Forests of the Heart by Charles De Lint Read Free Book Online Page B

again.
    “Here,” the man said. “Have a nip of this.”
    He took a silver flask from the inside pocket of his jacket and held it out to her. Just what she needed with the way she was feeling—a shot of cheap whiskey. But the peppermint she’d been sucking on earlier had lost its effect and anything would be better than this sour taste in her mouth and throat.
    “Thanks.”
    She took a sip, bracing herself, but the liquid went down smooth as silk, with the full body of a fine brandy. Not until it had settled in her stomach did she realize the kick it had. She gasped and her eyes began to tear. But a fluttering warmth spread through her and the sour taste was finally gone. The liqueur held a faint bouquet of honey and herbs, of a field of wildflowers. It was like drinking a piece of summer and for a moment she almost thought she could hear the buzz of bees, feel the heat of a hot summer’s day.
    “Wow,” she said and peered into the mouth of the flask. She caught a glimpse of a light, yellowish-amber liquid. “What
is
this stuff?”
    “Metheglin,” the man told her. “A kind of Welsh whiskey made from hops and honey. Have some more,” he added when she started to hand the flask back.
    Ellie did, this time rolling the liquid around in her mouth before finally swallowing it. She looked down at the flask, noting the fine filigree worked into the metal before her eyes teared up again. She drew in a sharp breath, savoring the bite of the cold as it hit the roof of her mouth.
    “So where would you find it in a liquor store?” she asked. “Under whiskeys or … you said it was made from hops. That’s like beer, right?”
    Except she’d never tasted either a whiskey or a beer that was this good.
    The man shook his head. “Can’t be bought, I’m afraid. A friend of mine makes it and gives me the odd bottle.”
    “Nice friend to have.”
    “All friends are good to have.”
    “Well, sure … I just meant…”
    “I understand,” he said as her voice trailed off. “Sometimes I am too literal for my own good.”
    Ellie handed him the flask and watched it vanish back under his coat. He took a sip of his coffee and smiled at her over the top of the brim. Amiable and not in the least threatening, but there was something odd about him all the same, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
    What
was
his story? She didn’t think he was a street person, but he didn’t really fit in this neighborhood either. It was something in how he stood, in the cut of his clothes—neither belonged in the cheap apartments to be found around here. His coat was obviously tailor-made—old and worn, it was true, but it hadn’t come off a rack. It fit him too well. And that flask was quality silverwork, an antique, probably, and worth a small fortune. It wasn’t something a street person would be carrying around.
    But then you met all kinds on the street and who was to say what kind of bad luck had come his way? She’d served coffee to men who had been worth millions as well as to those who’d never had more than a few dollars to their name in their whole lives. Some were still proud; some pretended they’d chosen this life. Some had given up all pretense, or simply didn’t care anymore. Which was he?
    She was about to break one of Angel’s cardinal rules and ask what had happened to put him on the street when Tommy joined them.
    “The police want to ask you a couple of things,” he said.
    She gave him a questioning look.
    “Nothing serious,” he told her. “They just need a few more details to finish their report—if you’re up for it.”
    “Sure.”
    She tossed a wave to the man and he gave her a grave nod in return. That was another thing, she thought as she walked away. He didn’t act like a street person either. He didn’t act like he even belonged in this century, though where that idea had come from, she couldn’t say. But she’d met people like that before, men and women who seemed displaced in time.