single-lane highway that cut through mostly forested land. With her new ability, or at least until she could get a handle on it, she needed to stay away from cities and largely populated areas.
A few miles before hitting the town of Vails Gate, Karen turned onto Orsmille Road, a dark and twisty back country road. She took the winding curves slowly, the darkness seeming to gnaw away at the car’s headlights, until reaching the hamlet of Salisbury Mills. Remembering the town from her previous trip through, Karen saw that it hadn’t changed. She would have to travel a little farther up the road.
Washingtonville was the next town ahead; a larger municipality, but still small enough for what she needed: a hotel room and the feeling of being safely hidden away.
Ten minutes later, Karen found herself lying on a soft mattress in a motel just on the outskirts of Washingtonville. Checking in under the name, “Madeline Court,” she paid cash.
She glanced at the clock-radio on the nightstand—eleven p.m. It was late, but for some reason she wasn’t tired at all and actually felt full of energy. A product of the gift? She hated calling it that, but it’s what Josh had labeled it. “Gift” was a positive word, so for now she would use it.
She recalled passing a tavern during her real estate trip. O’Hulahans was the name. She remembered wondering why it was spelled that way. Her stomach grumbled from hunger again. Karen couldn’t believe after everything she had eaten at the rest stop how she could be so hungry so soon. The thought of chicken wings and a couple of beers made her mouth water. She left the motel room after checking out the small cuts on her face—they’d pass for scratches—and drove to O’Hulahan’s.
Chapter 12
The pub was smaller than Morgan originally thought. The building was divided in half, with one side dedicated to the restaurant and the other for the watering hole. Morgan sat at the end of the bar near the far wall.
The place was crowded and filled with locals. People milled about, saying hello and nodding to each other the way small town folk do. Morgan didn’t have to worry much in a place like this. Everyone seemed friendly; no tough guys about, seeking to pick a fight. Some people were playing darts on the other side of the bar and a game of eight ball was in progress at the pool table.
Morgan had spent time in Chicago during the ’70s and had learned the game of pool from some of the greats. He was an expert pool player, a real pool-shark. The itch to join in, to fit in and feel normal with the boys , maybe even make new friends, possessed him. But after thinking about the possible consequences, he realized he would be better off remaining a spectator.
As the night wore on, the drinking increased and the voices grew louder. A heavy-set mountain of a man dominated the pool table, humiliating all challengers.
Morgan was on his fourth beer from the tap, a local brew out of Newburgh. He always, when in the presence of humans, cut off his drinks at six—more beyond that number could prove dangerous to a supernatural being and the people around him.
He soaked up the atmosphere, pretending to be just one of the guys. He took small pulls from his glass, wanting to prolong the enjoyment he’d so longed for. The music cranking from the jukebox was old-school rock ’n roll, something he truly loved.
“Need another?” the bartender asked.
“Why not,” Morgan said, upending the glass and placing it on the counter. “Great stuff.” The bartender took the glass and refilled it, leaving a thick head of foam, about two inches worth. Morgan nodded and went to accept the drink when the bartender placed a hand over the cup. He glanced up at the server, expecting to see an angry face, for why else would a person do such a thing? But to his surprise, the man was smiling.
“Sorry, guy,” he said. “Got to have you pay before each one, like you been doing.” He
A few miles before hitting the town of Vails Gate, Karen turned onto Orsmille Road, a dark and twisty back country road. She took the winding curves slowly, the darkness seeming to gnaw away at the car’s headlights, until reaching the hamlet of Salisbury Mills. Remembering the town from her previous trip through, Karen saw that it hadn’t changed. She would have to travel a little farther up the road.
Washingtonville was the next town ahead; a larger municipality, but still small enough for what she needed: a hotel room and the feeling of being safely hidden away.
Ten minutes later, Karen found herself lying on a soft mattress in a motel just on the outskirts of Washingtonville. Checking in under the name, “Madeline Court,” she paid cash.
She glanced at the clock-radio on the nightstand—eleven p.m. It was late, but for some reason she wasn’t tired at all and actually felt full of energy. A product of the gift? She hated calling it that, but it’s what Josh had labeled it. “Gift” was a positive word, so for now she would use it.
She recalled passing a tavern during her real estate trip. O’Hulahans was the name. She remembered wondering why it was spelled that way. Her stomach grumbled from hunger again. Karen couldn’t believe after everything she had eaten at the rest stop how she could be so hungry so soon. The thought of chicken wings and a couple of beers made her mouth water. She left the motel room after checking out the small cuts on her face—they’d pass for scratches—and drove to O’Hulahan’s.
Chapter 12
The pub was smaller than Morgan originally thought. The building was divided in half, with one side dedicated to the restaurant and the other for the watering hole. Morgan sat at the end of the bar near the far wall.
The place was crowded and filled with locals. People milled about, saying hello and nodding to each other the way small town folk do. Morgan didn’t have to worry much in a place like this. Everyone seemed friendly; no tough guys about, seeking to pick a fight. Some people were playing darts on the other side of the bar and a game of eight ball was in progress at the pool table.
Morgan had spent time in Chicago during the ’70s and had learned the game of pool from some of the greats. He was an expert pool player, a real pool-shark. The itch to join in, to fit in and feel normal with the boys , maybe even make new friends, possessed him. But after thinking about the possible consequences, he realized he would be better off remaining a spectator.
As the night wore on, the drinking increased and the voices grew louder. A heavy-set mountain of a man dominated the pool table, humiliating all challengers.
Morgan was on his fourth beer from the tap, a local brew out of Newburgh. He always, when in the presence of humans, cut off his drinks at six—more beyond that number could prove dangerous to a supernatural being and the people around him.
He soaked up the atmosphere, pretending to be just one of the guys. He took small pulls from his glass, wanting to prolong the enjoyment he’d so longed for. The music cranking from the jukebox was old-school rock ’n roll, something he truly loved.
“Need another?” the bartender asked.
“Why not,” Morgan said, upending the glass and placing it on the counter. “Great stuff.” The bartender took the glass and refilled it, leaving a thick head of foam, about two inches worth. Morgan nodded and went to accept the drink when the bartender placed a hand over the cup. He glanced up at the server, expecting to see an angry face, for why else would a person do such a thing? But to his surprise, the man was smiling.
“Sorry, guy,” he said. “Got to have you pay before each one, like you been doing.” He
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