Beastly Read Online Free Page A

free. He bent to avoid catching his horns on the lintel. A modest crowd eyed him suspiciously as he twisted through the narrow doorway.
    Hamish slouched over the bar, swabbing at a stubborn clean spot with the corner of his apron. His bald head shined with a tinge of red like a festival ornament. He chuckled at the arrival of his newest, largest customer and returned to his swabbing. His patrons turned back to their drinks, following the old bar keep’s lead.
    The air reeked of dried urine and rotten meat. The stench worsened at each step. The Beast navigated the room, carefully avoiding the lanterns dangling from rusty chains. The floor was a carpet of dead insects and nut shells. Puddles of spilled drink tugged at his paws. He located a lone table in a shady corner and seated himself back to wall. The spindly chair protested, unaccustomed to such bulk.
    A roaring fire crackled under a mural of the tavern’s framing. Heads of fanged and horned beasts were mounted in a macabre ring around the walls. Such a shame to be made a trophy of. To what end? For whose benefit?
    A troupe of bards strummed off-key, stumbling about in search of alms and ale. Out-stretched legs earned fits of laughter as the drunken performers periodically fell face first to the floor. Hamish masterfully ferried endless trays, too dexterous to suffer the bards’ fate. The Beast struggled with the commotion. Tension knotted his shoulders. There were too many people doing too many things.
    The Beast quickly noted the band of huntsmen dominating the room. He was familiar with their type: rough cut and cock sure. Men with look of haggard wolves. They circled a long table, numbering just shy of a dozen. The table was a mess of chipped plates and trails of flung food. Fresh blood pooled around a dagger driven home; remnants of a round of Bishop. A single moll with ginger hair worked the rowdy troop, slapping away roving hands.
    The Beast resolved to maintain his guard, keen that trouble often joined pairings of liquor and lust. A nearby rack of swords offered little reassurance. No matter. He would not seek trouble out. But should it come calling...
    A woman with ample crow’s feet and jet black hair streaked with silver nursed a drink at a small table by the hearth’s side. She tapped her foot mindlessly against a brown trunk. Through the haze the Beast read “Madame Urda” scrawled on its lid. Around her head, three apple-sized crystal balls danced playfully, flying at impossible angles and sliding through one another. The Beast snorted. He had seen this type of trickery before.
    Mere carnival deception .
    Behind Urda’s table, a rickety staircase climbed to the inn’s shabby bed chambers. Nailed to the side was a collection of “Wanted” posters offering pittances for a gallery of common rogues. One in particular, caught the Beast’s eye, causing him to squint. The poster read:
    “Wanted: Dead or Alive”
    Marrock of the Woodland realm
    For crimes against the township of the most
    heinous type and degree including murder
    most savage.
    REWARD: 1000 Gold Pieces
    A long face with a pointed nose and narrow jaw was crudely etched below the reward. He studied the image from across the room. Three scars slashed the face’s left side, marring cheek and eye. The scars were telling. Only a lord of the wild could have survived such grievous wounds. But what manner of monster had carved them? Intrigued by the bounty, the Beast dodged a parade of swinging lutes and plucked free Marrock’s poster.
    “You’d best put that back and forget it,” Hamish called over the din. His greasy rag streaked the bars lone clean patch.
    The Beast fought to maintain a hushed tone; despite the bar keep’s advice. “And why is that?” he tersely replied.
    Hamish waved the Beast to an empty stool. It was closer to the huntsmen than he preferred, but he accepted. He flattened the notice on the sticky bar, struggling to balance himself on the stool. He muttered a curse and