The Greatest Pub in the Multiverse, page 20
part #1 of Greatest in the Multiverse Series
“Folks,” he called out, striking a confident pose. “As you’ve likely noticed, we’re having issues with our power. We’re working on the problem and promise to have everything up and running as soon as possible. Until then, please have a seat, relax, and enjoy your drinks.”
His gaze flicked to the goblins, whose irritation was palpable. “Unfortunately, the portals won’t work until we’ve sorted it out,” Liam added, his tone apologetic.
The goblins exchanged dark looks. The head goblin muttered something under his breath—probably a curse, judging by the tone—before gesturing sharply for his companions to follow. Reluctantly, they shuffled back to their table, their frustration evident in the way their claws scraped against the wood as they climbed into their seats.
Emma released a breath. For the moment, at least, the tension in the pub had eased. She grabbed three mugs from the counter and filled them with ale, the amber liquid swirling as the foam settled beneath the brim. Sliding them across the bar toward Liam, she reached out instinctively, her fingers brushing against his hand.
A warmth spread from his skin to hers, and she nearly yanked her hand away, but she wanted nothing more than to grab hold of it and never let go. She let it linger, though her pulse quickened like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t.
When Liam turned to her, his eyes locked on hers—warm and soft, yet somehow piercing. It felt like he was seeing her in a way no one else did.
His hand shifted slightly, his grip tightening enough to keep her from pulling away. He opened his mouth, as though he wanted to say something, but no words came out.
Emma cleared her throat, breaking the spell. “The drinks.” She nodded toward the three mugs she’d placed on the bar. “Bring them to the goblins. It’ll keep them occupied for a bit, at least.”
Liam blinked several times and let go of her hand slowly, as though trying to do so without her noticing. “Oh, right,” he said, his voice flustered. “Good thinking.”
I wonder what that was all about?
You humans are all alike. Demon Box had been so quiet she’d almost forgotten it was there. Always making your feelings more complicated than they need to be. If you like him, just tell him! He obviously feels something for you too.
Did he? Surely it was absentmindedness and nothing more.
It’s not that simple, she thought to the box.
Of course it is. You make the sounds from your mouth. He’ll make sounds back. I’ll finally be able to speak out loud around him, and we’ll end up being one big, happy family all making sounds together.
Emma rolled her eyes.
Sure, I’ll just say ‘Excuse me but you look like someone I used to slay monsters with in another life. I fell in love with him, I think I’m falling in love with you too. I know that slaying monsters sounds awful, especially when they looked like our beloved patrons, but don’t mind that, I don’t do it anymore.’
She inhaled sharply and cast another worried eye toward the ogre.
But there was something else about the thought that unsettled her.
Love? That seemed premature. She felt like she barely knew this Liam, yet she couldn’t deny they had formed a connection of their own. Was it just because he bore the same face? This Liam was different in so many ways. Charming and considerate. She didn’t think that she was ready to put herself out there. Not yet.
“ALE,” Hal barked, louder than before, and this time there was more of a hint of agitation in his voice.
“Oh, right!” Emma grabbed the giant mug from the counter where she’d set it, hefting it with two hands, and carried it over to the ogre.
Sorry, Demon Box, I’ve got work to do. We’ll chat later.
Sure, sure, I’ll just sit here in the corner by myself and shed a tear. The moisture will probably fry my circuits. Perhaps then someone will pay attention to me. Or not. Maybe it will be an ironic end for this lonely machine.
You don’t have tear ducts. Emma shot back. But you have enough melodrama for the entire pub.
“So sorry about the wait, fellas.” She sat the mug down in front of Hal and rushed to grab Tarvo’s as well.
The dwarf had a large grin painted across his face. So engrossed in his own stories, he hadn’t even noticed his drink was taking an extra minute.
The ogre nodded with a grunt, in what Emma assumed was a gesture of thanks, and slid a paper note over the bar.
Emma picked it up and studied it. It appeared like any other bank note might have—in worlds that had paper money—but she couldn’t make out the language, or numbers. She had no way to ascertain the value, but that was like most of the forms of payment she’d received that evening. James and Rudy had said it didn’t matter, so she didn’t let it bother her.
“I can’t make change for this,” she said.
Hal looked at her with a furrow in his brow and grunted, “Hmm? Ah!” He lifted a giant-sized hand as he waved her off.
“Hal knows the rules here probably more than any of us,” Tarvo said. “You needn’t worry.”
She thanked Hal and deposited the note in her pouch, then moved back to continue with her work.
It’s magic you know, Demon Box said, intruding on her thoughts once again.
Emma nearly choked. “What? The money?” She spoke the words out loud; thankfully she was out of earshot of the others.
Demon Box quietly groaned.
The lights. They’re powered by magic, so whoever turned them off probably used magic too.
Emma reflexively scanned the room. You think someone did this on purpose? Why would they do that?
Demon Box chirped in the corner. I don’t know. I’m just putting pieces together.
There was only one person in the room she was confident had magic. Her gaze fell upon Ha’dran. The dwarf still sat at a table with six newly arrived dwarves, but he wasn’t really engaging with them. Instead, he was leaned back, an arm draped over an empty chair with a distant smile on his face.
James
James did his best not to panic.
If they couldn’t get the power back on, the portals wouldn’t open—meaning they were stuck here, outside of any known reality, along with some potentially very upset dwarves, gnomes, goblins, and an ogre. Well, the gnomes were still all smiles. He had the feeling that if they ever got angry, he wouldn’t want to be anywhere near them.
Which was worse: being stuck in Cuanmore or caught in between realities? Of course, he knew the answer, and he tried to swallow the lump building in his throat.
All that was keeping him from launching into a full-blown panic attack were the patrons who were now relying on him.
No, that wasn’t true. That was probably making it worse.
He did his best to center himself with the breathing exercises his therapist had gone over with him time and time again.
Shutting his eyes, he focused on breathing. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. This was just a small hiccup in the day. He could get through it—he had to get through it, so long as he could figure out how to get everyone home. The how was still painfully unclear, but passing out in the middle of the pub certainly wouldn’t help.
It would have been so much simpler if he knew how exactly a magical pub had electricity in the first place. It wasn’t as though it streamed in from his world. Though, if it did, he’d really be in trouble since the gateway to his own world had been shut off like the rest of them. There was no way back. Not even for him.
His gaze scanned the room. Dozens of dwarves, gnomes, and humans exchanged nervous stares. The goblins glared openly, and the ogre seemed unaware or uncaring that anything was amiss. The laughter and lightheartedness of the place had slowly taken a downward turn ever since the lights failed. The dim, blue glow of the backup lighting didn’t help—it cast everything in a faintly eerie hue, making shadows stretch and dance in ways that set James’ nerves on edge.
Gloria slipped between tables effortlessly with a huge smile on her face. James couldn’t tell whether it was genuine or in an attempt to make the patrons feel at ease.
Tarvo, on the other hand, held no qualms about enjoying himself. He sat at the bar next to that ogre—Hal. Dwarves were one thing. Other than being more solid, bulbous, and hairier, they didn’t really appear that much different than humans. The gnomes were peculiar but seemed ultimately cuddly. The goblins were . . . something else.
This ogre, though . . . he was more . . . James tried hard not to use the word “terrifying,” even in his own mind, but it was difficult.
He’d never been one to judge others by appearances, but he’d also never expected those appearances to be eight feet tall and green. Tarvo seemed to be having a blast with the ogre, though. James knew he’d just have to try a little, to swallow his fears and realize that there would be people coming through those gates that looked nothing like anyone he’d ever seen up until this point. And that that was okay.
“I told you,” said Moira, as she slapped her empty tray down on the bar. “Opening this place won’t lead to anything good. All of this? It’s because of them.”
Despite her protests about reopening The Pint and Portal, Moira had been an incredible help keeping the pub running smoothly. However, it seemed she had her limits of how nice she was willing to play.
“When you said to expect trouble coming through the portals,” James said, “did you mean . . .?” He was unsure how to phrase it without sounding like he was accusing Hal of being dangerous, but he couldn’t help his gaze falling back on the ogre.
“Hal?” Moira let a single ‘Ha!’ escape her. “Heavens, no! Hal may look like a monster, but he’s as docile a man who’ll ever take a seat. He don’t say much and he keeps to himself, but he’s a good egg.”
James sighed with relief. If Moira was at ease with him, then there was certainly nothing to be concerned about.
“It’s unsettling the first few times you see a new mythical creature,” Moira continued. “But you get used to it, and you’ll come to realize appearances don’t mean much.”
“Then what did you mean?” He couldn’t help but ask. “Tarvo says that the portals won’t let anyone with ill intent come through.”
“Tarvo has a very selective memory.” Moira snorted. “It’s true the orbs won’t work for someone who’s outright malicious. But that doesn’t mean a deviant can’t slip through alongside them. The portal doesn’t put up a barrier once it’s open. For the most part, like attracts like, and we see good people. But every now and then, a troublemaker sneaks in.”
Her gaze drifted toward Hal. “And just because someone’s well intentioned doesn’t mean they won’t react if they run into something that scares them. Not all ogres are like Hal, you know. Some folks have had bad run-ins with ogres who weren’t so docile. More than one person’s tried to put a knife in his back.”
James was apprehensive enough about running this place, and he hadn’t even stopped to consider he might have to stop one patron from stabbing another in the back. That couldn’t be tolerated. He looked to Emma, pouring beers behind the bar. The bartender carried those daggers beneath her cloak, but would that be enough?
“It’s not knife fights you have to worry about, lad,” Moira said as though reading his thoughts.
James shook his head, confused. “Then what? Why is everyone being so secretive?”
Moira sighed, her distant gaze clouded with unease. “Magic.” She looked as though she wanted to spit at the word. “There are too many worlds with unpredictable magic out there. Try as you might, once those gates are open, some of it will seep into our world. The people coming through are fine, but the magic? It needs to stay where it belongs.”
James frowned. “If we can get the gates open again. I have to admit, I’m more worried that none of us will get home.”
“I tell you what, if there was ever a sign suggesting those gateways are best left sealed, you can take this as one.”
James didn’t believe in signs. But he did believe in not getting stranded outside of time and space.
“Does this happen often? Is it something I should expect to continue?” If this was something that happened with regular frequency, maybe he shouldn’t let it alarm him so much.
Moira’s scowl nearly caused James to step back. “It was happening more often right before they closed things for good. Sometimes signs aren’t about some mystical intervention. Sometimes they’re about common sense.”
“Isn’t this whole place built with some sort of ancient magic?” James asked. “Why would they create it if magic is dangerous?”
“Sometimes people only do something because they can, not because they’ve asked if they should.” Her tone grew sharper as she spoke. “It was something your mother never understood—and she of all people should have. Whoever built this place created something so powerful that if the wrong people get their hands on it, it’s trouble—not just for us, but the hundreds of worlds we have access to.”
Her gaze grew distant, and a darkness fell across her face.
When she put it like that, the stakes suddenly felt impossibly high. This wasn’t what he had hoped for when taking over a cozy pub. Suddenly, James wished he could talk to his mom, learn the full truth of everything that had happened back then. The journal she’d left behind had been maddeningly incomplete, written in fits and starts, with entire pages missing. It was like trying to assemble a puzzle when half of the pieces had been lost.
Perhaps there was still something he could learn from Moira. “What do you mean about my mother? Why her of all people?”
Moira’s face puckered as though she’d bitten a lemon.
“Look, it’s not just magic you need to be worried about.” She leaned in, lowering her voice as she cast her gaze around the room. “I told Rudy I wouldn’t say anything, but I don’t think it’s right to keep this from you kids. The real reason your dad closed this place was because of another threat.”
James didn’t have to be told what she meant. “The Tíogar Mór.”
Moira nodded curtly. “They’re conquerors. They possess a technology that allows them to jump between worlds. But it’s not reliable. We were always worried . . .” Moira sighed. “Your dad and I were always worried that if they gained access to the pub, it would allow them to destroy more worlds than they already have. He made the tough call to close the portals, despite our friends fighting their own battles on the other sides.”
Even though Rudy had already mentioned her worries, James’ stomach dropped.
“Rudy and your mother never believed the threat was real,” she continued. “But I’m telling you, these glitches in the pub’s magic—it’s them, they’re trying to gain access.”
“But I thought there were wards protecting this place,” James said. “Shouldn’t they keep them out?”
Moira nodded. “They should, and they have so far. But what if they can’t hold? What if the magic isn’t strong enough? What if whatever it is they’re using can draw power from the wards themselves?” Her eyes shifted around the bar as though suddenly nervous.
“Then why are you here serving tables?” James asked. “Why help me at all if you think it’s such a bad idea?”
Moira swallowed, her expression softening slightly. “I made a promise to your parents. I promised them that I’d help protect this place as long as I’m alive and as long as it’s open. As much as I think reopening was a bad idea, we’re still family. And I would hate to see anything happen to you, Liam, or any of your new friends. They’re good people, and together you’ll be stronger—just like your folks, Rudy, Tarvo, Michael, and the rest of us had each other when we were younger.”
Something at the back of the pub caught her eye, and she straightened, picking up her notepad and pen.
“But look at me, I’m blabbering on while there are tables needing serving. Just please . . . think about it, James. Nobody will blame you if you decide running this place wasn’t the right idea.”
With that she stood and moved toward the bar.
Danger. Could the lights going out really be a signal that the pub was in danger?
He let his gaze wander the room, and Rudy caught his attention. The baker was sitting at a table toward the back of the room, in the middle of a hearty conversation with a weary group of travelers. If there really had been something to worry about, wouldn’t Rudy have told him? He wouldn’t lie about something dangerous . . . but what if he were mistaken?
His mother’s journal weighed heavy in his pocket. James didn’t know what to make of Moira’s warnings about the Tíogar Mór. Maybe they were behind the glitches; maybe Moira was being paranoid.
Either way, he was quickly growing tired of the secrets this place seemed to hold. Lights failing, the espresso machine breaking, and the portals powering down on opening night. Moira’s unease with magic users. Ha’dran and Gloria whispering among themselves—and Ha’dran himself, a dwarf with the ability to use magic, and a pub with magic that was seemingly going haywire.
If magic was involved, he only really had one lead to follow—the one magic user he knew. Perhaps the only way he could tell if Ha’dran’s magic was to blame for what was happening was to get him to showcase it in front of an audience. At least that way whatever he might be doing would be on full display.
It was either a brilliant idea, or a horribly awful idea. But he had nothing else to go on.
Decision made, James strode over to the dwarf table where Ha’dran sat surrounded by the dwarves.
“James!” Ha’dran called to him as he approached. The dwarf’s face lit up. “This is unbelievable! How similar their world is to how mine used to be. But the Tíogar Mór never attacked theirs. The dwarves are living in relative peace and prosperity!”
James forced himself not to flinch at the mention of the Tíogar Mór. “Then what brings them here?”
“They’re brewers themselves!” Ha’dran’s enthusiasm was so palpable that he didn’t give the other dwarves space to speak. “They were just telling me about the quest they’re on.”
James’s attention turned to the newer dwarf patrons. They couldn’t have been more different from Ha’dran or Tarvo. Where those two carried the weight of their worlds on their shoulders, these dwarves looked as though they’d never known hardship. Their full, rosy cheeks and bright, sparkling eyes spoke of a life untouched by strife.
