Prince of Air and Darkness (The Darkest Court)

They’re talking quietly when I return with the tray. I’m too nervous to sit, too eager to stand, since I’ll hunch over their shoulders and try to read their expressions. But there’s no point putting it off.

“All right, Gorgon,” I say, “let’s start with you.”

She accepts the cocktail and takes a sip. Her nose wrinkles and for a moment, I fear I’ve blown my chances on the first try. Then she smiles and says, “Damn, this is good. Gin and...vermouth?”

“Yes. An essential staple to its world.” I give her a knowing look and she flushes with pleasure at the comparison.

I hand Herman the next drink. “Afraid it’s just vodka. Nothing fancy, but you always had good taste.” I gesture back toward Sue, who laughs. Herman accepts the proffered glass with a smile.

Gumba gets a lager, which he approves of judging by the foam coating his upper lip. Sebastian marvels over his Chartreuse cocktail. Honestly, his wasn’t a fair challenge. Nature faerie, herbal liqueur. No-brainer.

I save Smith for last. Everyone else watches as he takes the remaining glass. He peers down at the amber liquid and shakes his head, tiny smile growing across his lips. “You got me...?”

“Whiskey. Neat.” I clip the words so my nervousness doesn’t show as badly, and sit on the edge of my chair, resting my hands on its arms, and wait for him to try the drink.

To his credit, Smith doesn’t swallow it all in one gulp. Some of my excitement dims at the reminder that he doesn’t fully trust me. He takes a tentative sip and his fingers curl around the glass, fingertips pressing white as he shakes and collects himself.

I doubt Smith has ever tasted top-shelf rye whiskey. It’s like taking a punch to the jaw, with a hint of spice that sneaks along the back of your tongue. When you swallow, the burn travels all the way down, hitting the stomach before lancing you with a wave of heat.

Liquid ley line.

The perfect drink to describe him.

I wait, desperate for him to get it. To understand how much I do know him. But I’m sure that’s too much to ask.

Spots of color grow high on Smith’s cheeks and he swirls the whiskey in his glass. “It’s good,” he finally says.

The rest of them cheer, but their approval doesn’t matter. Smith can’t look at me. His words were quiet and soft. His reticence makes me want to tilt my head back and roar my triumph. After weeks together, I know his frustrations and triumphs and inhuman drive. Like the whiskey in his glass, Smith is a masterpiece; with a single drink, I’ve told him as much.

Finally allowing myself to admit it is better than the slight buzz I could get from the alcohol. Fae don’t get drunk easily, and I revel in every second of this. No distorted memories tonight. This freedom, this rightness, and the man sitting next to me are mine. This moment together is one that Smith and I can both keep. I lean back, contented, and let the evening flow on.

Another round of beers later, the others have begun arguing over some television show. I’m trying to keep up with the ridiculous names and political alliances and failing miserably. It doesn’t matter. Listening to laymen arguing war games is the most fun I’ve had in weeks. Herman launches into a ridiculous diatribe over hypothetical battle strategies and is met with strong resistance from Sebastian and Gumba.

They’re so loud, I don’t realize Smith’s been trying to get my attention until he touches my elbow. I turn to him, angling myself away from the conversation, and ask, “What?”

“You’re awfully quiet,” he says, leaning in so I can hear him better. “Still enjoying yourself?”

“Of course.”

“I’m surprised you’re not correcting them.”

The corner of his mouth turns up and I scrutinize the barely visible freckles dotting his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, the short, stubby eyelashes that help make his already average eyes that much plainer.

“Let them have their fun,” I say quietly. “They don’t need to know that there’s no way an army of that size could actually exist. They’d run out of resources within weeks. Besides, no monarch would be stupid enough to drain the treasury to pay them all.”

“So how would you win?” he teases.

“I would ride in on a dragon and let it eat most of the army. Once it was full, I’d burn the rest of them, and stroll into the capital without facing any resistance.”

“That’s...terrifying.” I frown and he quickly adds, “Effective, but terrifying.”

A musical laugh rises above the noise, distracting me.

Sue watches us, smiling wider when I turn to her. “What are you two arguing about?” she asks. The rest of the group has fallen silent by now.

I expect Smith to pull away, to put some distance between us before his friends notice how close we’ve been sitting, but he doesn’t. When I look to him, he actually seems excited to put me on the spot. “You should tell them.”

Gumba bites first. “Tell us what?”