“A Stray Heart” Chapter 1 Teaser

A Stray Heart is my first novel, and one that is currently seeking publication. It’s my gothic fairy tale full of love, lesbians, and lycanthropy. We begin in the human city of Valienta, and Amber River Song trying to go about another grueling day…

Chapter 1: Amber the Accommodating

The low, industrial hum of the sprawling city fought a losing battle with the gentle yet insistent drumming of the rain. The morning light, a watery, hesitant grey, barely managed to break through the thick, flowing clouds overhead, painted the city of Valienta in seemingly perpetual twilight. The mists of hostile nature and the smog of careless industry held the city hostage. The air assaulted the nose with wet stone, woodsmoke, and unwashed humanity. Arcane pawn shops, their windows filled with dusty, curious artifacts, huddled beside boisterous bars already that thrummed with early patrons, and the occasional restaurant where plumes of black smoke snaked lazily up from brick chimneys.

Barkers of all kinds, their voices hoarse, yelled tempting offers, tried to lure passers-by into their shops and at their carts. The street itself was a muddy, treacherous mess; slick, glistening puddles and freshly churned earth swallowed ancient pre-empire cobblestones, contrasted sharply with the post-empire modern structures of smooth, clean stone that rose jarringly above them. The relentless encouragement of merchants and businessmen had certainly brought wealth, but it had also brought a jarring, unsettling change to this little corner of such a cold city. Despite the dull sky, a grand, eclectic mixture of peoples wander Meyer Street with what meagre cover they could muster. The crowd is predominantly human but amidst them moved the occasional slender elf or stout dwarves; all of them cousins of Humanity to enough of a degree that they don’t catch a second glance.

Amidst the swirling, indifferent crowd, a taller, leaner figure moved with a heavy, shapeless cloak pulled tight on her hunched shoulders. While short for her species, a feline humanoid known by many names in different lands but called ‘Lynanth’ by those around her, she stood a head taller than most of the humans and human-cousins around her. She moved with a lithe, almost liquid ease, expertly navigating the jostling bodies and slick hazards. She kept her arms folded in tightly, the cloak drawn close against the cold, insistent rain as she pressed on, a solitary island in the human tide. Each step through the muddy street is an uncomfortable squish beneath her sandaled paws, the fine grey and white fur of her feet already caked with wet earth. The gritty feeling reminded her, deeply, viscerally, and constantly, of her current circumstances. Her large, golden eyes dart back and forth across a thin muzzle set into a deep feline face, taking in every detail, cataloging every potential threat or opportunity. Her ears, broad and sensitive, twitch nervously underneath the hood, pushing flat down in subconscious anxiety at every little threat around her as she quickly tried to make her way through the rain-soaked, bustling crowd of smooth faces grimacing beneath their rain-slicked clothes.

As she reached the comparatively dry awning of a larger, older wooden building on the very edge of the borough, closer to the busy port district, the feline woman allowed herself to stand up straight, a quiet sigh escaping her. With deliberate movements, she removed her rain-soaked cloak and carefully peeled off her mud-caked sandals, shaking them out vigorously before tossing them to the side of the door. Then looking at her own reflection in the grimy front window – a critical, practiced assessment.

A broad, almost moon-like face stares back, framed by wisps of paler fur, damp tendrils clinging to her cheekbones. Her large, earnest yet tired eyes, the color of warm honey, take in every detail of her reflection, but she focuses ruthlessly on the perceived flaws: the disheartening lack of fullness in her hollow cheeks, the dark, bruised bags under her eyes from restless nights, and the fuzzy, frayed edges of fur poking disobediently from beneath the modest, faded red-dyed tunic that barely hid her slender frame. A small bit of cheap but shiny gold in the form of a handmade necklace with a rough-cut emerald set crudely in tarnished wire. One little spark gave her a slight, honest smile looking at her only truly precious belonging. Shaking off what water she could from her form, sending droplets spraying onto the already wet cobblestones, she prepared to enter The Copper Buck tavern with a swift, almost theatrical shift of her demeanor.

“Fangs away, bright cheeks, tail asway keeps the beast at bay;” muttering to herself, her breath misting on the dirty glass. She repeats the mantra over and over, each word a command, trying to muster a manufactured smile that was just genuine enough to disarm.

After a deliberate beat, her grey paw extended out to the door handle and pushed inward to reveal a surprisingly dead tavern, save for one lone, slumped patron at the bar. The scent of stale beer and old woodsmoke, familiar and oddly comforting, washed over her.

“Morning, Babs,” the tall cat woman said, her voice a low purr that held a practiced warmth, giving the hunched over human’s back a familiar, gentle rub. “Nice to see Boss let you stay after the last call, old gal.” Her long, greasy hair, the color of dishwater, spills backward as slowly sits up straight, a glistening bit of drool stubbornly gluing her remaining locks to the left side of her craggy face; bleary and bloodshot, blinking slowly. Amber reached out a paw, her movements careful, and gently helped clean the drool from the woman’s face, her gaze devoid of judgment.

“Ugh, morning Song. I’ll have you know I was waiting all night for a gal who never showed. ” Barbara rasped, her voice rough as gravel after snoring with her mouth open all night. She shifted, her slender shoulders still hunched and began to reach for a nearby unfinished bottle of ale, hand trembling slightly.

“Sorry you got stood up for your date.” Amber said as she stepped smoothly behind the worn oak bar, her movements fluid and efficient. Leaning in, ready to listen to Barbara talk about another one of the various other women she was seeing or at least claimed to.

“Not a date, business.” the tired human said with a clearer voice now whetted with some liquid, starting to straighten the messy coils of her hair.

Amber cocked her head in some confusion. Asking “What’s your business?” while trying to not sound accusatory. She had always assumed the woman was some sort of other destitute member of this society like her.

“My own.” she retorted sharply, “Come on now, girl, always keep your deals confidential” Barbara said playfully, “You know all my old stories, I used to get up to all kinds of trouble!”

The barmaid sighed and rolled her eyes. “I think I’ve heard about all your heists by now.” Not that Amber believed any of the insane stories that the alcoholic human came up with about being a lowly thief turned crime-lord in a distant land. “I won’t blow your cover.”

“Thanks Amber, you’re a doll, I’ll be back.” She said sitting up straight now, still lost in some sort of stupor but at least mostly conscious. Starting to move towards the door. with a drink in hand. “Oh, and if you happen to see a black lynanth let them know I’m looking for them.”

“Sure Babs, have a good day.” Amber slipped into the kitchen beyond.

Inside, the usual morning tableau awaited: a pensive-looking man, Bernard, poured over scrolls at a small, cluttered table, his brow furrowed in concentration. At a nearby cast-iron stove, an older Lynanthi woman in simple servant clothes diligently stirring the daily stew, its rich, savory aroma filling the steamy air with her twitching feline nose dappled with the greying of age.

“Hello Boss,” Amber said, her voice bright, perhaps a touch too bright, trying to get the human’s attention as his sharp eyes darted across the page of a ledger. She stood there silently and awkwardly, a familiar tension building in her shoulders, as he continued to write down line after line into a notebook, his quill scratching rhythmically.

Her large golden eyes glanced over to the small cook, Vayla, who was doing her best to give Amber a knowing, sympathetic look – a quick, reassuring wink that spoke volumes. After another minute of silent, intense scribbling, Bernard finally put his quill down with a soft click and regarded the women in the room, his thin lips forming a grim line.

“Morning,” was all Bernard said with a curt nod before closing the book with a decisive snap. His gaze, sharp and analytical, fixed on Amber. “We’re behind on coin again. Push the wines today, their margins are better than that cheap Wepeh Ale.” He told his Lynanth barmaid coldly, his voice devoid of any warmth.

As he droned on, Amber’s attention began to slip. Nothing zoned Amber out more than hearing about human financial worries. It was all they ever seemed to talk about, at least the ones she’d met from this City – money, debts, ledgers, the endless counting…

“AMBER. HELLO.” Bernard’s voice, suddenly sharp and loud, cut through her thoughts with a slam of his fist on the wooden table. Her ears flattened almost imperceptibly, a defensive reflex. “Did you hear me? Are you still asleep? Stop staring at the God-damned light.” He sighed again loudly, a sound of profound exasperation. “A new shipment arrives tomorrow. You must make room for it in the cellar by the end of the night, or you’ll have to find somewhere else to work.” The tavern owner stared daggers at Amber, his eyes, usually distant, now piercing with thinly veiled threat.

Her ears flattened down further, plastered against her skull, and she instinctively hid her nervously twitching tail between her legs, pressing it tight against her thigh. A familiar panic, an old, visceral pain, set in, cold sweat running down her back despite the kitchen’s warmth. “Sorry, sorry, sorry sir, I’m sorry, I’m awake and here! Yes sir, sorry sir. So sorry!” She repeated the words like frantic prayer, trying desperately to hide her nervous ticks, to make her body still. Something deep within her, a primal fear, the shadow of her heart flickered, a dark echo of past terror. Amber gripped her paws in a fearful clench, digging her short claws into her own flesh, trying to gain control of herself, of the trembling that threatened to overwhelm her.

Her boss rolled his eyes, a flicker of disdain crossing his lean face as he watched the young feline hyperventilate. Bernard adjusted his thin, smudged spectacles and, with another huff, walked off towards his office, leaving a palpable chill in his wake. “Vayla, save for you, I swear I don’t know why my family hires Lynanthi when good, hard-working humans could be doing twice the work!” Then a smirk forms across his ill-shaven face as he looked back at Amber. “Oh wait, I remember. You work for scraps and change. But I know your kind, only here long enough to line your pockets with enough coin until you slink ungratefully.”

The feline stood shaking in the silent kitchen, her labored breathing echoing, until a gentle, warm touch on her shoulder brought her out of her spiral with a sharp, involuntary jump.

“He’s gone now, sweetie. You can relax,” a soft, higher-pitched voice said, coming from behind her. Vayla, the older Lynanthi, her wild, coppery-bright orange fur a bright halo mixed in the pattern of her fur slowly going a wispy and dull brown, stood looking up at her with a compassionate gaze, her small hand still resting on Amber’s shoulder.

“I’ve known Bernard since his grandfather owned the place, bless his soul. He’s always been a moody boy. Let him get pissy about how his books don’t add up.” Vayla’s round, expressive muzzle was alight with gentle understanding. Amber’s furry chest rose and fell a little slower with the comforting feeling of her friend’s hand, the familiar warmth a lifeline.

“Thanks Vay, you know I have a tendency to close myself off when he starts yelling.” She gave her own fuzzy grey cheeks a few self-deprecating slaps, trying to literally shake off the fear, and then painted a fragile smile across her muzzle again, an effort that Vayla, with her keen eyes, recognized instantly.

Vayla couldn’t help but let out a little chuckle, a sound like tiny bells, though her eyes remained soft. “Your father must have not yelled very much when you were a little girl,” the cook remarked conversationally, returning to the large cauldron of stew, her small but strong hands deftly grabbing a basket to retrieve some root vegetables to cut up. “Is he a quiet, thoughtful man? What’s his name?”

“Dewey…Dewey Mountain Song…loud, boisterous, bright, and motivating…he…was…” Amber began, her voice trailing off, a lump forming in her throat. She instinctively reached out to help hoist the heavy basket of food onto the table for her friend, grateful for the distraction. As she went to speak again, a large grimace, full of immediate regret, spread across the woman’s expressive face.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, dear! I’m trying not to pick at old wounds!” Vayla quickly interjected, her tone genuinely contrite, pausing her vegetable chopping. “The only point of looking back is to see how far we’ve come… and honey, I’m not sure you’ve gotten very far with that particular journey.”

“No, no, Vay, it’s fine! It truly is,” Amber insisted, a fragile determination in her voice. The cold sweat had subsided, replaced by a dull ache, but the memory was no longer overwhelming. “I should talk about it more; my journal can only listen to me so much.” She let out another sigh, this one less panicked, more resigned. “I’m actually from the Spearlands, those little towns outside Valentia itself, northwest of here. A ranch that used to be out on the outskirts of the city about a decade ago.” Her eyes grew distant, unfocused. “I was so young and it was so dark then…I had no idea where it was, and at this point, the land belongs to someone else and -” She noticed Vayla’s curious but visible discomfort at the painful topic. A wave of guilt washed over Amber.

A part of her would love to keep talking, to empty the heavy stories from her chest and have someone truly hear her, but not at the expense of another person’s peace. She coughed softly into a paw, forcing the ache in her throat away, and painted another bright, practiced smile across her muzzle.

“-ANYWAYS, I’ve got to tidy up the place. Let me know when it’s teatime!” The cheerful deflection felt like a physical weight settling back onto her shoulders, but it was a familiar burden. The feline cook gave a pensive but knowing nod, her wide green eyes holding Amber’s for a moment longer than usual, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them.

Then, with a soft sigh that seemed to carry the weight of many past disappointments, Vayla returned to her duties at this perpetually struggling establishment, the rhythmic chop of vegetables against wood filling the small kitchen. All Amber remember was the old woman’s eyes, wondering if she could ever truly listen. Despite being the only two Lynanthi here and one of the few non-human workers, It had been a year of working here and their conversations remained on the cordial surface.

Amber turned and walked out to find the main tavern room empty, save for the stale scent of yesterday’s revelry and the damp chill that seeped in from the street. She scanned the tables for Barbara, but only found a small, dark puddle on the worn floorboards, a thin dribble of liquid leading a tell-tale trail towards the main door. She couldn’t tell if she’d simply spilled her drink and made a swift, clumsy escape before getting caught, or if he’d truly pissed herself in her drunken stupor. Either way, it meant trouble if Bernard didn’t see her immediately cleaning it.

Another mess. Always a mess. She grabbed one of the fresher aprons from behind the counter, its coarse linen smelling faintly of cheap soap, wrapping it around her hips with a practiced flourish. Then, she began to gather the cleaning supplies: a bucket, a stiff-bristled brush, and a clay bottle of the tavern’s caustic, acrid cleaning solution.

Her pink nose scrunched up in disgust as she uncorked the bottle; the sharp, chemical fumes sting her sensitive nostrils and made her eyes water. These harsh cleaners only seemed to bother her and other species like her with heightened senses, a constant, low-level assault that humans barely seemed to notice. Choking back some tears and a cough that rasped in her throat, Amber tipped the foul-smelling liquid onto the stain and got on her hands and knees to clean. The cold, damp air of the tavern floor bit into her fur, thick with the earthy scent of rain and old wood close to the baseboards. The girl tried her best to lose herself in her task, to focus only on the rhythmic scrubbing, on the dark stain slowly fading from the wood. She concentrated fiercely on not considering her own discomfort, not letting her mind wander, but rather on what must be done, pushing down the shame of having to crawl on the floor like a common servant. With a final, scrubbing cough, she rose from the newly cleaned floor, her knees aching, and plopped onto a nearby chair with a huffing sigh that felt more like a grunt of exhaustion.

A moment’s respite only – the kitchen door slammed open with a jarring thud, and Bernard emerged, his narrow face set in a grimace, his grey eyes glaring from behind his thin spectacles. He didn’t even acknowledge the still-damp patch on the floor she’d just scrubbed. “When you finish cleaning the bar, don’t forget to move the barrels in the basement to make room for tonight’s shipment. Darrien has been called to speak about some crime he witnessed, so the Kimorans are interrogating him; there’s no clue when he’ll be back. I swear to the Goddess these holy men do the good work but have never had to work an honest day in their life; they don’t know what a loss ‘just a few hours’ is of a set of single hands, ugh. Handle it.” His voice was flat, unyielding demand, devoid of warmth or empathy. Their eyes locked for a moment, Bernard’s impatient gaze drilling into Amber’s weary honey-colored ones.

She wanted nothing more than to take a minute, just one precious minute, to catch her breath, to let the trembling in her paws subside. But she didn’t immediately move. And as she didn’t, his eyes widened slightly, and his head cocked to the side in disbelief, a slow, disgusted sneer spreading across his lips. The shadow deep in her heart, the ever-present anxiety, began to sprint again, a cold terror washing over her. This time, there was no Vayla’s gentle touch, no comforting voice, just the piercing glare of her employer. He put down his notebook on the bar with a sharp slap and walked slowly towards Amber, his posture stiff, his disgust palpable.

“Stupid Cat, when I speak to you, it’s because it’s a need. I wouldn’t need a fuzzy twig like you to move things if the Goddamn city would respect my time; but no, it’s bullshit at every turn even in my own business!” he shouted, his voice rising, spittle flying, directly into her face. “If you don’t feel the need when I speak, I have no need of you. Got it?”

Her knees locked together as she froze in place, every muscle in her body tensing, poised between flight and utter submission. Every fiber of her being screamed for her to turn towards the door and run, to just run screaming from this overwhelming situation, to escape the rage she felt welling up, threatening to expose itself. Her tail wrapped nervously around the leg of her chair, trying to hide its trembling, trying to keep herself small, unthreatening.

“G-g-got…got it…Sir…on it…Sir…” she stammered, her voice barely a whisper, thin and desperate. Shooting up on her tired legs, her muscles protesting, she grabbed the washcloth again, clutching it so tightly her claws extended slightly, digging into the fabric in angry, frustrated jabs. But she forced herself to maintain calm, to regain control, focusing on the immediate task at hand: scrubbing the bar like she was scrubbing Bernard’s stupid face off. Back and forth, back and forth, she removed another layer of sticky grime from the oaken countertop, her movements stiff and mechanical.

This time, Bernard didn’t walk away. He remained, standing over her, his arms crossed, silently staring in critical judgment, his gaze a palpable weight on her back. As Amber finished, her arms aching, he came over and ran a single finger across the newly cleaned counter, examining it for dust, before waving his hand dismissively to send her to the basement. She dare not even react.

Each creak of the steps descending into the damp cellar announced her every movement – something she knew her employer liked. A single hooded lantern dimly lit the basement. The basement was a scattered and disorganized mess of a storage room, larder, and wine cellar. Crates of food to pickle mixed in with kegs and bottles from all over the world; one of the few benefits of being so close to port. The space wasn’t normally this bad, but it looked like some of the other employees were playing cards down here and left quite a mess. Bernard doesn’t care as long as it gets cleaned up. She sighed and saw the problem and what needed to be done.

A series of dwarven stouts lay by the loading doors that exit out the back of the hill the Copper Buck is built on; it seems someone dropped them off but never put them into place with the rest. The Lynanth went to get her claws around the metal rim to find them far heavier than she expected, barely able to move them with great effort. Unable to pick up the massive metal cylinder she pushed the metal against the stone floor. By the time she pressed them against the wall, her shoulder and hands hurt from the strain. “Take a moment…it’s ok… nobody here knows…” she said, almost psyching herself up as she watched the upstairs door. She tapped her claw on a jar of pickles, opening it with ease and sneaking a vinegary bite to ease her anxiety. Enjoying a quiet, stolen bite for a moment before walking upstairs to continue.

As her tired legs delivered her upstairs, she discovered a few patrons had already wandered their way in. The midday hours brought a slow but steady trickle of patrons into The Copper Buck, each new face adding to the growing cacophony. The first wave were the dockworkers, their rough voices and heavy boots echoing as they claimed tables, eager for their first ale after a shift, smelling of brine and sweat. Then came the minor merchants, more neatly dressed, their conversations hushed but sharp, discussing deals over watered-down wine.

Later, the early drinkers trickled in, those with no discernible work, their eyes already glazed, their laughter too loud. The air grew thick with pipe smoke, the clinking of tankards, and the rising murmur of a dozen conversations, forcing Amber to raise her voice just to be heard. Amber moved through the growing crowd, her fluid motions a stark contrast to the stiff compliance she showed a while ago under Bernard’s gaze. This was her stage, and she was an accomplished performer. She began her carefully rehearsed dance; leaning a little too close when taking an order from a burly sailor to show her cleavage, letting her tail brush his arm “accidentally,” feigning interest at a merchant’s tedious tale, her purr a little deeper when she promised to fetch “your favorite brew, handsome.”

Each interaction was a negotiation in progress, laughing a little too loudly at crude jokes, her smile, bright and wide, felt stretched and brittle. She’d nod emphatically to drunken rants, never correcting, always agreeing, her entire being dedicated to being what they wanted, needed, expected her to be. If they got a little handsy or made crude comments on her body it was all part of the game; one that she had thankfully grown numb to. This was much of the substance of this afternoon, as are most of hers – a mentally and physically exhausting dance. Beneath the bright, charming mask, Amber felt suffocating exhaustion. Each forced laugh or excuse of violating her boundaries chipped away at her spirit. The constant noise grated on her sensitive ears, making her head pound with a dull ache. She longed for a moment of quiet, a single breath where she didn’t have to be ‘Amber, the accommodating barmaid,’ where she could just be. But the faces kept coming, the orders kept ringing out, and the mask had to stay on.

Always.

She felt – she knew – that if anyone knew her truth, the terrifying reality of what she truly was, they would be beyond disgusted, shunning her from all affection and cutting her off from what little she has left. The thought was a cold knot in her stomach, a constant reminder of the fragile peace she maintained.

TO BE CONTINUED IN “A STRAY HEART” CHAPTER 2…