Chapter 27: The Grand Opening

The next morning, James woke clear-headed, body humming with restless energy after a solid night’s sleep. Sunlight cut through the shutters in sharp bars across the floorboards. Fel sprawled in the yard just outside the open kitchen door, massive head buried in a bucket of cooked meats—loin chunks, rib scraps, tenderloin slices—all seared and seasoned from last night’s haul. The wolf’s jaws worked steadily, low moans of pleasure rumbling from his throat as he tore into the snake flesh, blood-flecked tongue lapping at the juices pooling at the bottom. His tail thumped once, slow and satisfied, scattering dust.

Inside, the serpent lay fully processed: prime cuts stacked on clean boards—fillets pale and firm, ribs cracked for roasting, tougher pieces reserved for stew—ready for the opening-night grill. The hide had been scraped, cut into manageable sheets, and rolled tight; James had already sent word to his contact, the same leatherworker who’d stitched his clothes at Anna’s insistence. The man was drowning in coin now—purses heavy from the steady trade in exotic skins—and the serpent hide would fetch enough to keep his shop busy for months. Scales still clung to the edges, iridescent in the light, promising armor-grade leather once tanned.

James felt the buzz under his skin—too much rest, too much waiting. He needed to move, to burn it off before the tavern doors opened and the night swallowed him whole. He splashed cold water on his face from the basin, wiped his hands on his trousers, and stepped into the main hall. Jacky stood at the bar, tallying barrels; Christine moved through the tables, checking chairs, and wiping down surfaces with brisk efficiency. He caught Jacky’s eye, gave a short nod—heading out—and was gone.

He pulled a Batman: one moment present, the next vanished through the back door, boots silent on the packed earth, cloak snapping behind him as he slipped into the streets. No goodbyes, no explanations. The group had their standing orders: prep the tables, stock the bar, ready the private rooms, sharpen knives, fill pitchers, lay fires in every hearth. Jacky and Christine were in charge while he was gone—Jacky’s steady hand on logistics, Christine’s sharp eye on the girls and the coin. They’d handle the buildup without him hovering.

James moved fast through the waking town, breath fogging in the crisp air, muscles warming with each stride. The tavern waited behind him—blood-scented, spice-heavy, primed for chaos. Tonight it would roar. For now, he ran, burning off the edge, letting the road eat the distance until the energy bled out and he could return sharp and ready.

He reached the river at the edge of town, where the road gave way to wild grass and willow roots clawing into the bank. The water rushed past in a wide, brown torrent, flecked with foam and carrying the faint smell of mud and pine from upstream. James stood at the edge, boots sinking into soft earth, watching the current tear along. It had been a hot minute since he’d lived like this—free, unburdened, nothing but the road and the next horizon. He missed it: the ache in his legs after miles, the burn of cold mornings, the simple certainty of moving forward. No tavern, no ledgers, no faces waiting for him to decide their fates.

But he sighed, heavy. He had obligations now. The Fenrir. Christine. Anna. Fel. Jacky. Subotai. The crew. The lord coming tonight. No more running. He had to stay focused on the here and now, on the doors opening, the coin flowing, the blood and meat and spice that kept it all alive.

He stripped naked—boots kicked off, trousers dropped, shirt yanked over his head, underclothes last. Skin prickled in the morning chill, gooseflesh rising across his chest, arms, thighs. He backed up ten paces, muscles coiling, then charged forward, roaring raw and loud as he leapt. Knees tucked, arms wrapped around his legs, he cannonballed into the river.

The water crashed around him in a white explosion, shockingly cold, stabbing into every pore like needles. He sank deep, current yanking at limbs, bubbles exploding from his mouth in a frantic stream. Fuck, it was freezing—lungs seizing, heart slamming—but he groaned through clenched teeth, the sound muffled and bubbling. Then he kicked hard, broke the surface with a gasp, water streaming from hair and beard, chest heaving as he sucked air.

He floated downstream for a moment, arms spread, letting the cold burn clean through muscle and bone. The river carried him past reeds and low branches, sun flashing off the surface in sharp shards. For those few seconds, the weight lifted. No tavern, no opening, no lord. Just cold water, rushing blood, and the simple, brutal feel of being alive.

Then the current slowed. He kicked toward the bank, hauled himself out dripping, shivering, skin red and raw. He stood there naked, water pooling at his feet, grinning like a fool. Obligations waited. But for now, he felt sharp again. Ready.

He gathered his clothes, dressed fast, and started back toward town, boots squelching, energy burned clean.

James ran hard and fast, boots scattering leaf litter and snapping twigs, lungs burning with cold forest air. The urge clawed at him—keep going, say fuck it, run until muscle tore and the world dissolved into motion. Part of him craved that old freedom: no tavern, no coin, no faces depending on him. Most of his life had been push or die—ten years of constant forward grind, one wheel turning into another, pause and the machine crushed you. Now he had to stop. Obligations waited. He hated it. Needed it.

He burst through a thicket and slammed face-first into a massive fucking boar.

The beast was monstrous—black bristles caked in mud and old blood, tusks curved like reaping hooks, yellowed and razor-sharp, eyes small red coals of rage. It snorted once, steam jetting from flared nostrils, then lowered its head and charged.

James grinned, teeth bared.

He leapt, boots kicking off a fallen log, body twisting mid-air. The boar thundered beneath him, tusks slashing air where his legs had been. He landed hard, rolled, came up running. His small knife—six inches of plain steel, single-edged—was already in his fist.

The boar wheeled, faster than anything that size should move, squealing in fury. James circled left, low. It lunged again, head down, tusks aimed to rip him open. He sidestepped at the last instant, blade flashing—slashed across the shoulder, parting thick hide in a long, wet gash. Blood sprayed hot across his arm, arterial red, steaming in the cold.

The boar shrieked, spun, charged. James waited until the tusks were inches away, then dropped and rolled under the sweep. He came up inside its guard, drove the knife upward under the jaw—steel punching through soft flesh, grating on bone. He twisted hard. Blood gushed in a thick fountain, flooding his hand, arm, chest, soaking his shirt black. The boar staggered, legs buckling, still swinging its head wildly.

James yanked the blade free, rolled away as tusks gouged earth beside his face. He came up behind the thrashing neck, straddled the massive shoulders, and stabbed deep into the base of the skull—once, twice, three times—each thrust crunching bone, brain matter squelching around the steel. Hot blood pulsed over his knuckles, dripping in ropes down his forearms.

The boar convulsed, legs kicking, guts spilling from the shoulder wound in slick loops of purple and gray. A final shudder, then it collapsed, tusks digging furrows in the dirt, blood pooling dark and thick beneath the body. James knelt panting, knife dripping, chest heaving, his own blood mixing with the boar’s— a deep gash across his forearm where a tusk had grazed him on the roll, skin split to muscle, bright red welling fast.

He pressed the wound closed with his palm, grimacing at the sting, then wiped the knife on the boar’s hide. The forest went quiet again except for his ragged breaths and the slow drip of gore on leaves. Meat. Hide. Tusks. Enough to feed the tavern for days, enough to trade, enough to prove the old edge still was there.

He dragged the carcass by a tusk toward the path, blood trailing behind him in a wide, dark smear. Obligations waited back in town. But right now, knife bloody, arm throbbing, he felt alive—raw, vicious, and sharp.