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zg_shadows2009-02-03 12:19 pm
ksirafai.livejournal.com) wrote in zg_shadows2009-02-03 12:19 pm
Entry tags:
The lights are still on
In the window of Biers. Biers, reputedly, has the best insurance you can buy ('even for acts of God') but no one's entirely sure what this is going to get covered by.
Collateral damage is the only thing that's hit the place all throughout the night - Jamie's rep goes a long way, but explosives go further with the Ratkin, and tonight they're listening to some dream of their own that barely leaves them enough coherence to recognise the pub and the mildly put-out barmaid at the door.
'I woke up two hours ago, my shift started twenty minutes ago, and you expect me to let you throw stones through my windows? Come on now, get on elsewhere and maybe we won't be after you for damages...' There's a flash of something in her eyes that isn't usually there, and her smile's a little less smooth than normal, as a small nest of rodents swarm past her ankles, one opportunist managing to get half way up her leg before losing grip on the now-laddered stocking and sliding off.
There's never a proper crowd in the bar, but today seems different - the medium circle are all in tears as one of them oozes ectoplasmic backlash from a monstrous storm; a small group of psychics are working on reinforcing the wards and keeping out anyone with aggressive tendencies (and that might explain why there aren't any wolves, thinks Mhairie, or it might say that there's something bigger going on) and the old woman and her adopted grandson have settled into a corner and are trying, with shaking hands, to play rummy.
Everyone's doing something to protect the place that's given them security and acceptance, and all Mhairie can do, standing at the door and looking pretty, is wait and hope that Jamie's name, Paul's protections and the patrons' efforts are enough to stem the tide of violence.
There are too many people she knows in this town - and too many of them she's felt, with a tiny lost tug, won't be back again. The phone lines are overloaded. The mobile network's down. The telepaths are all busy. No ghosts are talking to anyone right now. The vampires won't come out till sundown, and they're rarely good for a favour anyway. Ceri'd probably be safe with her father, if James hadn't got her out of the city; Meg's bound to be in Kew or with Michael, and Meg's daughter'd better be with her; Rae - Rae would be doing something foolish, no doubt, but knew where to come if she needed it; Suzanne would be kept by the Mummies.
So there's nothing to do apart from serve drinks, keep the kitchen open ('we've got sandwiches, sandwiches, or, if you're really lucky, toast. Also, we're fine for bait and we've got a load of Kosher Marys in. Pick your poison...') till someone who can actually cook comes in, and make sure people feel safe.
So she stands by the doorway till one of the bouncers comes by (Jamie won't be in yet. Thad's not been seen all week. Neachtan's not coming back soon.) and smiles and slings on a borrowed coat to keep warm, and makes sure the rats know that this is Jamie's place.
And prays.
You never know.
Collateral damage is the only thing that's hit the place all throughout the night - Jamie's rep goes a long way, but explosives go further with the Ratkin, and tonight they're listening to some dream of their own that barely leaves them enough coherence to recognise the pub and the mildly put-out barmaid at the door.
'I woke up two hours ago, my shift started twenty minutes ago, and you expect me to let you throw stones through my windows? Come on now, get on elsewhere and maybe we won't be after you for damages...' There's a flash of something in her eyes that isn't usually there, and her smile's a little less smooth than normal, as a small nest of rodents swarm past her ankles, one opportunist managing to get half way up her leg before losing grip on the now-laddered stocking and sliding off.
There's never a proper crowd in the bar, but today seems different - the medium circle are all in tears as one of them oozes ectoplasmic backlash from a monstrous storm; a small group of psychics are working on reinforcing the wards and keeping out anyone with aggressive tendencies (and that might explain why there aren't any wolves, thinks Mhairie, or it might say that there's something bigger going on) and the old woman and her adopted grandson have settled into a corner and are trying, with shaking hands, to play rummy.
Everyone's doing something to protect the place that's given them security and acceptance, and all Mhairie can do, standing at the door and looking pretty, is wait and hope that Jamie's name, Paul's protections and the patrons' efforts are enough to stem the tide of violence.
There are too many people she knows in this town - and too many of them she's felt, with a tiny lost tug, won't be back again. The phone lines are overloaded. The mobile network's down. The telepaths are all busy. No ghosts are talking to anyone right now. The vampires won't come out till sundown, and they're rarely good for a favour anyway. Ceri'd probably be safe with her father, if James hadn't got her out of the city; Meg's bound to be in Kew or with Michael, and Meg's daughter'd better be with her; Rae - Rae would be doing something foolish, no doubt, but knew where to come if she needed it; Suzanne would be kept by the Mummies.
So there's nothing to do apart from serve drinks, keep the kitchen open ('we've got sandwiches, sandwiches, or, if you're really lucky, toast. Also, we're fine for bait and we've got a load of Kosher Marys in. Pick your poison...') till someone who can actually cook comes in, and make sure people feel safe.
So she stands by the doorway till one of the bouncers comes by (Jamie won't be in yet. Thad's not been seen all week. Neachtan's not coming back soon.) and smiles and slings on a borrowed coat to keep warm, and makes sure the rats know that this is Jamie's place.
And prays.
You never know.