The Source (Witching Savannah, Book 2) by J.D. Horn Read Free Book Online

territory. This man, she informed me wordlessly, belonged to her. Lord help her, she could have him, but he shrugged off her arm and drew up closer to me.
    “Naw, that can’t be. She ain’t got no ring on her finger. You can tell by looking at her that she ain’t the type to spread her legs just to say howdy. Am I right there, boy?”
    In my peripheral vision, I noticed movement. Another of their group, this one much younger. High school age? He already stood several inches taller than the leader of the pack. The younger man’s build qualified him as an ectomorph—very muscular, yet much leaner than his buddy. He skulked up behind the other two, hovering close enough to imply his complicity, but only just. Filthy jeans, dirty blond hair, angry blue eyes, a crooked smile. He was a good-looking kid, too good-looking to be theirs, and truth be told, a little too old to be theirs, even by bayou standards. A brother? Cousin? Cohort? Regardless of how they fit together, he still stood out as the prettiest of the trio. A look of excited expectation shone in those spiteful eyes. I felt my stomach drop when I realized that whatever excitement he expected had something to do with me.
    “I should get back inside,” I said, feeling behind me for the doorknob.
    “Ah, no need to run off so soon,” the older man said. “We were hoping to get to know you a bit. Learn a bit about your beautiful city here. Come on over here, Joe, and introduce yourself to the lady.”
    The kid stepped up and completed a semicircle, blocking my path. The single escape was back through the door to the tavern. “Hello,” he said, and I could smell the excitement coming off him. Up close, I could tell he was a little older than my first impression had led me to believe. Sixteen? Eighteen? His eyes lacked any sense of empathy, humanity. He carried an aura that was exactly the right combination of innocence and danger to fascinate a girl who had a taste for crazy. I feared for any girl who’d let herself get caught up in his charm.
    “See, that ain’t so bad, is it?” the man asked, but I wasn’t sure if the question had been aimed at me or at this Joe. “I’m Ryder. Ryder Ludke. This here is Birdy. Say hello, Birdy.”
    The woman stayed silent until Ryder tilted his head slightly toward her, a promise of uncontrolled violence concentrated in such a slight movement. “Hello,” she said, cringing and taking a step to the side.
    “Maybe you would like to invite us into your fine establishment and offer us a libation?” The question carried the weight of a command.
    “Libation,” Joe parroted, and then guffawed. He and Ryder shared a glance that celebrated Ryder’s wit. These were train people, modern-day hobos with all of the nasty and none of the romance, I surmised. A race of panhandlers that had taken root in Savannah, taking over and occasionally scaring off the regular folk, the ones who sold palm-frond roses or picked out tunes on instruments. The train people used intimidation rather than souvenirs to liberate spare change from tourists’ pockets.
    “I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m not the owner, and the bar doesn’t open until five. We could lose our liquor license.”
    “Come on. You’re free, white, and twenty-one, ain’t you?” Ryder asked. “You can do whatever the hell you want.”
    “And what I want to do is get back inside and get ready for opening.”
    I found the doorknob and grasped it. The three were standing too close to me. I’d have to move quickly or they’d be able to rush the door. I twisted on the knob and forced my back into the door, but it didn’t move. It had locked behind me.
    “Here I thought y’all called Savannah the ‘Hostess City,’ ” he said, taking another step closer. Following his lead, the other two constricted the circle. “You ain’t being very hospitable. A man could take offense.” His hand lowered, and his finger traced around the top of his knife’s handle. Twelve and a half