Cobblestone Tavern Novels & Stories

I decided to make a more low-key entrance, materializing a few blocks away from the Witches' pub, TwentyOne, before taking a leisurely stroll to the destination. The Witches, as I'd learned the hard way, weren't exactly fond of unannounced arrivals. TwentyOne, nestled in the vibrant heart of New Orleans, was a pub with a rich history and a name that, ironically, had nothing to do with the vices of gambling. The Witches of TwentyOne were part of a Coven that mirrored the ones I oversaw, albeit with their own distinct brand of magic.

"When have I ever been anything but a sweet, quiet girl, neighbor boy?" Celt lets out a low, gravelly laugh that vibrates straight through the floorboards. He doesn't bring up the black-market potion dens or the silver blade I keep strapped to my thigh. Twenty minutes later, the sedan pulls up to a secluded, stone-walled tavern nestled in the northern quarters of Silverpine City—a high-tier dining den reserved for pack leaders and high-ranking enforcers. We step into a private timber booth lined with dark fur. I toss my canvas work bag onto the wooden bench, grab the leather menu, and order three heavy cuts of seared venison without a second thought.

We headed up a short hill, following the main flow of cars, and the houses began to get more spread out, until they disappeared entirely, replaced by a cute little downtown area. The suburbanites were out in force. Lots of boomers in fancy outfits, a few packs of teenagers, little kids running from bench to bench. I found a halfway decent spot called Parlor Twelve and held the door open for her. We sat at the bar toward the far side, with our backs to the wall, and a good view of the door. I didn’t plan on practicing good defense, but shit, might as well anyway. The place was an upscale gastropub sort of thing, with lots of metal and repurposed wood, the lightbulbs giving off that warm orang

Black and scaly with a beak full of jagged sharp teeth. In the distance a child cried, the sound cutting through the bleak night, as the moon shone down on quiet streets. I made my way across town to Sapiens, an old tavern that still operated on the outskirts of Briarshire. An establishment that had been passed down through generations and had even withstood the great Lycan wars from two and a half centuries ago. With my enhanced hearing I could make out the lowly chatter of patrons and the giggles coming from the women who worked there. It was a bar, but it also doubled as a bordello house.

Like we had interrupted something important. Knox stepped inside first. Holding the lantern high. I followed. I wanted to get ready for whatever happens. The tavern was small and dimly lit. People were sitted at scattered tables. They were all watching us with curious eyes. The bartender, who is an older man with gray hair, nodded at Knox as if he recognized him. "Evening, Knox," the bartender said. "Your usual spot is available." Knox nodded back. "Thanks, Willem." So Knox was a regular here. That was interesting. This hidden tavern that hardly anyone knew about. Except Knox came here often enough to have a "usual spot."

“Awesome. So, Ms. Brooke Johnson, I, on behalf of our entire team, welcome you to our craft brewery. As you see, this is still a work in progress as a few installations and the contraction of the dining area is yet to be complete. Pardon the mess but my contractor assured me it’ll be done in the next few weeks.” “It’s alright. I know.” She said. It was cute how Nathan was so excited to give her a proper tour. They walked past the entrance, which was a small pathway with green lawns on either side that led into the entrance. The first thing she saw was the sandstone building that had a rustic look with a catslide roof. It looked simple, familiar yet welcoming. Then she remembered something.

The Corner Booth Reckoning The neon sign of The Rusty Anchor flickered fitfully, casting an oily green glow over the scarred wooden booth where Avery and Garrison had sat nearly every Thursday for the last six years. It was a loud, unpretentious dive bar tucked away in the lower grid of Manhattan—the exact opposite of Vivian’s sterile penthouse. Avery sat with her hands wrapped tightly around a cold mug of draft beer, her knuckles white. She hadn’t touched a drop.

I let out a soft sigh and navigated through the thick scent of pine, musk, and sweet berry wine toward the large black-stone serving bar. I spotted an empty corner with five high wooden stools. It was strange that the section was totally bare while the rest of the tavern area was completely packed with wolves, almost as if the entire pack knew to stay away from it. "Young female, you cannot sit there," the bartender barked as I went to rest my legs. "That table is strictly reserved for the owner of the Nightfang Citadel." "Oh, my mistake," I mumbled, starting to pull back. "Leave her be, Omari," a deep, chillingly familiar voice rumbled from the shadows behind me.

He was already there when I arrived. He had chosen a bar, not a restaurant. Small, quiet, the kind of place that understood discretion — dim lighting, booths with high backs, a bartender who didn't look at you twice. Caleb was in the last booth with a glass of bourbon in front of him and his jacket off and his collar open, and he looked like a man who had been sitting very still for a long time waiting for something he wasn't sure was coming.

Perhaps it was weakness, or perhaps it was inevitability, but when Abram suggested we go out, I didn’t refuse. We found ourselves seated in a dim tavern tucked into one of the quieter corners of the city—a place I had visited once or twice in the past, when anonymity had been easier to maintain. The air was thick with the smell of roasted meat and ale, the steady hum of low conversation weaving with the occasional burst of laughter. Shadows danced along the wooden beams above, cast by the flickering light of torches set into iron brackets.