Jabberwock Inn Novels & Stories

She didn't seem like the chirpy happy go lucky person, but you know what they say, 'Never judge a book by its cover'. "Good morning mam. How may I assist you on this lovely morning?" She asks while a bright cheerful smile is sporting her facial muscles. "I would like to know in which room I can find Miss Amia Crosswood." I say. "I believe she came in this morning around eight o'clock, she is in labour." I added. "I'm sorry mam, but if I may ask, what are you missing Crossword?" She asks. "Well uhm," taking a glance at her name tag "Leah Meyers, she is the woman carrying my husband's baby." I say in a quite stonelike manner.

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.

Glimmer of Hope. I walked into the spar. I followed Peter and Jane from behind as this was actually my first time being here. It was a little bit close to our pack. "This is the Novella Spur. The biggest spar in our possession. It's owned by a werewolf and also, all the workers here are werewolves. From different packs also." Peter mumbled as he proceeded. "Heyy Pete? Never knew you were back?" An elderly man who was the janitor called out to Peter as he sighted us.

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.

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.

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.