Alcoholics cannot be choosers.
The morning started with a nasty quarrel with Alex. The little furball still hadn't disappeared from the apartment, and we hadn't spoken to each other all day. We both refused to address it, but of course, the others tried to figure out what had happened. During one of the breaks, Alice sat down across from me.
"Wanna talk about it?"
I nearly knocked the table over in frustration before storming off. Was that a clear enough answer?
My shift at the local pub starts at eight, but I usually arrive a little earlier to help the owner. As I pushed open the black door, the familiar smell of stale alcohol and cigarettes hit me immediately.
The pub wasn't particularly big. To the right of the door was the counter, with a wall of forty or fifty glass bottles behind it. Just the sight of them was enough to make you feel like having a drink.
On the opposite side, there was a small podium, more of a cheap stage really, where chairs were usually stacked on top of each other since not many people came by to provide live music for this humble pub.
Next to the stage, on the left, were three slot machines. In the opposite corner sat an ancient jukebox, with a dart machine nearby. The middle of the space was taken up by a pool table and a few tables for two or more people.
Beside the counter on the right was the boss's office, and next to it rose the kitchen and liquor chamber. A staircase led up to what you could call the second floor.
There was a white railing behind black curtains on the upper level, and although there were tables, half of the space was off-limits to customers—it was specifically reserved for monsters. For reasons I'll never quite understand, the place was far more popular with monsters than with humans.
A few regulars were sitting at the tables, calling for me and their next beer. They all knew my name. Just like in school, most of them thought "Shay" was just a nickname. My official documents say Ádám Roubál, and when a few teachers called me "Ádi," it took me some weird, piercing stares to figure out they were addressing me. That name came from Alex. My mother's last name was Roubál, and the werewolf added his touch to it on a whim.
When I first met Alex, I only had my name. Shaytan. Yeah, like Satan. It's not hard to guess. The name came from a misunderstanding. As a child, I was often called "Satan's spawn" (or "Satans Brut in German), though I didn't understand it at the time.
Back then, I didn't speak any foreign languages, and no one bothered to give me a fancy translation amulet. I just knew they were talking about me. I think my mother's choice of name—more like the lack of it—says everything about how much she cared. But then again, that was hardly surprising.
She was violated by a monster, and then had to carry the cursed little creature to term. For nine months, I was nothing more than a parasite feeding off her, and it was nothing short of a miracle that she survived my birth. After that, I couldn't say she was raising me, but she did tolerate my presence in her home. She gave me food and only spoke to me when she wanted to curse me to hell alongside all the other evil beast children, monster offspring, and demon brats.
I couldn't really complain, though. Even if her words were venomous, she never truly wanted to send me to my death—at least not physically. But when it came to words? That was a different story. I swear, no one in my life has cursed me as many times as she did in the twelve years I lived under the same roof with her. In my defense, though, I've done far worse to humans than just existing.
I shifted my gaze to Weasel, who was gesturing wildly as he spoke to his gang. A rumor had been spreading among the monsters about this pub.
There was an organization called Behemoth that offered "protection" to the surrounding establishments in exchange for money. Anyone who refused their protection had better prepare for war. Yet, this small pub was one of the few places left standing independently in the whole town.
It was said that the pub's owner was hiding a fearsome beast—one so terrifying that even an extensive gang like Behemoth was afraid of it. This creature, when necessary, would sometimes make an appearance at the pub, and for the right price, he would carry out some truly nasty work. No one knew exactly when he would show up, or how he knew when to appear, but one thing was certain: if you sought him out, he would find you. Mysterious, right? The White Demon.
"Few know what the bastard looks like," Weasel continued, putting on an overdramatic act. "Some say he's a giant, while others swear he's a beast with the agility of a cat... But there's one thing everyone agrees on: because of his infamous cruelty and bloodlust..."
I slammed the beer mug down on the table, harder than I intended. The group of shapeshifters huddled close to Weasel recoiled, their faces pale. Weasel looked up at me, a grin curling on his lips—a sloppy, irritating smile that upset me each time I saw it.
"Hello, Shay."
"Your beer," I replied, my voice sharp.
Despite my simple words, the threat in my tone was unmistakable. He chuckled.
"Thanks," he said, casually taking a sip.
I let out a heavy sigh and walked back to the counter, feeling the eyes of the shapeshifters on me. Demon this, beast that. Everyone talked about him as if there were nothing else to discuss. I was getting tired of it.
"Who was that?" one of the shifters asked.
Weasel wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before answering, his voice dripping with casualness.
"The bartender."
"I've hardly noticed him before, but now..." a girl murmured thoughtfully, "What a strong presence..."
"No one noticed he'd been standing there, thinking about whether he should break my neck or not," Weasel shrugged, taking another sip. "He's really good at hiding his presence."
Most of the group nodded, deep in thought.
"He's really handsome," another girl added, her cheeks flushing.
Weasel burst into laughter. "Give it up, honey! No one's good enough for this guy. Why don't you date me instead?"
"I'd rather not," she shot back immediately, crushing Weasel's heart in a single blow.
(...)
Hours later, the last of the patrons began to trickle out, one by one. Eventually, only the most loyal alcoholics remained, and I had to ask them to leave. The regulars knew the drill by now. When I said we were closing and handed them a plastic cup, that was it—no room for debate. If they had to go, they had to go, and the only thing they were allowed to murmur under their breath was a quick goodbye.
I collected the empty bottles and returned them to the liquor chamber, then wiped down the tables and stacked the chairs on top. Grabbing a bottle of peach and honey-flavored pálinka[1], I locked up the pub.
Stepping outside, I pulled out a cigarette and lit it. The smoke hit my lungs with its sharp, familiar bite as I looked up at the pitch-black sky. There wasn't a star in sight, and the waxing moon barely peeked through the thick clouds. Nights like this made the monsters even more bloodthirsty.
I finished the cigarette and immediately lit another. The wind tore at its smoke, scattering it into the night. I pulled my coat tighter and set off. I was lucky—I just caught the bus. It was a short ride, just three stops, so I stood, watching the dense shadows slip by outside.
I got off at Hird, the village next to Vasas. I wandered through the empty streets for a while, making a right, then a left, staying vigilant with every step. When I reached the last row of houses, I climbed the concrete stairs at the edge of the street. The front door was wooden, with a simple horizontal cut-out for the post.
I did not tire myself with knocking; I just opened the door. I think it was locked, though. They might need to get a new lock.
The alcoholic apprentice emerged from the kitchen almost immediately, the first thing I noticed being the cute little apron he wore.
I held up the bottle of pálinka. "Shall we have a drink?"
Just then, Weasel chose to exit the bathroom. Wrapped in a dark blue bathrobe with a white towel draped around his neck, his reddish-brown hair clung to his forehead, droplets of water still clinging to the tips. When he saw me, he grinned, and when his eyes landed on the bottle of alcohol, he grinned even more.
"Hey, Shay," he greeted me, more sober than I expected.
He stepped in front of me, grabbed the pálinka from my hand, and disappeared into the other room, humming to himself.
The mage apprentice sighed and turned back toward the kitchen. I followed him, curious about what he was working on now. There was a pot simmering on the stove, its contents a disgusting green juice bubbling away. On the kitchen table, bouquets of various plants sat alongside half-cut herbs on a cutting board. Further off, ground ingredients, mortars filled with powders, and vials of sandy substances were scattered about.
"What kind of potion are you making?" I asked.
He looked up from his work, a sly curve playing on his lips. "The kind the customer wants."
I didn't press him any further, just watched as he picked up a silver dagger. With practiced precision, he started to cube, dice, chop, and who knows what else, slicing through the ingredients. Occasionally, he'd stir the concoction with a glass rod. After tossing in a few more ingredients, he gave the pot one final stir before switching off the heat.
"I've stabilized the potion," he declared, his grin a little too stiff. "You showed up just in time; now it needs to rest for a bit."
He dropped his apron over the back of a chair and strode into the other room. Their apartment was practical, but perhaps a little barren. There were no pictures on the walls—just a few old relics and magical devices neatly placed atop the wardrobes in their shared space.
The only place that truly reflected the personalities of the people living there was this room. The walls were painted a soft, pleasant blue, and a variety of plants surrounded the large window, which the mage kid had cultivated for his potion work.
At either end of the room were the beds—both messy, with clothes strewn across crumpled blankets. One of the ancient wardrobes stood ajar, a pair of black jeans hanging from the door, while the other remained closed, positioned across the room.
In the center, next to a glass coffee table, sat the Weasel, filling glasses with pálinka while humming quietly. Water still dripped from the tips of his hair, his damp locks sticking up in every direction, as though he'd just run a hand through it. At least he had managed to dress, though.
The mage sat next to him, and I couldn't help but notice again how different they were. The Weasel was half a head taller than the mage, and maybe that's why, or maybe it was because he spoke more, but the Weasel always seemed to play the older brother in their dynamic.
The Weasel had reddish-brown hair and dark brown eyes, while the mage kid sported light blonde hair, always faintly misted blue eyes, and an annoyingly cheerful grin—probably thanks to the alcohol that seemed to constantly flow through his veins. The Weasel was almost always seen with his drunk mage companion. Despite being just as intoxicated, it was usually the Weasel who carried the kid on his shoulder after a night of heavy drinking.
The first three cups were consumed in silence. Then the Weasel started rambling on about all sorts of things—women, money, more women. The mage kid occasionally chimed in with foolish stories about the Weasel, prompting either a heated argument or a proud nod of agreement from the Weasel. We quickly ran out of pálinka, but the mage kid managed to pull out another bottle from somewhere.
Hours passed like this. By the end, the apprentice's laughter became so obnoxious that I had to fight the urge to strike him across the neck, and judging by the Weasel's expression, I wasn't the only one considering it.
It was around three in the morning when I sat up straight, glanced out the window, and slid my empty cup onto the table.
"Finally gone?" the Weasel asked, sounding a little bored.
"Yes," I replied.
"Who were they?" he inquired.
"Vampires," I told him. "They showed up shortly after you left."
They must've caught the scent of my presence around the crime scene and decided it was worth following me for a while. Given their early departure, they couldn't have been too suspicious.
"Why didn't you just cut 'em off?" the Weasel wondered.
I rolled my eyes. "Because I don't want to draw attention."
"Don't get me wrong," the Weasel said, and even though his eyes didn't look hostile or angry, his voice was really serious, "but why didcha lead them here? If you simply went home, they would not suspect ya either."
"Don't get me wrong," the Weasel said. His voice was serious, even though his eyes didn't reflect any hostility. "But why lead them here? If you'd just gone home, they wouldn't have suspected you."
"Come on, Saci," the mage waved dismissively. "He's protecting his sweet little werewolf."
Though the mage was just trying to mess with me, he was almost too close to the truth. Dangerously close.
"Either way," I cut in before he could dwell on it further, "Alex has nothing to do with this."
"The wolf has always something to do with you acting stupid," the alcoholic apprentice continued undisturbed, then curled his lips to a predatory grin. "How much do you think this information is worth?"
People forget how dangerous dealing with neutral mages can be. They might look like innocent, drunken lambs one moment, but cross them, and they'll curse your ass. One moment they're on your side; the next, they could turn into your enemy. They walk a fine line between white and dark mages, and that's what makes them more dangerous than their black counterparts.
The Weasel's face tensed slightly, but he stayed silent. The mage apprentice was staring at me with confident eyes.
"They'd pay well for it," I replied, watching as the triumph on his face spread into a wide grin.
"But," I added roughly, "I don't think it's worth to you as much as your life."
We locked eyes for a moment. Then the mage burst into laughter.
"I was just kidding, Shay, just kidding."
You can never be too sure with greys. I cast another warning glance at the Weasel, silently reminding him to keep an eye on his friend. They wouldn't want to become my enemies. What people often forget about neutrals is that there are monsters among them.
"Have I ever told you how much I love your jokes?" I said flatly.
"Um, no," the mage muttered.
"For a reason."
The smile faded from his lips for a moment, only to be replaced by a smirk. Maybe I hadn't made my tone threatening enough?
"Don't worry," he grinned innocently, locking eyes with me, "I wouldn't even think of betraying you."
Uh-huh, sure. I cursed the day they first showed up in my pub. The mage laughed obnoxiously while the Weasel just sighed.
"So?" I turned to the Weasel.
He seemed taken aback at first.
I rolled my eyes. "I know there's something you want. You were staring at me the whole night when you thought I couldn't see it."
He swallowed hard and hesitated for a moment. Maybe he was weighing whether or not I'd kill him for whatever he was about to say. Eventually, he must've realized it was easier to spill the info than face my wrath, so he spoke quietly.
"Someone's showing up, calling himself the 'White Demon,'" he said.
I didn't really see why that was news. Monsters like that popped up every now and then.
"A vampire, Shay," he added, as if that would make it more interesting.
I still wasn't feeling particularly motivated to get involved.
"He's gathering the ignobles and kidnapping humans," he continued. "They're probably being sold to someone."
"Troublesome," I sighed, uninterested, and stood up.
The two of them exchanged a look. But honestly, I wasn't all that concerned.
"Anything else?" I raised an eyebrow.
"Mages are quiet for now," the alcoholic apprentice replied.
"Alright." I nodded, slipped some money onto the table for the broken lock, and walked toward the door.
I grabbed my coat and shoes in the hallway. The Weasel leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, and the mage stood beside him.
"Take care, boys," I said as I stepped out into the night, casually waving to them.
The mage nodded, while the Weasel muttered something under his breath. Neither of them said much. They knew I'd be gone in an instant, just like I arrived. They didn't ask how I knew their address, nor did they try to figure out my plans. They just knew that when I needed them, I'd show up.
[1] It's a traditional Hungarian drink. It is famous for its high alcohol content. Almost all Hungarians drink this and some families brew it at home.