The Problem with Peace (Greenstone Security 3)

We were in Keltan’s office while I was thinking about the different retreats I could go to, to comfortably break down. Only wealthy people had the luxury to go crazy, and I was wealthy now and I’d just had my sanity stepped on by a man who barely blinked at me—though I deserved that—where was my cab?

“Wanna get drunk?” Keltan asked instead of asking me if I wanted to commit myself or have him do it.

I blinked again.

He was holding up a bottle of whisky.

I hated whisky.

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” I replied without hesitation.

* * *

“Keltan! What is this?” Lucy demanded from somewhere…upward.

“This is your beloved husband and your beloved sister, do you need to get your eyes tested?” a low and rumbling voice replied.

“You need to fucking get your head tested if you think that is an appropriate response,” she snapped. “Really? You think that after not seeing my baby sister in a year, that this is the kind of reunion I’d want?”

Her voice was still upward, and I was still moving. Floating. Flying.

It was nice, I decided.

How cool would it be if I could fly?

“Well, I know this isn’t ideal,” Keltan said from above me. From what I could hear, he wasn’t slurring his words, like at all. And he was still standing, carrying me if I wasn’t in fact, flying. He’d drunk more whisky than me.

A lot more.

“How do they breed you in New Zealand?” I slurred. “Do you just get weaned off breast milk then straight onto whisky?”

A chuckle. “No, sweetheart, we go onto beer first, we don’t get the hard stuff until we’re at least able to walk and talk. After kindergarten.”

“Keltan!” Lucy hissed. “You’re not allowed to chuckle. Nor are you allowed to get my little sister this drunk. Not when I can’t get that drunk too. I’m pregnant. You made me this way. I can’t drink because it will stunt our child’s growth.”

A large thread of joy tangled through my drunk mind at my sister’s words. But she wasn’t drunk. Nor did she sound joyful.

“So it stands to reason I should be doing the drinking for you also. You’re eating for two. I’ll drink for two. A good compromise,” Keltan decided.

We were still moving. How big was Keltan’s apartment?

I wasn’t as sure I liked flying anymore. I was reasonably certain if I kept doing it much longer I’d throw up on Keltan, Lucy, or the floor of the apartment. And Lucy would so not be happy about that. Well, she wouldn’t be happy about the latter two. Right now, it sounded as if she wouldn’t mind me puking on her husband.

“A compromise is you sleeping on the sofa since my drunk and near comatose little sister is going to be in the guest room,” she snapped.

Thankfully, we must’ve been in this mystical guest room and I was on the mystical bed. One I hopefully wouldn’t throw up on.

“Thanks for the flying lesson, Keltan, but I don’t think I’m suited for it,” I muttered.

Another chuckle.

“Don’t you fucking laugh,” Lucy hissed. “Did you give her acid?”

“Jesus, no. Just whisky.”

“That’s worse!” Lucy exclaimed

“How is whisky worse than an A-Class drug?” Keltan asked, sounding amused and not at all drunk.

How could that be?

I knew he was close to inhuman because of everything I’d heard, but this was something else.

“It’s worse because she’s Polly and she doesn’t believe in whisky.”

“But she believes in acid?”

“She’s Polly.”

It wasn’t entirely untrue. I was Polly.

And when I was really trying to figure myself out, I’d tried the stuff that everyone told me was a spiritual experience. Obviously nothing like heroin or anything that was going to ruin my life. I didn’t do anything now, of course. But I had to say yes before I knew that I wanted to say no.

A slight tug at my ankles and the thumping of shoes hitting the floor caught my attention.

“Are these Rosie’s?” Lucy asked. “I’ve been looking for these to steal for like an age. I’m glad you didn’t vomit on them because I’m stealing them.”

“Stealing is wrong,” I muttered.

“Ah but day drinking with my husband instead of coming to visit me is totally and utterly fucking right,” she returned dryly. She didn’t sound mad. Not really. This was just another classic Polly move. She didn’t get mad at Polly moves. She was used to them. It was why she loved me.

Or maybe she loved me in spite of it.

Whatever.

There was warmth and a soothing smell of lavender and Lucy’s perfume as something soft and snuggly settled over top of me.

I sighed in relief.

I knew opening my eyes would result in the room spinning and then me likely throwing up, so I reached my hand toward where I guessed Lucy was.

A warm and dry hand circled mine.

“Lucy,” I said, only slurring a little.

“Yes, Pol,” she replied, her voice soft.