Ancient Evil (The First Genocide Book 1) by Brent J. Griffiths Read Free Book Online

velveteen
upholstery. He hid his left hand under the table and placed his good right hand
on the table beside his pint.
    She downed her drink and said, “Another
round?”
    He looked at his untouched pint, placed it
on the table and said, “I think I will sit this one out.”
    “Suit yourself, same again for me.”
    He looked at her for a second then slowly
climbed to his feet and made his way to the bar.
     
    “Hey you, mutie. You trying to get that
lassie drunk?”
    He was on his fifth trip to the bar. He
looked over at a bloke with a moustache and receding hairline standing at the
bar with a few of his pals said, “Wha?”
    “I said,” he said slowly and loudly,
looking around the pub to make sure he was the center of attention. “Hey you,
mutie. Are you fucking well trying to get that young lassie drunk?” He smirked.
“You should be, if you want her to be able to look at your face without
pukin’.”
    “Look, I don’t want any trouble.”
    “Oh, fuck off,” Stache said. He turned to
one of his friends, who was clean shaven and had a large beer belly, and said
in falsetto, “I don’t want any trouble, he says.” Stache turned back to him and
said, “Well trouble found you, pal.”
    He backed away to the table and heard Belly
say, “You tell him. It’s disgustin’. Him taking advantage of that wee lassie.”
He leered over at Charlie. Charlie looked over demurely and batted her
eyelashes.
    He backed away from the bar, knowing
further discussion would just escalate things.
    He got to the table and said, “Charlie, we
got to go.”
    She stretched like a cat in the sun, “Why?
I was just starting to have fun and you haven’t finished your pint.”
    “We’ve got to go. There are some sphincters
at the bar who have taken a strong dislike to me,” he said softly.
    “What, that bald cunt with the ridiculous
moustache and that fat cunt beside him at the bar?” she said loudly and then
laughed. She had a beautiful laugh; whenever he heard it he needed to remind
himself that her beautiful façade hid the soul of a twisted beast.
    Stache and Belly looked over with narrowed
eyes and hard jaws.
    “We have to go. Now,” he said again softly
but more forcefully.
    She stood up unsteadily and put her arm
around him. Although she appeared to be leaning on him she did not actually put
much weight on him. He suspected she was trying to appear to be much drunker
than she actually was.
    She continued to speak loudly, “Don’t you
worry, they were only playing. Weren’t you, boys?” She laughed gaily.
    She winked at Stache and Belly as they
walked slowly past, reveling in their glowers.
    As they stepped out into the rain, she
shouted back into the pub. “Did you want him for yourself, you fucking queers?”
She laughed again.
    He looked back into the pub and could see
Stache and Belly downing their pints and pulling on their coats.
    “Feces,” he said.
     
    Her little cripple was doing a strange
hopping hobble that she supposed was his method of running and pulling her
along behind him. They reached a nearby alley and ducked around the corner.
    She giggled.
    He shot her a glare from his one good eye
and motioned her to be silent. She decided to indulge him and kept quiet.
    The swirling mixture of fear, embarrassment
and anger that he was unconsciously transmitting were a heady tonic to her. She
activated her Soul Catcher to capture some of the excess emotional energy he
was giving off. She would savor it later.
    He peeked around the corner and then she
felt his wave of relief; their pursuers from the bar must have decided they
preferred the warm interior of the pub to a cold, wet chase. 
    He turned back to her and abruptly the
emotional energy he was emitting cut off — he had remarkable control, this
cripple. She was starting to suspect there was much more to him than he let on.
    He pulled his hand from his pocket and she
heard a snapping sound followed by twin pinpricks on her stomach. She looked