Jabberwock Inn Novels & Stories

But I knew that tone. Icarus raised an eyebrow, taking the book. “A place,” Maxim continued, his eyes never leaving Icarus’s face. “Moss Hollow. A near-ghost village on the edge of the Black Ridge. But more importantly: a bar. The Severed Stag. He mentions that name several times in the notes. Seems Vardam Bowen showed up there more than once.” “And…?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, as if my skin wasn’t still burning where Icarus touched me.

All these people scurrying around to their own destination made the journey to room 3254 quite the battle to get through the halls. Now infront of me stood a white door, equipped with a silver handle. I didn't even realise it, but my hands are quite clammy with my heart racing against time. I suck in one of the deepest breaths I've ever inhaled and just as the door pops open, the cry of a baby triumphs. "It's a baby girl."

Yes, there are extraordinary creatures, but God, they are hideous I mean, look at Werewolves Jay. He's finely made. We arrive at the Inn after much walk, and the place only gets darker. Belwis takes us to the Welcome desk. "One night!" He says to the woman at the desk. The woman looks at us and back at him. She mummurs some incoherent words to him like she is angry at us or something. Her gaze didn't leave Jay, she looks at him with so much hatred, but Belwis just returned to us.

After they drove through the factories, a huge open space appeared. There was an old four-story building in the middle of the open space, and there was a wooden plaque on the door that had two words written on it—Nebula Inn. The building looked a little shabby and seemed like an ancient structure, but the wooden plaque just looked majestic.

By now, all the creatures that resided there were home and preparing for bed, the polar opposite of the dark market. Windows shone brightly with candlelight and I could make out shadows through them, moving about preparing for their night. We finally arrived at a large inn just on the outskirts of town with a simple sign that read, "Sleep In." A lazy-looking tengu woman manned the desk. She looked bored and like she didn’t want to be bothered as we made our way towards her. "How can I help you?" She asked, eyeing us warily. "I’ve got a room booked for Asher." Asher responded calmly.

I muttered, pulling the Jeep up to the curb in front of the Blackthorn Inn. The inn looked like it had been plucked straight out of a Victorian ghost story—tall and narrow, with peeling white paint and ivy creeping up the sides. The porch sagged under its own weight, and the windows, dark and streaked with grime, gave the building an ominous, neglected look. If there was ever a place destined for a haunting, this was it.

Kiran, on the other hand, barely seemed bothered. "There." He pointed towards a two-story inn nestled between a bakery and a tailor’s shop. The words 'The Oak Hearth' barely visible under the rain's relentless assault. "Still looks the same." Kiran remarked. "This is the inn you talked about?" He nodded. Moving forward whilst dripping of rain water. An older woman behind the counter raised a brow. "You two look like you've wrestled the sea itself." Kiran smirked, shaking out his wet hair. "Feels about right. We need food, a room, preferably one with a bath and a couple of clothes for her and I."

The air is heavy with the scent of trimmed hedges and sun-warmed stone. My phone buzzes just as I step onto the back porch. Come towards the garden. The garden? I pause. Kendrick's supposed to be upstairs, tucked away, hidden. Why the garden? A small knot forms in my stomach. I slip through the side entrance, the one no one pays attention to anymore. The walkway stretches ahead, cloaked in a kind of golden gloom, sunlight filtering weakly through narrow slits in the walls. Dust floats in the beams like little secrets hanging in the air.

Like the ones he hunted. The inn appeared through the mist like a rotting tooth jutting from diseased gums. *The Broken Cask*, according to the intelligence report folded inside his coat. A roadside establishment of ill repute, the kind of place where coin bought silence and silver bought absolutely anything else. The building sagged against itself, timber beams warped by time and neglect, windows dark except for the sickly yellow glow leaking from cracks in the shutters.

One of the Duke’s guards, a man named Boris, opened the small window at the front. "Your Grace! The pass is blocked by a fresh rockfall, and the wind is too high for the horses. There’s an inn about a mile back. It’s a rough place, but it’s the only shelter before the blizzard hits." Kaelen cursed under his breath. "Fine. Turn back. We stay at the inn." The "Inn of the Broken Wheel" was exactly what the guard had described: rough. It was a squat stone building with a sagging roof, sitting alone on the edge of a cliff. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of cheap ale and unwashed bodies.