CHAPTER 8

NEW KID IN TOWN

One of the best things you can do when moving to a new place is to make friends.

It’s awkward, at best, to be the new guy.

People look at you with suspicion, curiosity, and sometimes, disdain.

But if you find a friend…just one…it can oftentimes offset other people’s prejudices and curb your tendency to act stupid.

“Unghhhhhhh,” Wendell moaned, the sound rumbling from his chest.

He tried to raise his head, but couldn’t.

First, because the stabbing pain in his forehead screamed back at him in no uncertain words that quick movements were not only unwise, but flat out stupid.

Secondly, because he was being suffocated in a warm blanket.

“Mmmmph!”

He tried to take a shallow breath…but the weight on his chest and face prevented more than minimal sips of air from entering his nose.

“MMMMPHH!!”

Fists punched upward with instant and uncanny strength, up through the blanket and into a strong wind.

“BAHHH!” Wendell gasped, thrusting his head through the heavy sheet of snow. Eyes bulging and mouth open wide, he gulped air to fill his lungs. Over and over his chest heaved, sucking in the ice cold wind.

The ground was covered in what looked to be at least two feet of snow, the sleet whipping between the trees overhead. It was bright outside—the light pushing through what was left of the foliage.

The forest around him was pure white, tree limbs hanging low under the weight of the nights deposit of moisture.

Wendell squinted and blinked repeatedly as he forced his body to roll over, through the mound encasing him.

Slowling but surely, he finally got to his feet—leaning heavily against the closest trunk.

Looking back at the neat little cave his body had made…he noticed the bottom of the shape was red with blood—soaked into the snow, filtered until the edges faded to a light pink color.

Fingers quickly inspected his hairline and skull, feeling for bumps or open wounds.

Nothing.

Again, the Ithari had done her job, healing him from sudden wounds.

“Thanks,” he said soberly. “Again.”

The warm feeling he’d experienced before washed over his chest and up his spine.

Tha-Thump-Thump.

“Not sure why we stopped talking, but,” he paused, surveying his surroundings, “I’ really need to learn how to communicate with you if we hope to survive my stupidity.”

Using the front of his boots, Wendell kicked them into the side of the hill, crafting stepping nooks.

“Is there some trick to talking with a famous magical artifact?”

Leaning against the slope, he climbed, step by step, up and out of the ravine.

“A magic word or phrase…*grunt*…perhaps? Ahhhh, there we go. All the way to the top.”

For several minutes he sat there, looking back down through the trees.

There was no sign of where he’d come from.

Snow completely covered his tracks—other than the fresh ones he’d made just now. It looked like he’d been plopped down in the middle of a frosted obstacle course.

I hate P.E. class.

“What the heck happened?” He looked about for his sack of food and supplies, but there was no sign—nor did he have any idea where to start looking.

Just great.

Feeling at his hip, his smaller knife was gone also.

Double whoopee.

“Well, Wendell, if you keep working your way up the mountain, keeping the incline on your right, you’ve got to bump into Woodcarver Cove eventually.”

At least that was the hope.

“This mountain is a lot bigger than it looked on the map,” he snorted. With my luck I could wander too far in the wrong direction and overshoot the village and miss it altogether.

I can see the papers now: Body of Hero found dead in the forest after starving to death. ‘He would still be with us,’ commented a close friend, ‘but there wasn’t anyone around to stop and ask direction from.’

Wendell’s attention followed the slight slope line of the mountainside.

What if I stayed roughly at this level? Walked along the ridge of the mountain and didn’t climb any higher?

Was it possible that he could cross the main road if he kept going?

Well it’s a better idea than wandering about aimlessly.

He patted his side…where the medium pouch and map used to be.

“Unnnngh,” Wendell sighed heavily. That’s all he needed. “No food, no map…” He looked about him, scanning the snow-covered floor again for any sign of a round mound that might looked out of place among the trees.

“…and no Phhht! toy?” He growled, “Really?!?”

Well that sucks.

Focusing his mind, the mägoweave spewed out a thick-furred hood from the jacket he was wearing, which Wendell pulled over his head and started his long trek.

…of less than three minutes.

Not more than a stone’s throw away, up and over a small lip of trees, the hillside dipped down and opened up to a wide, clearly marked road.

Hundreds of stumps lined the sides of a well worn path, jutting up out of the snow. Wendell stumbled as he walked across the way, the uneven ground covered by the fresh powder.

“Of course…” he grunted sarcastically, but he couldn’t help but chuckle.

Good news was, it didn’t matter anymore.

He was now on the right road, going in the right direction and so long as he traveled uphill, he would get to Woodcarver’s Cove.

Tha-Thump-Thump.

****

It was night before Wendell reached the village.

The wind had picked up, keeping him company, whistling and moaning through the trees. A bitter cold, sharp against his face, though his body remained protected under the mägoweave’s power.

He stopped and leaned forward, bracing against his knees.

Gulping the chill air, he noticed the comforting scent of wood smoke.

It put a smile on his face.

Fire meant people.

People meant food.

Shelter. Warmth.

…he was close.

Come on, legs…don't give up on me now! Almost there. Alllllmost there!

He took a deep breath and pushed himself—thoughts of a roaring fire putting what was left of a spring in his step.

The wind picked up suddenly, rolling through the trees.

It wasn’t so bad at first—but it knocked ice off limbs, pelting his exposed skin. To make matters worse, deep noises called from behind.

Noises that sounded a great deal like beasts howling.

Startled, Wendell looked over his shoulder, hairs standing up on the back of his neck.

Don’t do this to yourself, Wendell. Don’t start.

But he couldn’t help it. All alone, out in the woods at night—light reflecting off the snow or not, there were a lot of shadows.

What made it worse was knowing that monsters were real.

There were many places for those monsters to hide in the surrounding shadows of the forest.

Right, you big ninny. Time to run.

Ignoring the burn in his thighs, he pushed. The snow had grown deeper the higher he climbed the mountainside,…which turned out to be a good thing.

Not the depth, but the snow itself.

The fact that he’d forgotten to consider some form of light source for traveling had only become apparent once the sun vanished through the trees. Not the brightest move, he realized, traveling without a source of light—but not like it was possible to stop at a local connivence store to grab a flashlight.

Well, maybe in Clockworks.

Several times he'd been tempted to use magic, of course. Creating and controlling light was becoming second nature…but that horrid pain happened the moment he’d used his magic.

Until he could figure out what had happened—that and meet some locals, it was probably better to keep his growing talents under wraps.

The snow provided enough light to trudge along.

Again the howling echoed through the trees.

…or sprint along.

Completely exhausted, Wendell concentrated on the sound of each step—boots crunching into the fresh snow as he forced himself forward.

One by one, tiny windows peeked up over the ridge of the hillside. Glowing yellow and orange eyes, slowly awakening to the presence of a visitor.

Wendell grinned weakly with relief as the flickering candles and lamps came into view, all from a cluster of small cottages.

Yessss. Yes. Yes. Yes! Hellllo Woodcarver Cove!

“WOOT!” he burst out, then slapped his hand over his mouth, the echo of his own voice startling him.

Wendell quickened his pace, his mouth and throat dry from huffing and puffing—lungs burning from the exertion.

Food. Drink. Bath. Bed. Oh you beautiful village you…a place to fall over and rest.

Problem was, he actually had no idea if the village even had a…what would they call it? A hotel? Tavern? Inn?

He hadn’t heard the term restaurant except back in Clockworks City.

He cringed.

Best not to mention gnomes to anyone, either.

Of course, there was the Roadkill Tavern in the Black Market—and they had rooms. Wendell shook his head. Was it a concern? He’d simply ask if there was a room to rent or a place he could pay to sleep.

Money was no longer a problem—so even if there wasn’t a formal location, all he really needed to do was find someone who wanted some extra coin. Heck, even a clean barn would do at this point.

The road wormed up and through the small dwellings, smoke rising from rough stone chimney’s. Wendell took another deep breath, exhaling with a satisfied sigh.

An old man with a fluffy white beard dawdled around the bend, assisting a old woman by the arm. She was hunched over and coughed loudly, pulling her shawl tighter about her shoulders.

“Evening!” Wendell said jubilantly. “Nice weather we’re having!”

The couple gawked at him as they passed. The woman shook her head and grumbled, “Dolt.”

Wendell bit his lip.

Riiiight. Note to self: old people aren’t overly friendly around here.

Rubbing his hands together, more out of habit than actually being cold. So long as the old people don’t control all the food and shelter…

A large metal grate squatted firmly upon the ground at a fork in the road, a blazing fire of logs crackling at its center. Light danced across the entry of the homes, surrounding trees and small paths leading back into the darkness. Wendell veered to the right and followed the curve of the main path.

Every few hundred feet or so another metal grate containing a blazing fire shouted brightly in the winter night. The stations of warmth created a circuit around the village. Fires in the distance gave Wendell a decent view of the neighborhood.

Woodcarvers Cove had a roughly organized layout, village homes around the parameter, encasing small lots with a few animals and orchard trees. People wandered about in pairs and small groups, many chattering away and laughing.

Seems like a nice place.

“Evening,” Wendell tried again, this time with a younger couple. The burly looking man had a bushy beard that nearly swallowed the whole of his face—frost covering the tips of his whiskers. His companion was small and wiry, her cheeks red from the nipping wind. They both startled at the sound of his voice. Huddled together in the cold, a small blanket wrapped around the woman—halting their conversation mid-sentence. Wendell smiled brightly and nodded his head politely, his body suddenly acting as if he were cold also. “Brisk weather, eh?” he threw out. His smile was met with a similar one and a half-hearted nod in return.

Okay. We’ve graduated from being called stupid to a nod. Not the most friendly group, but I’ll take it.

The couple moved on without a word.

Several bursts of laughter cut through the night air. A high-pitched cackle immediately followed.

“Night Mayson, luv! You keep those fires goin’ now, ya hear?”

“Aye, Luna…and you watch yer step, eh? Old Carson’s not likely wantin ta set yer hip again if ye fall on this damnable ice!”

Again the cackle ripped through the air.

“How else am I supposed to get the old coot to come ‘round the house and flirt with an old woman? You tell me! He won’t drink none of my berry cordial no more.” She wiggled a gnarled finger in the air, steam from her hot breath rolling out from both mouth and nostrils, “I think he’s afraid I’ll call the preacher before he comes to! HAHAHAHA!!” Throwing the end of her shawl over her shoulder, the white haired woman gripped her gnarled cane firmly and plodded down the center of the road, heading straight for Wendell.

He took a deep breath. Let’s try this one more time.

Gulping, Smile Wendell. For goodness sakes, show a bit more charm that you do with Aunt Betsy on Valentines Day.

As the woman hobbled closer, Wendell stepped to the side of a blazing grate—into the full light of the fire, to make sure she could see him without difficulty.

“Evening,” he said in a forced tone—his nervousness evident. He couldn’t help but gulp.

The woman stopped abruptly, her head cranking to the side to take him in. Her face and smiling expression suddenly vanished, giving her the immediate appearance of a swaying specter in the snow.

“And evening to you, young man!”

Another shuffle forward and her face peeked into the light. The thick dark hairs across her top lip curled over an oversized mole. Her smile reappeared slowly, displaying large gaps in her teeth, but a friendliness all the same. She examined Wendell—curious eyes, which seemed uncommonly clear for one so old—wandering his body up and down. Placing her free hand over the one gripping her cane, she asked, “What’s a stranger doing out stalking the loop in shadow?”

“S-stalking? Uh. I—uh. I…just arrived,” he fumbled, “and I’m…looking for a place to get warm and buy something to eat?”

The old woman seemed satisfied at Wendell’s nervousness and relaxed herself. She shifted her feet to accommodate the stiffness of her aging body, pointing back at a large dwelling sticking out of a hillside. “You’ll find all ya need in The Den, young man. Though if you don’t mind an old woman sayin’ so—best if ye don’t wander about too much. We’ve gots ourselves a mad wolf runnin’ loose in these woods. A large feller who’s not so ‘fraid of our two-legged kind!”

She saddled up along side him then, giving Wendell an over friendly nudge with her elbow. The strong scent of cheese and sour drink assaulted his nose. “Plenty of hands to shake in this place. Best to avoid the ones with claws if ya can, I say,” and suddenly the air exploded with cackling.

Wendell grinned wide. “Thank you for the advice, mam. The Den, is it? And I can find food…and lodgings?”

She cut her laughter short, her brows jumping high, “Mam is it? He calls us mam?! Oooo, we have us a gentleman with proper manners! Well isn’t that a right pain in the backside. Me out for a night on the town without a proper lady’s dress,” she reached down and scratched her leg, “…or slip, neither. Gonna make us all look the ignorant lot now, won’t you.” But a clever grin snuck across the wrinkled landscape of her face. “Awww, don’t fret—I’m just teasing, child. That’s the place alright. You tell old Mayson that Laughin’ Luna sentcha and he’ll do ya right.”

Patting his arm, Luna gave a quick wink and hobbled off, humming an odd tune to herself.

Wendell stood there for several minutes, watching Luna make her way between two small cottages and out into the darkness of the orchard. He heard her voice once more before she faded from view altogether…

“Find your room, boy. Storm’s a comin’,” she called back, “—I c’feel it in me bones! Gonna be a looooong one it is!!”

Right, Wendell smirked, old people are also a bit looney.

He couldn’t help but chuckle. I like it.

It wasn’t hard to guess how ‘The Den’ received its name. Most of the structure was buried underground.

The front porch jutted out like other dwellings, two pillars supporting the rooftop of sod and snow, fashioned from massive, whole tree trunks, bark still clinging to them. The lower branches bent outward, interlocking to form the awning. Hanging from the awning was a carved sign of a badger digging into the ground. Just below the carving, black painted letters said, THE DEN.

Okay Wendell, you’re finally on your own. You got here in one piece and now you’re safe…ish. No help coming if you mess this up, so stay calm, show your confidence and remember what Dax says…don’t look like a tourist!

He gulped loudly and rounded his shoulders. Oh Evan, if you could only see me now.

Wendell stepped to the side as a small group of young men pushed past. Laughing and oblivious to his presence, they entered the building with shouts and cursing. The last male, however, tall and broad with bright red hair and a sparse beard that looked as if it wasn’t sure it wanted to grow past the stubble stage, glared at him.

Their eyes met and Wendell couldn’t help but shiver. Deep green eyes pierced him like an animal looking down at a carcass of meat.

Wendell gulped again. No one coming to help.

Waiting a few moments for the young men to enter, Wendell took a deep breath and opened the tavern door firmly.

Unlike the rest of the cottages in the village, there was no way to tell how large The Den actually was. Bustling with patrons, the hall rumbled with cheering, singing and laughing—a sense of youthful exuberance and unity wherever Wendell looked. Smoke rolled along the wax covered timber frame beams overhead, while maids scurried between tightly packed tables and benches, balancing discs of drinks and plates of simmering food upon their arms. The air was dense with the scent of unwashed bodies, pipe tobacco, and something else incredibly sour.

Tables were scattered about the hall, while dozens of burly men in heavy fur coats lined up along a giant ‘L’ shaped bar that stretched the width of the building. Chopped wood was neatly stacked from floor to ceiling against every wall, with the exception of a small stage and the immense brown and grey casks stacked neatly on their sides behind the bar.

A portly man behind that bar vigorously filled mug after mug of frothing liquid from small metal spigots jutting out from those casks.

At the opposite end of the bar leapt fire from an open cooking pit. Flames jumped into the air, escaping through a wide, rectangular vent overhead—large skewers of dark metal laced with cubed meats and vegetables leaning against a central ring dangling over the flames.

A portly cook danced about the fire, using heavy mitts to rotate the food over the heat.

Wendell pulled the fur hood back from his head, removed his gloves and tucked them into his pockets. Sliding between the crowded tables, he worked his way to an unused spot in a back corner of the hall.

“Be right with you, sir,” said a young maiden at the next table. The girl looked younger than Wendell, yet she was waiting patrons and serving drinks alongside the older women in the room.

“No rush,” Wendell replied, pulling the corner chair out to sit on. The position gave him a good view of the hall. No one seemed to take notice that he’d entered the building, which suited Wendell just fine. Everyone around him had their own thing to do and conversations they were engaged in. Pushing the few plates and drained mugs that littered the table to the side, he sat down.

Thin and agile hands flashed into view.

“Ungh. Sorry about this,” the girl apologized, “the night’s been so busy I’m having trouble keeping up.” Setting down the wooden tray, she gathered dishes, stacked them, and then organized the mugs around the edges.

She was blonde with wavy, shoulder length hair—locks combed forward to cover her cheeks. “What can I get you to drink?”

She looked up at Wendell for the first time.

Her crystal blue eyes shimmered in the dancing light of the fire as she smiled. “You’re new around here,” she said, pulling a rag from her apron to wipe the table down.

“Ah, you noticed,” Wendell smirked, “I’m that obvious?”

She chuckled, “Well, other than knowing everyone who’s lived here since I was able to walk, you do stick out like a sore toe.”

“Toe?” he cocked his head to the side, “Don’t you mean thumb?”

She shook her head. “People drop a lot of stuff around here…on their toes. Besides, those clothes look more like the merchants who visit than the lowly townsfolk.” She frowned then. “Aren’t…you hot?”

Wendell did a double take. “Hot?”

The girl nodded, “You’re still wearing your coat and here I am, working up a sweat with the fires roaring in this place.”

“Oh right. Right!” he laughed nervously and unbuttoned the jacket. “Been walking for two days. Forgot I was still wearing the darn thing.”

The smiley face on the broach rolled its eyes.

“So what can I get you to drink? Water, chilled goats milk or sour-patch. There might be some black tea left, but I’ll have to go see…though we’re out of honey.”

“Is that the smell in the air, the sour-patch drink?”

She shook her head, “That’s the pankaali. We serve riisi and pankaali with wild veggies and game when it’s available. We have goat, bear, and mountain cat to choose from right now. The forest has been full this year, so you’re in luck.”

Wendell gulped, his stomach suddenly unsure and not so grateful. “Uhhh, what would you recommend?”

The girl laughed. “You don’t usually eat this food, do you? Rich kid from….?”

He hesitated. Rich kid? Uhhhhh. What do I say? Where…do I come from? Need to be careful if I intend to stay here for very long. Think, Wendell,….THINK! There was no way he could explain traveling to the moon, to secret market places or staying in the gnome homeland…

“My family moves around a lot. We’ve been living with the Gypsies on and off.”

At the mention of the Black Market race, several conversations at nearby tables stopped.

Heads turned.

The looks given were not friendly.

“I wouldn’t mention Gypsies here,” the girl whispered in warning, wiping the table more vigorously in front of Wendell. “Most folks around here have had bad dealings with merchants from their community. They blame the Gypsies directly for catering to thieves and other criminals. Some folks here lost their savings, even homes to dishonest men.” She waited for him to understand, then nodded. “Gypsies and mägo aren’t welcome here.”

“Mägo. Right. Appreciate the warning,” he said softly, lowering his gaze.

“It’s not that I agree,” she started to reply, seeing his reaction, “—it’s just…”

“No, it’s okay—really. I actually came to town because I was looking to apprentice and learn a new skill. I…don’t want to take up the family business. My interest has been in learning how to carve wood and a farmer friend of mine said this might be a good place to learn. He speaks highly of your village.”

The young maiden stood upright and smiled brightly. “Well then! That’s a right nice thing to hear. You want to join the lot of us semi-impoverished members of the kingdom? On purpose? Then you’ve come to the right village.” Wiping her hands on the dirty rag, she boldly held out a small, calloused palm, “Elsa.” Her slender fingers complimented her lithe frame and grinning face.

“Wendell,” he smirked, reaching out slowly and gripping her hand.

“So now you’re not a stranger, Wendell,” she added, tucking the rag back into the string of her apron. With a single motion, the large platter with the dirty dishes slid off the table and up over her shoulder. “…and I recommend the seasoned bear meat with your riisi and pankaali. We nicknamed it Teeth.”

Wendell frowned, “Teeth?”

Elsa smirked as she walked away. “It has so much flavor, it bites you back.”

****

Elsa was right. The meal had teeth of its own…as did the drink.

Bear meat, though the thought of it made Wendell cringe, was actually…not bad. Meat tends to have an aftertaste of what the beast ate before being dispatched and it was evident that this bear had been feasting on nuts and berries before a long winters sleep. It was clean and strong, with a light ‘gamey’ flavor to it that Wendell couldn’t quite describe.

But it wasn’t bad.

Heavily salted, the three cubes of meat came with carrots and a heaping bowl of hot riisi, which looked and tasted like sweet brown rice. The pankaali turned out to be a grotesque looking sauerkraut—which tasted fantastic fried in oil, butter and the riisi, but had the dead grey look of raw shrimp you’d find in a grocery store.

He sat there, staring at the empty bowls…and the third mug of…

“How do you like the sour-patch?” Elsa asked. She stood there with her arms folded, looking down at the slightly swaying Wendell.

He lifted his heavy head and smiled broadly. “This is the best fruit juice I think I’ve ever tasted.” His stare fell back to the mug in his hands, tilting it to gaze in at the last measure of the deep red liquid. “It makes my nose tingle.”

She laughed as she cleared the dishes. “That would be the extra fermentation—and you sound like you need some goats milk and hot tea to wake you back up.”

Wendell nodded, “Sure. Tea sounds…nice.” She turned to walk away, but he added, “Oh, Elsa? Do you know where I can buy a room—I have nowhere to stay while I find a job. I was told to ask for…uhhh,…Mayson?”

“Old Mayson’s the owner. I’ll send him over.”

“That,” he hiccuped, head swaying with foggy happiness, “would be lovely.”

Wendell watched Elsa walk away, and smiled after her—his cheeks glowing from the fermented drink. There was a swagger in her step—surefooted and confident. Wendell hadn’t known too many girls who looked or acted that way. Sure there were pretty girls—but they usually had big, strong (and often openly violent) boyfriends on the football team. Guys who liked nothing more than to prove their strength and brutality by beating the snot out of completely inferior nerds and geeks in front of their girls.

Not…that Wendell was a nerd OR a geek.

Anymore.

He was just misunderstood.

Okay, that’s a really bad example, he realized. Thoughts of hanging from the end of the bleachers by his underwear as Mindy Christensen giggled was something he really wanted to forget.

No, Elsa was different. Wendell couldn’t think of a single girl who would be working a job like this. Pizza Joint in the mall, maybe, or Cream n’ Cone, but only if they didn’t have a boyfriend to cover their expenses.

He rolled the mug forward and peered into it. The dark purple liquid sloshes about the bottom.

What about Lili?

Just to think of her name hurt. Wendell’s stomach clenched tight.

He’d never been able to get the first moment he’d seen Lili out of his mind. The dreams. The promptings in his heart—that there was something unexplainable about her. Something special…and it was making him mad. The one girl who didn’t care about him in the least and she was the one girl he couldn’t stop thinking about.

You’re an idiot, Wendell. A total moron.

Truth was, he didn’t want to stop thinking about her.

Why can’t she see me? he pondered. It’s not that I don’t try, right? I mean—I jumped into fire for her. Doesn’t that count? For…something?

Wendells head started shaking slowly from side to side by its own accord.

Nothing I do seems to be right. Why is that? What the crap am I supPOSED to do? Gritting his teeth in irritation, All I get is criticized or ignored. …when all I’m trying to do is be the person everyone expects me to be.

…and he slammed the mug on the table’s surface with a BANG!

A few patron at surrounding tables gave him a fleeting glance.

Wendell shrunk back into his chair.

After a minute…when he was sure no one was still looking at him, his shoulders relaxed once more and Wendell sighed.

It wasn’t Lili’s fault. Wendell just wasn’t good enough for her. Yes, she’d been through some hardships with the visit to Clockworks City—but she didn’t really know Wendell. She didn’t know what he was going through…or what he’d lost.

Truth was, Lili was a kind and caring person. She’d shown that time and again, and Wendell knew it well. It was one of the reasons he still cared for her, even if the feelings weren’t mutual. But in truth, that didn’t really matter.

Lili was with the group, because she was running away.

This is stupid, he sighed again, I shouldn’t be mad at her. She certainly hasn’t done anything wrong and I have no right to expect anything from her anyway.

As much as Wendell ached to be noticed by the beautiful young woman with flowing dark curls and deep brown eyes…

…it just isn’t going to happen.

“Here’s that tea, Wendell…and Mayson’ll be with you in a minute. He’s settling a tab at the bar.”

Wendell looked up numbly and blinked.

He blinked again.

“You okay, Wendell?” Elsa asked, trying to suppress a giggle. Her smile was bright and genuine.

He blinked.

The whole experience was shockingly lovely.

Swallowing, he wiped his face on the back of his sleeve. “Thank you,…Elsa.”

“Anytime,” she replied and bounced away, scooping up an empty mug tilting off the edge of an adjoining table.

There was no doubt in Wendell’s mind that she was his junior, but—her attitude, her intelligence…Elsa’s maturity and experience was far older behind those eyes.

“Yup,” he hiccuped again, “I like her.”

A huge hand reached out and shoved Wendell’s table into his chest, pushing his chair back against the wall. The impact caused Wendell to cough out loud.

“Well I suggest you just UN-like her…friend.” The last word said with a sneer, revealing a mouth of horribly misshapen teeth, including dark, rotting canines.

It was the young man who had glared at Wendell as they’d entered the Den.

Eyes focused with a wolfish intensity, gleaming in the candlelight. That, combined with his dark red beard made him look like a wounded animal out for a fight. “She’s spoken for.”

The numbness in his brain didn’t allow Wendell to process the situation quickly enough and he found himself nodding in agreement.

Automated nerd preservation skills kicking in.

How is it that you always seem to know where to find the jocks, he mumbled in the back of his mind. No matter where you go, they track you down and find you!

Animal Face—the new name he gave the table-shover, sneered at him one more time before returning his attention to the rest of his pack around the adjoining table.

Crap Wendell, with your experience you should start your own TV show. His face cracked with a smile. The Wild Kingdom—where social clicks and societies idiots are tracked and tagged. A soft chuckle escaped him, the thought of shooting bullies with a tranquilizer gun sounds like a lot of fun. Syndicate the whole show, eliminate competition for the nerds and make some side money? I bet the gnomes would love it.

“Are you Wendell?” a deep, gruff voice snapped him out of his day dream of shooting target painted on backsides.

“What?” he slurred.

“Elsa said you wanted to see me, young man?” Old Mayson wiped his hands on the stained apron tied around his waist.

Sitting upright in his chair, “Oh, yes. Yes! I…was wondering if you might have a room for rent? I’ve come to town, hopefully to apprentice as a wood carver, but…I don’t have any place to stay.”

Mayson nodded. “Just in time, you are. Have one room left, though they aren’t attached to the tavern—they’ll be the small hovels you see to either side the the place. Keep six for merchants, but the spare will do you nicely—so long as yer not caring about stains.”

Wendell frowned, “Stains?”

“The spare room’s usually kept open fer the boys here in town. I let some of ‘em sleep it off before wanderin’ home to the missus, if ya know what I mean?”

“Wha?…oh. Yeah. Gotcha.”

“Price is two copper a week, dinners included.”

Wendell reached into his jacket. “Then I’ll pay for a month right now, plus dinner—which was wonderful by the way.”

“Glad ye liked it,” Old Mayson grinned, holding out his hand.

Wendell frowned.

Patting his pocket, he tugged at the opening and shoved his hand even deeper.

His coin purse was missing.

“Problem?” Old Mayson asked curiously.

“Uhhhhhhhh.”