Servants of the Storm by Delilah S. Dawson Read Free Book Online Page B

skid to a stop under a tree with sharp, empty branches. The only sign of life on the entire street is the naked red lightbulb beside the still trembling door in a building straight out of a different century. The glass windows are painted black, and the tall wooden door stands ajar. I walk over, hugging myself and shivering, to read the sign under the light. CHARNEL HOUSE RESTAURANT . Underneath it, in carefully hand-painted words, it says Real Savannah BBQ for Those of Persnickety Taste .
    I don’t want to go in, but I’ve got the girl cornered. I push the door open.
    It’s dark inside, even for a restaurant. The only sound is me, panting. There’s no hostess, no sign, and no customers. All the tables are covered in long, white tablecloths, and all of them are empty. I feel like I’ve walked into 1850. I head for the door that has “Employees Only” painted on it in old-fashioned script, but it’s locked. I bang on it with my fist, but nothing happens. I set my forehead against the pitted wood and try not to cry.
    “You look like you need a drink.”
    I startle and turn, but this guy would be surprising under any circumstances. How did I not see him when I ran in? The bar is lit by old-timey lamps, and he’s posing behind the long, wooden counter, dark-eyed and gorgeous and wearing a bowler hat over shoulder-length blond hair. Lots of guys in Savannah look ridiculous in the historic uniforms their jobs insist upon, but he makes suspenders look good. His hands are braced on the bar, and his smile invites confidence. I can’t tell how old he is, but I have this embarrassing hope that he’s younger than he seems. My heart stops slamming against my chest with anger and fear and exertion and begins to thump slowly, steadily, with the cadence of swinging hips.
    “I can’t drink. I’m underage,” I say, but he bows and gestures to a row of bar stools carved to look like skeletal hands. I shake my head. “I don’t want to sit down. I just want answers.”
    “You’re exhausted. Sit down first. Catch your breath. Then we’ll talk.”
    The bar stools creep me out, but I suddenly realize that I’m about to fall over on my feet. I walk right up and plunk myself down, letting the shiny, wooden bones cup the burning muscles of my butt. As I stare at the array of bottles on the mirrored wall, the bartender slides something down the bar.
    It lands in front of me, and I look down. It’s a Shirley Temple, hot-pink and fizzing in a fancy glass. I can already smell the cherry sweetness, and I have never in my life been so thirsty.
    His smile is dazzling. “Drink.”
    “Thanks.” I smile back and bend the straw to sip. The rush of sugary syrup and bubbles is calming.
    As I drink, I search the dark corners of the room, desperate to find the girl from Paper Moon. The guy steps in front of me, and I have to stare at him instead. His smile is hypnotizing, and it reminds me of this video I saw once of a cobra dancing in front of a mongoose.
    “What brings you to Charnel House?” he asks.
    “I’m looking for someone.”
    I can’t look away from his eyes. They’re so dark, I expect them to pour onto the table and leave little burn marks, like chocolate lava. I blink, and they’re suddenly clear blue. There’s something strange about that, but I don’t know what it is.
    “I haven’t seen a single person all day,” he says. “But if you’re hungry, I recommend the special. Best pulled pork you’ll ever have.”
    “I don’t have any money. I left my bag in my trunk.”
    The words fall out of my mouth before I’ve even thoughtthem. There’s a humming in my ears, and for just a second I wonder what in God’s name the meds were doing to me that I feel this way without them. Then I wonder what’s so wrong with me that I needed such seriously heavy medication to start out with. At least I’ve caught my breath again after that run, although my heart is still stuttering like crazy.
    “That girl. I swear I saw her