Fae Bar
Kira M. Tjomsland
At the stroke of midnight witching hour, the bar was packed.
Coats and cocktails filled the bar and surrounding high-tops; varying degrees of intoxicated cackles broke through the buzzing murmur of late-night conversation. A kaleidoscope of strobe lights sent colors clashing against the dance floor, where cowboy hats flew in time to fiddle music boosted by too much bass. Heeled boots tapped in time to tipsy beats, and oversized belt buckles swayed as fringes snapped beside studded sleeves and skirts.
Try as she might, Kate knew it was impossible to keep the bar clean. She swiped her rag along the stained surface, picking up spilled remains of vodka cran and small puddles of whiskey. The stink of beer wafted from the abused wood. From the speakers, lonesome country singers strummed away their sorrows.
A scruffy man raised a finger, asking with intimations of politeness for another old-fashioned and a martini for his disgruntled-looking partner. Somehow, Kate managed to hear him through the noise.
“On it!” she called, giving herself just enough time to discard the rag, adjust her apron, and shove her black, rhinestoned hat more securely on her head before trotting to the tap, snatching a shaker on the way. The bass thrummed from the speakers through her boots—the faded ones that pinched her toes, but still got the job done. Closing the tap, the bartender lifted the shaker just over her shoulder and pounded it to the usual rhythm. She delivered the two drinks just in time for a new customer to shuffle up to the counter.
Taller than her by at least a foot and a half, the stranger leaned on the corner of the bar furthest from the other drinkers. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his trench coat, collar turned up and forest-green scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, dark gold locks barely distinguishable. His Stetson hung low over his brow.
“Evening, M’lady,” he murmured in a low, southern drawl. Kate cast him a suspicious up-and-down, but his head was turned to scan the crowd, not her.
“Evening, sir” — she slid a rum and coke down the counter to a barely-of-age Friday night regular— “What can I get you?”
“An Icarus, if you please.”
Kate raised an eyebrow as she wiped the rim of a used martini glass.
“Don’t know if I’ve heard of that, sir.”
“Really?” he mused. “Pity, I hope it’s not out of fashion. Fireball and a shot of ichor, on the rocks?”
“Sounds fancy,” Kate quipped in reply. “You ain’t from around here?”
He responded with a soft smile.
“You could say that, darlin’.”
Nodding, Kate gave the bar one more quick swipe.
“Tell you what—come with me to the other counter and I’ll ask around; see what we can do for you.”
“Only if it ain’t too much trouble, miss…” he trailed off, lifting the brim of his hat just enough to expose a pair of golden, catlike eyes.
“Call me Kate,” the bartender offered, signaling for backup as she set down her work. “And not a problem—I’m happy to help.”
Fixing her hat again, she began to weave through the crowd, leading her customer beyond the crowded ride-the-bull attraction to an empty corner where several unoccupied tables were labelled reserved. She motioned for him to follow, leading him to a small, battered door with a tarnished gold knob. Nearly drowned out by the thud of the speakers, a different beat could faintly be heard from the other side.
“You should find help in here, Mr…”
“The name’s Leo,” he finished, lifting his Stetson enough that the light fell on his grin, revealing razor-sharp fangs. Taking his hands out of his pockets, he extended her a golden paw. She balked slightly as the manticore raised her hand to his lips.
“I’ll be here for a few hours,” he admitted. “It’d be my pleasure if you’d let me know when you’re off shift, M’lady.”
“I might just do that,” she grinned, using her free hand to lift her hat and reveal a short pair of curved goat’s horns. “And please, call me Hekate.”
He ducked to fit his bulk inside the door, tipping his hat once more with a sly wink. Using her back to block the club-goers’ views, the satyr peeked inside the hidden room and caught a glimpse of the revelry inside.
Harps and lyres filled the room with lilting melodies. Stoic drums and bare feet kept time, inhuman voices rising in ethereal harmony. Where one would expect a wooden floor strewn with alcohol spills, shoe polish scuffs, and vomit stains, a field of emerald grass made up the dance floor. Trees carved from marble pillars lined the walls, strings of lights weaving between crafted branches and intricately-carved leaves. Dangling from silver chandeliers, crystal shards winked, creating a constellation of wrought stars for a midnight festival.
The bar was full to bursting; a rainbow of jewel-toned bottles. Fruity liqueurs shone in shades of blood-orange topaz, cucumber-lime emerald, and mixed-berry garnet, winking next to clear flasks of Hydra, Will-O’-The-Wisp, and phoenix-tear liqueur. Amidst the waterfall of colors, mist wafted over the counter, infusing the air with the pungency of fermented grains, grapes, and salty mint. The taps overflowed with mead and ichor as all number of fae danced in the middle of the room.
Dwarves and sprites led a group in a lively circle dance. Nymphs flitted together in a sylvan mosh pit, hands raised to clap out beats with flashing tambourines. Drakons quite literally lifted their partners into the air, leathery wings sweeping sirens off their feet.
With a grin, Hekate closed the door, glancing over her shoulder to check that no one had seen. Safe, she shuffled back to her station, boots still pinching her cloven feet. As she started mixing the next blended marg, she couldn’t help glancing at her watch, blushing at the memory of warm, golden eyes.
Perhaps she could sneak away early for a pre-dawn dance.
Kira M. Tjomsland
Kira M. Tjomsland’s award-winning speculative fiction has been published in numerous national journals including Blue Crystal Literary Magazine and The Bluebird Word. Her adventures include a semester at the University of Oxford, where she studied works of Lewis, Tolkien, and Rowling. Kira holds a BA in English from Palm Beach Atlantic University, and during her time there, served as editor for PBA’s literary magazine Living Waters Review. A Florida native, Kira currently lives in south Florida with her husband Cade. To read more of her work—including creative essays, travel narratives, and ekphrastic poetry—follow her @kiramtjomsland.author.