The Amulet Of Nicmir (The Scripts Of Neptune, Book 1)

Chapter 22

Crynia glowered at her mug. It stared right back, placid and unterrifying.

She blew out a breath through her nose, grimacing as she downed the cold coffee in one draw. It tasted like dirt.

She hated coffee. It was beyond her how anyone drank it for pleasure. She'd only decided to have a mug this morning because she felt half-dead with lack of sleep, and her limbs were heavier than lead.

She was furious with herself. Well, furious with the whole world, really. They'd come up with those stupid gods and decided to celebrate them. Now, because of people's petty excuses for existence, she was stuck in a room with Sam. Her inner demons had let him see her weak. And that was something she was far from happy about or comfortable with. Inner demons were supposed to stay inner. Personal. They were an essential, writhing, rotten part of her soul's quintessence, and as much as she hated them, they kept her anchored in reality.

Now that Sam had caught a glimpse, he would try and make her feel better. An estranged part of her wanted someone like that. Someone to lean on. Someone to tell all her deepest secrets to.

Someone to trust.

Her mug slammed on the polished counter in front of her, her knuckles turning white as she clenched the handle. She didn't need anyone. And she didn't want them, either. Sam would learn that if he tried to pry her open and help.

"You all right, miss?"

Crynia raised her eyes from the counter to glare at the innkeeper. He was watching her with pity, absently drying a glass tankard with a ratty towel.

"I'm fine," she snapped, sliding her mug down the counter. "That mug needs to be washed. And your coffee is horrid."

The corner of his mouth twitched up, and he turned around to place the glass on the shelf of bottles and cups behind him. "Rough night, then? I saw your man leave this mornin'."

Crynia narrowed her eyes. "He's not 'my man'. Trust me, if I could murder him and get away with it, I would."

The innkeeper offered a throaty chuckle. "Aye, my wife drives me mad sometimes, too. We always make up afterward, though." He winked at her.

"He's not my lover," Crynia growled, pressing her palms flat on the counter. "We're both stuck here because of some stupid rule, and because the universe hates me, we got shoved in the same room. It's nothing more than that."

The innkeeper shrugged, but there was still a smile playing on his chubby face.

Crynia scowled and tapped her fingers on the counter. Boredom set in after about a minute, interrupted only by the warm, sharp smell of ale and smoke that had seeped into everything in the room over the years.

The room was empty and quiet. Music drifted through the glass panes of the windows, but the silence was deafening. Crynia stared at the door, her head resting on her hands. She wished Sam would hurry up with the others. He'd gone to meet them at the gate. At least a conference would be more interesting than waiting in a silent, smoky old inn.

Her head lifted when glass clinked together on the counter in front of her. The innkeeper took a seat across from her, a bottle of wine in his hand.

When she gave him a questioning look, he said, "It's Nashti. A drink cures boredom, too," and poured a glass for himself before offering Crynia the bottle.

With an internal "Why not?", Crynia tipped the bottle up and filled her glass.

The liquid was warm and sweet on her tongue when she downed it, but she grimaced at the sour aftertaste. She felt a little of it go to her head.