Hurricane #3: The Bartender (Patreon)

Serrano lifted her brows as she sat down, looking at the woman behind the bar. “You new here? I thought I knew everyone who worked at the Saint.” She didn’t just think it. Saint John’s was her bar, her dive. Sure, from the pock-marked wooden bar to the stained concrete floor, it was a shithole, the kind of place you’d be smart to stick to shots, highballs and whatever they had on draft. But it was her shithole.

“Oh, I’m just filling in this evening.”

She wasn’t a silver vixen as much as a jet black one, save for deep, liquid azure eyes. That blue perfectly matched the runway-worthy sleeveless dress she barely had on. “Okay. I’m Serrano.”

“Like the pepper? That’s unusual.”

“I have a brother named Cascabel and cousins named Chipotle and Chiltepin. Pretty sure it’s some inside joke my family refuses to share with me. So…I gotta ask. Why are you here, a shit bar in the DMZ?”

“The DMZ?”

The coyote waved a hand. “That’s what they’re starting to call the area on this side of town, right by Mensura College.”

“Ah. I suppose they’re worried about the school. The magicians and the giants and the monsters. What about you?”

She shrugged. “I mean, I’ve noticed some things are getting run down, but I’ve only seen a few bits of pretty safe-looking magic, I think I saw some giants off in the distance a few times, and I sure as hell haven’t seen any monsters. I’m guessing you’re not worried, either, from your tone.”

“I’m not.” She smiled. “What’s your usual, Serrano?”

“Whiskey and soda.”

“And what can I get you instead?”

Serrano took a moment to process what the vixen had just said, then laughed incredulously. “Huh?”

“I could make you a whiskey and soda. But this is a night for making a change, isn’t it.” She poured a draft pint as she spoke.

Serrano rubbed the back of an ear. “What makes this the night for that?”

The vixen set the draft in front of a grizzled wolf three seats down from the coyote. “For a start, you have a new bartender.”

“Surprise me, then.”

“I plan to.” She swished a lush, midnight-black tail. “But you have to help. What is it you want to change?”

“About…?”

The vixen lifted her brows and spread her hands apart. “You tell me.”

Serrano crossed her arms, looking to the side and lowering her ears. Look, lady, you’re the one who talked about making a change, not me. Was this supposed to be small talk, flirting, or fortune-telling? She shrugged after another second. “I don’t know. I’d like to sleep better.”

“What’s keeping you from sleeping?”

“Nightmares.”

The vixen leaned forward. “Tell me about them.”

She wanted to brush off the request—command?—with something flippant, but her train of thought derailed as she looked back into the woman’s face. She couldn’t give any name to the vixen’s expression other than intense, and as much as she hated the “eyes you could fall into” cliché, for a moment she felt a little vertigo. Blinking rapidly and breaking the gaze by staring fixedly at the bar, she cleared her throat. “They’re dreams about drowning. Massive storms, torrential rain, typhoons, flooding streets. I’m always an unevolved coyote, four legs and no voice, but I don’t know that until I start trying to call for help as water sweeps me away. I’m trying to get home, but I can’t find it. The last couple of dreams, people have been throwing me in the water, actively trying to kill me. And…”

The vixen tilted her head, waiting.

Serrano rubbed the back of her ear again. How did this end up being confessional? “And I don’t know. It’s just that the last time, the last time…” She looked around and lowered her voice because she knew how crazy this would sound. “I woke up and still heard rushing water, because there was a pool draining out of my shower even though it wasn’t on.”

“That’s very strange,” the vixen said after a moment, no hint of judgment in her tone. Or hint of anything else.

She crossed her arms. “So, what does that make you think of?”

“Let’s see.” The vixen drummed her fingers a moment, then reached under the bar and got out a tall, bulbously curved glass. Then she started pouring ingredients into a shaker. Some kind of liquor, some kind of juice, some kind of syrup. Uh oh, a mixed drink. Serrano steeled herself.

After a few pours, the vixen added crushed ice to the shaker, lifted it, and shook it over her shoulder with the style of a flare bartender. Serrano didn’t even pretend she wasn’t staring at what the movements did to her already-tight dress. The vixen flashed her another slight grin before emptying the contents into the glass, adding some more crushed ice, and topping it off with a splash of something else, a cherry and fresh pineapple chunk speared on a paper umbrella.

“Bartender!” a grumpy-sounding mouse yelled from the far end of the bar.

“Just a moment,” the vixen called back.

“An umbrella drink with fresh fruit at the Saint? Is that even legal?” She gave it a sniff. Alcohol, caramel, and fruit. “What is it?”

“A Hurricane.”

“Ha. I thought those were bright red.” The drink was more on the orange side, with no hint of artificial color. She’d only had one Hurricane before, and it looked—and tasted—like a kid’s fruit punch.

“Not real ones.” The vixen indicated it with a finger. “We’re going to try some sympathetic magic. You’re dreaming about the storm overwhelming you, consuming you. So turn the tables. Overwhelm and consume the storm.”

Serrano laughed, but this time the vixen didn’t smile. She just looked expectant.

“I guess I’ve heard worse ideas.” The coyote grabbed the drink and took a big sip, then broke into a coughing fit. The flavors she’d smelled were there, but more intense, more complex, and far more rummy. “Whoa. What the hell was that floater?”

“High proof Demerara rum.” She smiled slightly again. “That makes it a Category 5 Hurricane.”

Serrano laughed, shaking her head, and took a more careful sip. “That’s really fucking good.”

“Thank you.” She tapped the glass. “Drink it all up. Bartender’s orders.”

“Mmm-hmm.” She took a third sip, then frowned. “What’s sympathetic magic?”

“Rituals that use objects with symbolic meaning.” She gestured at the glass. “A hurricane cocktail instead of a real hurricane.”

“Right.”

“Bartender!” the mouse bellowed, sounding angry, not just grumpy. “Hey!”

“Excuse me.” The vixen smiled stiffly and walked away.

Serrano stared into the drink, suddenly suspicious. Was the vixen part of the magic school her snow leopard regular taught at? Surely, not another professor, but maybe a meddling student moonlighting here. But she didn’t have the student vibe. It wasn’t age as much as bearing.

Sighing, she shrugged fractionally and took another sip. It probably wasn’t magical, but it was hella good, despite violating everything Serrano thought she knew about both what kind of drinks she liked and what kind of drinks Saint John’s could make. Did the vixen bring supplies with her? She’d bet a day’s pay this place never kept these ingredients on hand—not the fresh-smelling citrus juice, not whatever syrup the vixen had used, probably not even those rums.

The vixen came back over after a minute. “How is it?”

“It’s great, which kind of goes against the Saint’s whole aesthetic. You took care of the loud guy?”

“I did.” The vixen cleared her throat and struck her clavicle lightly, as if something was stuck in her gullet.

Serrano glanced at the other end of the bar. Empty. She arched a brow, looking back at the vixen. “You didn’t just eat him, did you?”

“That would have been a trick, wouldn’t it.” She rapped the stained wooden bar with a knuckle. “Let me know if you need anything else, Serrano.”

As she moved away, Serrano called after her, “Don’t think I didn’t notice that wasn’t a ‘no’.”

The vixen winked over her shoulder, swishing her tail again, and went to take more orders.