Soft Celtic flutes and fiddles played overhead. The store was far less crowded than it ever was on the weekends, in fact, a cursory glance down the aisles suggested that I was the only customer there. I was not completely alone, however. At the far end of the health and beauty aids aisle, a woman knelt, stocking the lower shelves. She was not one of the clerks I was accustomed to on the weekends. She was slender and somewhat tall for a woman, though no taller than myself. Her hair was reddish-brown, long, and curled loosely. She was dressed in an oversized cobalt blue sweater and long print skirt. She hummed with the music playing on the store’s speakers. ‘Is this good for a cold?’ I asked, holding up a bottle of ginseng, rose hips, and Vitamin C. ‘Are you sure it’s a cold that’s bothering you?’ Her voice was accented. One of the accents from the British Isles. Irish, perhaps. I wasn’t an expert. ‘No,’ I admitted. ‘You look pale,’ she said. She stood and walked toward me. ‘I can’t. Most attributed it to the fact that most didn’t want to take a chance in crossing the one who had spurred so many rumors of death and vengeance. The bar itself was a monstrous thing whose central island went floor to ceiling with the flat, cool, metallic bar wrapping all the way around it. Rapture, was anything but. He was an old, short, balding, squat man whose nose was slightly crooked from too many bar brawls and had a gut that hung over his belt a little too far. Though his appearance may be common, his brown, almost black eyes told one he was not to be trifled with. With an almost imperceptible nod, Brian motioned to Rapture. “Seen any unknown faces my friend?” “Not tonight,” Rapture intoned, “Though it’s still early.” He moved closer, glass in hand and a bottle in the other. “The usual my friend?” A smile curled the edge of his lip and he began to pour without awaiting an answer. Shrugging, Brian turned his back to the bartender, looking at the various faces that graced the.
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