The Night Land by William Hope Hodgson (me reader TXT) 📕

Just as I was sliding my phone into my back pocket, Cian came down the stairs carrying a tray with two bowls of soup and a basket that I sincerely hoped contained bread. I was starving. He settled the tray on the bar and placed a bowl of soup and the small basket in front of me.

“I thought since ya like red pepper flakes in your chicken and gnocchi like I do, ya might also like your soup topped with cheese. If ya don’t, I’ll get ya another bowl.”

“Oh, you thought right. Is that bread?” I asked and nodded toward the basket.

“Aye, that it is.”

“Perfect.” I peeked beneath the cloth covering the bread and slipped a warm roll from inside.

Cian grabbed two oversized coffee mugs from beneath the bar and placed them just out of my sight on a ledge several inches below the bar top, then he pressed the coffee until all the grounds were pushed to the bottom of the glass container. He poured a dose of the mahogany-colored liquid into each mug, doused it with heavy cream, and added a shot of something. Because of the angle, I couldn’t read the name on the bottle’s label. He stirred each mug a few times then placed them on the bar and slid one in my direction.

“There ya go. One Columbian Special. Two . . . if a double counts as two.”

The mug was large enough it would easily hold two full cups of coffee. I wrapped my fingers slowly around the uneven proportions of the hand-thrown work of art and admired the variations in the blue and purple glaze that dripped into a cream-colored base. I considered asking if I could take the mug with me, it was so my style and that beautiful. The warmth in my hands was comforting. I brought it to my lips and paused, inhaling the rich fragrance of coffee beans mixed with the familiar aroma of Jameson and the balancing scent of vanilla. It only took a moment to realize he had steeped the coffee grounds in steaming hot Jameson whiskey and then added in vanilla and cream.

I took a sip and let out a breathy moan. “Mmm.” In an instant, I relaxed just enough to appreciate the flavors as they swirled together in my second sip. “This is amazing,” I declared. “And I swear that’s not just the caffeine deficiency talking.”

“Thanks. I’ll let ya in on a lit’l secret,” he said and leaned toward me like the bar was crowded instead of us being the only two in the entire building.

“I do like secrets,” I replied. “Go on.”

“I came up with it on accident. I hadn’t slept in nearly two days, and my brother had one of those fancy bottles of water sitting next t’ a bottle of Jameson. I was so tired, I didn’t realize I was pouring Jameson into the kettle instead of water, that is, until I was pouring it from the kettle in t’ the coffee grounds. At that point, I felt it would have been a waste of both coffee and whiskey. So . . . I went with it.” He smiled and raised his mug then took a deep swig. His mug was as artfully made as mine only with a different color palette, a mixture of browns with hints of blues peeking through in areas. I made a mental note to ask him where they came from. Mine fit so perfectly in my hand, I needed one. Or five.

“I have t’ say, Nira wasn’t wrong. This is by far the best coffee I’ve ever had. I hope the soup is as good,” I added as I put the soup spoon that had been nestled next to the bowl to good use.

After a spoonful or two, I looked up to find he had been watching me, waiting for my assessment of the soup. I had to admit, it was just as delicious as the coffee.

“Did you make this? Or is that a secret too?” I asked.

“Not a secret. I did make this. It’s a family recipe. My grandmother was an amazing cook.”

“We all inherit different gifts from our bloodlines. What else did she pass on to you?” I said, hoping he would say something that might give me a clue as to his race.

“Besides a wicked sense of humor?” He grinned.

“One joke about an old man eating cardboard isn’t enough t’ convince me,” I teased. “I’m gonna need a proven track record before I’m persuaded. What else ya got?”

“Tenacity, ya know, fer persuading the cynics.”

“Touché.”

“And a love for travel. Or are you referring to more . . . useful gifts?” he asked.

This one was not only attractive, he was smart. He knew what I was doing. At least, to some degree. My guess would have been that he’s done his share of stealthy information gathering. With every moment I spent in the presence of Cian McCallister, I grew more intrigued.

I offered him a conceding smile as I swallowed a spoonful of soup and simply shrugged my shoulders. “I mean, if you’re in a sharing mood, I’m a good listener.”

“I bet you are,” he smiled in return. “Maybe we will discuss that another time. Tonight, I think we have a more pressing matter to consider.”

He took a few swigs from his mug and grabbed a stool that had been sitting off to the side behind the bar. He pulled it to a spot directly across from me, settled himself on it, and placed his elbows near the edge of the bar. With one hand gripping his other in a fisted position, he leaned and looked me square in the eyes. “You’re right,” he said. “I do know who you are.”

Seven

I wasn’t sure how to respond. He was in complete control of the conversation because I didn’t have a clue in what direction it was about to go. All