The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) by Becky Wallace Read Free Book Online Page B

was fending off an uncoordinated attack on three fronts. Fists, feet, knees, and elbows flew at him. He dodged some, blocked others, and broke both a hand that reached for his throat and the nose of an undefended face.
    “Johanna!” He turned, trying to catch sight of her, but left himself open for a ringing blow to his ear. Over the cacophony of grunts and shouts, he heard the high-pitched whistles used by the garrison soldiers.
    His forearm connected with a throat, his heel with an instep. The initial attackers were down but had been replaced by other patrons, who were fighting him and one another. He couldn’t see Johanna anywhere.
    Glass crunched, a bench overturned. Leaping onto a table, Rafi slid in the remnants of someone’s meal.
    “Jo—” Something swept out his feet and he fell hard, pain raging across his ribs.
    A punch crossed his jaw and stars burst in his vision. The whistles seemed to fade in and out, replaced by a vibrating buzz.
    Don’t stay down. Down is dead.
    He rolled off the table, taking an attacker with him. A bone crunched and the man screamed.
    “Rafi!” Johanna’s voice cut through the ringing in his head.
    He fought harder, moved faster. Striking again and again, he tried to shift in the direction of her shout. There was no finesse in his action. It was blunt and brutal, survival over strategy. The pain in his jaw and head and side were fleabites compared with the fear brought on by Johanna’s scream.
    A weight bore him to the ground, pressing his face against the sawdust-covered floor. More piled onto his legs, though he bucked and flailed. One of his arms was yanked behind his back.
    “Rafi, stop!”
    The words didn’t register until his other arm was pinned. Hands pushed his head down, making it impossible to move. His breath whistled through his nose, and the nutshells that littered the floor dug into his cheeks.
    “Please!” A body thumped down beside him. Knees covered in a pattern of five-legged sheep appeared next to his face.
    He could hear Johanna talking quickly, pleading.
    “You don’t understand,” she said. A hand, small and familiar, touched his neck. It was cool, forcing some of the violence out of his head. The scene around him slowly shifted into focus.
    A group of matching boots—garrison-issue, no doubt—surrounded them.
    “He thought I was being attacked.”
    “Look around! Look at this destruction, Johanna.”
    Rafi’s wrists were bound together, none too gently, despite her protest.
    “I’m sorry, Bartlett. He’ll pay for the damage.”
    A laugh rang out, hearty and deep, but it lacked humor. “Oh, and I suppose he’s a duke in disguise?”
    “Well . . .” She hesitated. “Can we talk about this in your cellar?”
    A hand gripped Rafi’s curls and twisted his head away from the floor. He looked into a man’s fat, florid face.
    “Monkey balls,” the stranger cursed, then let Rafi’s head drop. “Johanna, you have a lot of explaining to do.”

Chapter 12
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Johanna
    The cellar of the Bean and Barley hadn’t changed in all the years that Johanna had visited. Casks of Bartlett’s home-brewed ale lined one entire wall, while the other boasted an enormous wine collection. Bottles gleamed faintly in the flickering torchlight, tossing squares of maroon and green on the slate floor.
    Bartlett sat behind his desk. A weathered door, worn smooth under years of ale glasses and liquor decanters, made for the desktop. His massive hands gripped a tiny porcelain teapot. It was an odd contrast, sausage-thick fingers deftly pouring tea from the fragile object.
    He was nothing if not a man of contrast. Bartlett looked like a blacksmith, sold every sort of alcohol, but preferred to sip the Wisp Islands’ finest brew. A wormlike scar, puckered and pink, stretched from where his left ear should have been and down into his shirt, yet he loved good music. And he was as quick with a kind word as he was with a weapon.
    Usually.
    Today his face was set in