The neon sign for "Library Relief" hummed with a buzzing orange light, flickering just enough to make the name look like it was vibrating off the brickwork.
It was a dive bar for people from different works of life mostly young folks , a place to relax and whine about their day over a few bottles of drink for many hours of Ohio mist.
Fiona pushed through the heavy door. The interior was a cavern of velvet shadows and smoke. She moved to the scarred mahogany bar, her legs feeling like they were carved from lead. She sat on a high, wobbly stool, her knuckles pale as she gripped the edge of the wood.
"Whiskey,"
she said, her voice sounding raspy even to her own ears.
"Straight."
The bartender, a man with skin like parchment and tired, sunken eyes, didn't move to the bottles immediately. He leaned over the counter, his gaze sweeping over her face with a practiced, cynical scrutiny.
"Age, kid? I don't need the cops breathing down my neck because some undergrad got sick in my booth. ID."
Fiona didn't hesitate either, she produced her laminated card, sliding it across the damp wood, to which beneath her palms was damp with spilled liquor and the residue of cheap cleaner. He squinted at it, grunted, and finally reached for a bottle of cheap, amber-colored rye.
Behind her, the door swung open again. The two girls from the street—the tall one and her blonde friend—walked in, bringing with them a rush of cold evening air. As they brushed past Fiona, the world suddenly tilted.
"HELP!"
The scream was filled with terror, as it tore through the air. It was so close—so piercing—that Fiona gasped and lurched off her stool, nearly spilling her drink. It sounded like it had come from the very space where the blonde girl's shoulder had been just a second before.
"Whoa, easy there!" the bartender barked, steadying the counter with his hands. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Fiona blinked. The music in the room was a low-frequency, bass-heavy thrum that seemed to vibrate in her teeth, drowning out any normal conversation. The two girls kept walking, oblivious, heading toward a booth in the back. Nobody else had turned their heads. The scream had been entirely hers.
"I'm... I'm fine," she stammered, clutching her throat. "Just a bit lightheaded."
"You sure look like you've been running through the woods, girl, easy on the drinks."he added then moved towards the other side of the table to attend to another customer who tapped the table to signify he need one more bottle of drink.
No one else in the bar had turned around. The older laborers at the tables remained hunched over their pitchers; the students in the corner booths were entirely immersed in the loud, bass-heavy thrum of the stage music coming from the jukebox near the restrooms giving her a bit of relief as she took the whiskey, the liquid burning like acid down her throat. She downed it in one jagged motion. She needed more.
She wasn't alone for long. The door rattled again, and this time atmosphere in the room shifted. A bit of unknown charm pushed through the crowd and the people responsible for it were Damon and Ryan. They moved with confidence that set Fiona's nerves on edge and what's more was their dressing to the bar. If one didn't know better they would think they were the 90s nobles but alas it's the modernize era.
Damon was dressed in a deep colored waist coat with a tie and a pocket watch hung around the waist coat, while Ryan just wore a simple round neck and a brown jacket with jeans. They didn't look for a dark corner instead, walked straight to a table in the center of the floor, right near the two girls who had just entered.
Fiona felt her heart hammering against her ribs. "Strike up a conversation damnit" she whispered to herself, Kaith had said earlier that it was better get closer but it seemed like her confidence wasn't with her any longer to begin with.
She downed another shot, then a third. The warmth of the alcohol spread through her veins, blurring the edges of her vision just enough to drown out her fear. She stood up, her balance slightly off, and walked toward the center table. Her eyes looked only at Ryan's brown jacket.
Damon was leaning in, gesturing wildly with his hands. "It's about the shift in architecture," he was saying, his voice a low, intense rumble. "Look at the layout of the old taverns. They were built for letting loose of one's self, there were at most four point of exits. These places? They're just opened with not taste for people to run wild."
Ryan sat across from him, his face filled with amusement at Damon's comment, "you know there's karaoke and clubs right with multiple exits. The bar was meant for large crowds to begin with" he laughed.
Just when they were about to cheers, Fiona reached their table hovering with the smell of whiskey sharp on her breath. She looked down at Ryan, her eyes wide and defiant.
"Do you hear it?" she asked, her voice slurred but piercingly loud. "The iron clanking. Do you hear the sound of metal hitting metal every time you move your hands?"
Damon stopped talking. He looked up at her, his face twisting into a sneer of pure annoyance. "Seriously? You're ruining a private conversation to be flyting, girl? Move along. We're busy."
Ryan though surprise barely looked up, his gaze staying fixed on the grain of the wooden table. "I don't think we've met," he said, while in his mind he began thinking if he had used his ability since arriving at ohio. The fact that a stranger would ask him such questions was no different from saying he's exposed or rather so he thought.
"Now here comes the mingling words." Damon complains then suddenly his hands grabbed onto her shoulders while his eyes locked with hers.
" What brings you to our table, are you stalking us now" he asked. His gaze shifted from the gentleman type to that of a predator and his words began smearing like a command into her mind. Damon was already compelling her before she had time to shield herself as she was drunk already.
Luckily it seems alcohol itself had messed with her mind so much she couldn't even put together words to flow from her mouth. She slammed a nearby chair between them and sat, staring directly at the space where their faces met.
"I'm not going anywhere," she whispered, her hands shaking as she planted them on the table. "I am Fiona you know, very talented with communication...dead...things."
Ryan finally looked at her. His face was already filled with frown and now Fiona is in front of him spouting words like "dead".