Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Hans glances at me in the rearview mirror, clearly weighing his options. “There is good place. Local bar. Owners are friendly women.”
He navigates us through another narrow alleyway, this one so tight I could touch the stone walls on both sides if I rolled down the windows. We emerge onto a street I haven’t seen before. They all look different but somehow the same, like variations on a theme. He pulls over in front of a building that somehow manages to feel welcoming despite Grimlock’s overall atmosphere of beautiful menace.
The sign reads Toil & Trouble Apothecary Bar in deep burgundy paint, and the building itself is a converted Victorian house painted in charcoal gray with black trim that makes it look like it’s perpetually in shadow. Wind chimes hang from every available surface on the wraparound porch. Dozens of them in different sizes and materials, creating a constant chorus of soft, melodic chaos.
I climb out, immediately struck by the sound. The wind chimes create a symphony that’s both soothing and unsettling, melodies that shift and change depending on which way you turn your head. Some are made of metal, others of bamboo, a few of glass or crystal. Together, they create a soundtrack that feels both magical and slightly sinister.
“I love the vibe,” I say as we approach the front steps. “You don’t see places like this in New York.”
“The Dunsin sisters are the owners. Three of them—Duffy, Cate, and Inessa. Duffy works the day shift. She is the nice one, so you should be . . . safe.” Hans pauses at the door, and there’s something deliberate about that pause that makes me wonder what the other sisters are like. “She asks many questions, but questions come from curiosity, not suspicion.”
“And that’s unusual here?”
“In Grimlock, most questions come from suspicion.”
The front door is painted deep crimson like so many others and decorated with a knocker shaped like a raven. As I reach for the handle, the wind chimes suddenly go silent, as if the building itself is holding its breath.
I push open the door, and I step into what can only be described as an apothecary’s dream merged with a tavern keeper’s vision. The walls are lined floor-to-ceiling with shelves holding hundreds of glass bottles in every shape and size imaginable. Amber, emerald, cobalt blue, and clear crystal, each filled with mysterious powders, dried herbs, tinctures, and things I can’t begin to identify. Copper distillation equipment gleams from corner alcoves, and bundles of dried plants hang from the exposed ceiling beams like aromatic chandeliers. The bar itself is carved from a single piece of black walnut, its surface scattered with mortars and pestles alongside cocktail shakers and jiggers. Behind it, bottles of spirits mingle seamlessly with apothecary jars, creating a display that’s equal parts magical and intoxicating.
This is a place where you could get both a masterfully mixed cocktail and a perfectly crafted poison, and somehow that feels exactly right for Grimlock.
“What can I get you? Poison or drink?” someone calls from behind the bar.
I turn to see a woman with wild auburn curls that cascade past her shoulders, with delicate silver threads woven throughout that catch the light. Despite the speckles of gray in her hair, she’s close to my age, maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven tops, with green eyes and a mischievous smile. This must be Duffy, the “nice one” Hans mentioned. She has this effortless witchy chic thing going on—flowing black maxi dress that moves like water when she walks, layered with beaded necklaces and a fringed shawl that drapes over one shoulder. Her fingers are covered in silver rings, and her hands are stained with what could be ink, herbs, or something far more mysterious.
“Well, that’s a hell of a greeting.” I can’t help but laugh. “I was hoping for the drink option.”
“Smart choice. The poison pays better, but the drinks are more fun.” She begins pulling bottles from both the spirit collection and the apothecary shelves. “I’ve got a lavender gin fizz that pairs beautifully with existential dread, or if you’re feeling more optimistic, there’s a blood orange old-fashioned that’ll restore your faith in humanity.”
I can’t resist a smile. “The lavender gin fizz sounds perfect.”
As she begins her cocktail ritual, measuring spirits with a jigger in one hand while adding what looks like actual lavender oil with a medicine dropper in the other, she glances up at me. “So what brings you to Grimlock? You don’t look like our usual tourist demographic.”
As she reaches up to pull a bottle from the highest shelf, her sleeve falls back to reveal an intricate tattoo that draws my attention immediately. Witchmoths spiral up her forearm in stunning detail, their wings spread wide to display the distinctive skull markings on their backs. The tattoo is done in deep blacks and grays, the moths appearing to migrate from her wrist toward her elbow in a haunting procession. Each moth is slightly different—some with wings fully extended, others caught mid-flight, their antennae delicate as spider silk.