The Witching Hours

chapitre un

The cold seeped in through Kora's clothes, caressing her pale arms, up to her throat, and pressing bruised lips at the back of her neck. Soft kisses of the biting wind on her cheeks, a shy blush creeping up her features. Kora hurried her steps through the busy streets of London, cursing her luck, for her train to break down in the middle of nowhere.

She was late for work. One would think that people, in need to get completely immersed in alcohol, cared little for a timely fashion. It was an incorrect thought; in what they lacked in common decency, the drunks compensated in punctuality.

As she navigated through the labyrinthic city, that sky progressively darkened, seeming to follow her mood. A misty grey, that absorbed the sun, and plunged the city into a state of soothing paralysis, unchanging since morning; it slowly morphed into a bruised canvas of purples and blues, and blacks, and a sudden, broken, glimmer of white for the careful eyes.

Her feet echoed as they thumped on the dirty cobblestones, the sound traveling in all directions around her, but quickly muffled by the human racket.

The Brew was not particularly appealing in its exterior. Lodged inside a decrepit building, of sullied brown rock, the pub was not far from city centre. Its front, made of obsidian wood, with dark windows, in need of cleaning, that enclosed the debauched secrets of the within. At the top of the main door, fading silver lettering that announced to the revellers, the entry to their bliss. The Brew had been built sometime in the late 19th century. It had been renamed, countless times. The fine establish since its birth had welcomed, thieves, outlaws, disgraced politicians, whores and all sort of masses of disreputable pasts. It had been burned down once, during the Roaring Twenties, a squabble that got out of control, stories vary, but some say men were fighting over a woman of enchanting beauty.

And yet, this institution was rebuilt, and has been a sanctuary of vice and decadence for all those wandering souls, for over a hundred years.

"Fuckin' finally, Kor," a rough voice rasped, a few feet away. A burly man, with thinning grey hair, sunken eyes, and hollow cheeks, stood, impatiently smoking a cigarette.

"It's not even five, Greg, shouldn't you be at work?" Kora replied, eyeing the man. She opened the front door of the pub; the dark silky inside smelled of ale, mingling with sweat and dust, giving off an aura of attractive neglect.

Greg had been a regular customer for years, and was very appreciative of her drinks, perhaps a bit too much.

"Got fired, few days ago, love."

Kora cringed. After years of working in this type of environment, she still hasn't gotten used to the life stories that were sprang on her. People came to the Brew to forget for a few hours at least, problems and worries of life, trying to find answers and solution at the bottom of countless glasses.

"Sorry about that, I hope you manage to find something."

The man's sigh was his only reply. Telling her more about his concerns, than words ever could. Kora dropped her belonging in the cabinet at the back of the bar, and set up to prepare for the evening. Her fingers tingled with anticipation, as they always did. No one really knew how she prepared her cocktails. Kora had an uncanny ability to choose the right herbs, and concocting the right mixtures. She could enhance a drink's flavour by adding a few twists, no one would ever notice. Her grandmother had taught her every thing she knew, but the witches in her family have had always a talent for the brewing arts.