The Cock and Bull Tap, otherwise known as The Cock and Bull Inn and Guest House by those with very long memories, sits on what used to be the main path out of Crimson Hollow. Of old, those passing over the Smoky Mountains by carriage would stay in the inn the night before their trip or seek its comforting embrace on the first day of their return. That old path has long been paved over, and Cock and Bull’s days of being an inn all but forgotten by most Crimson Hollow residents. The distinguished stone building sits behind a deep corner yard with its back against the alley. Between two tall posts hangs a huge, gleaming white sign painted with a red rooster and a blue bull in vivid, sweeping brushstrokes to welcome patrons. Leaded glass sidelights flank the heavy carved and paneled front door. I wrap my hand around one of the ornate iron handles and heave the door open.
Firefly lanterns cast a soft glow on the tavern’s interior. The tiny flakes of quartz set alight by magic swirl rapidly inside the lanterns, glowing and twinkling. The gentle light reflects off the heavily oiled and waxed oak furniture. Scanning the crowd, I see mostly hard-working men still dressed in their work uniforms or jeans and flannels. Most are gathered in small groups at the long trestle tables, but a few lonely souls sit in isolation on stools facing the bar.
Dozens of pairs of eyes pierce my back as I move my long-limbed body toward the bar. I feel a few waves of lust flowing toward me from the bar patrons like a crimson breeze, but even more waves are filled with the dark and heavy emotions of disgust and hate and the sharpness of fear. Someone murmurs “Aberrant” under his breath, referring to my being Gifted. My back stiffens at the insult.
You can only tell when a person is Gifted if their mark shows. My mark is twofold. I have unnaturally blue eyes that could conceivably pass for simply extra vivid, but the streak of blue running through my hair is unmistakable. I don’t have time to defend my pride today, so I just keep my chin up and proceed with strong strides.
When I arrive at the empty side of the bar, I make sure my Glock is visible to any onlookers by pushing my vest back as I retrieve my ID. A low murmur rolls through the crowd, telling me the gun is noticed. Good.
The bartender approaches, and I present my ID, which reads “Supernatural Investigation Bureau (SIB), Homicide Unit, Inspector Bluebell Kildare.” He extends his large hand and introduces himself. “Hello, Inspector Kildare. I’m Steve Jamison. That’s really awful, what happened to that boy out there. Some of the guys here told me what they saw on their way in. I’m happy to help anyway I can.”
Well, he’s congenial enough, and fortunately he doesn’t seem to be a breedist. Steve stands medium height with a stocky physique and a kind face. He’s built well enough to keep people in line and seems empathetic enough to listen to their sorrows. I take all this in while his warm hand envelops mine in a firm handshake.
“Thanks, Steve. I’d like to ask a few questions. It should just take a moment.”
Steve tosses his bar rag in a pail behind the counter and turns his earnest face and ready ears to me. Taking the cue, I start drilling into my list of questions. “Now, the incident occurred at 3:47 p.m. Do you recall anyone leaving the bar shortly before then?”
Steve considers a minute and then shakes his head. “Not that I recall. The first shift around here ends at three o’clock. Most of the crowd is just coming in around then, and the place fills up pretty fast. Some of the police officers who have really early shifts show up around two o’clock and usually only have a drink or two before heading home. The officers who found him were the first to leave today. We do have a few lushes who come in with the early lunch crowd, but they make themselves scarce before the police officers start arriving.”
My eyes skim over the room, searching for a point of reference. I spy the perfect thing on a shelf behind the bar. Pointing at a hand-carved and painted rooster, I ask, “Did you see anyone in here today wearing an article of clothing that just about matched that color red?”
Steve’s gaze finds the rooster with a surprised look. “Yeah, I sure did! There was an older guy wearing a red cloak. He left out the side door just before you came in.”
My head snaps back to Steve as his casual words register. Blast it! A potential murder suspect was inside the bar while we were processing the body just outside!...
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Excerpt from: The Light Who Shines
By: Lilo Abernathy
The Light Who Shines - Thursday is Last Day of Sale!
On Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Light-Who-Shines-Bluebell-Kildare-ebook/dp/B00HYH3ZU4/ref=sr_1_4?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1397426190&sr=1-4&keywords=vampire+psychic+witch
