparing a drink - some liquor in a small glass. "Vincenzo."

"Yes."

His blue eyes glanced up. They were flecked with spots of brown. "Santi?"

Erik's jaw set, impatience rapidly setting in. "Yes."

"Hm." He put the glass right in front of Erik. "Can't say I know him. Here's your drink."

He didn't so much as look down at it. "I said I don't want one."

"I'll take it," said Ibrahim behind us. Erik turned to give him a withering glare, and Ibrahim gave an apologetic smile.

The bartender gave Erik a crooked smile. "Must have misheard you, Monsieur. Since it's already made, you'll have to pay regardless."

My father scoffed. "Did that thief friend of yours send us here only so that we be stolen from ourselves?"

He had a point - a good one - and I felt uneasy. Like something was not right. Like this man before us was dishonest in a significant way.

"I will not be paying for this drink," Erik said flatly, eyes ablaze. "If you don't know who or where he is, so be it." He glanced to a table to our right, the people at which looked away. "Perhaps someone else in this...place will know."

"The payment, if you please," continued the bartender, as though he hadn't heard Erik at all. "I think I saw you walk in with some money in your hand, yes?"

The only thing in Erik's hand was the piece of paper with Vincenzo's writing.

The bartender held out his own palm, eyes intent. "The money?" A slight quirk of his head, gesturing to the note.

Erik's eyes narrowed, then slowly lifted the paper to the man's hand. The bartender took it and brought it low, below the bar, out of sight. I heard the paper crinkle and thump, like it was being balled and dropped.

"I understand, Monsieur, you wished for rum, not vodka. My mistake."

Strange. Some code, no doubt, but I couldn't understand it. God, I hoped he wasn't setting a trap for us.

He turned, and as he walked, his footsteps were a bit heavier than I thought necessary. More steps than necessary, too - seven, by my count. I looked at Erik, wondering if he perhaps had a physical disability that affected his gait. But he was staring at the bartender with heavy focus, on high alert, like he really did expect a threat.

The bartender returned with the rum and poured four glasses this time. No, I realized as he took out another glass - five. He poured five glasses.

And the next moment I knew why. A sound came from behind the bar like a door swinging open, then closing, though I could see no doors anywhere near.

Then a second man appeared, rising slowly next to the bartender as though he'd been crouching there, with a sixth glass.

"Pour yourself one too, Olivier. Lord knows you've earned it."

A good look at his features - light-brown skin, long black hair, and wide dark eyes - as well as his foreign accent let me know immediately who this was.

Vincenzo looked at us - just barely glanced at me and Ibrahim and my father - and then stared at Erik. Ten long seconds, he merely looked at him, expression unreadable. Erik, in turn, stared back, eyes wide and body tense. I could see the height difference between them. Vincenzo was tall, but Erik was taller; though the former held within him a sort of unrivaled confidence that knew no physical size. Then, as Olivier downed the shot of rum, Vincenzo walked around the bar toward Erik. Like he didn't care who saw, he wrapped his arms around him, resting his head on his shoulder, eyes closed.

Erik, stunned, mouth agape, slowly brought his hand from mine and his arms to Vincenzo's back. Ibrahim was watching the latter strangely, with a small amount of disgust I couldn't place or understand, and my father stepped closer to me. While people had been staring before, no one was watching now.

"I knew it was you," said Vincenzo, voice low and gruff. "My spy met you at that theatre after your performance, described you to me in passing - so I had to see...at the party."

Erik closed his eyes, breathing ragged and shallow. When he spoke, every word seemed to be an effort. "I...thought you were dead."

Vincenzo let go of him. "I thought the same of you." He looked at him hard. "But I would recognize those eyes anywhere. A green one for your French origin." He grinned that cat-like grin. "And a brown one for your true home in Venice."