Page 98 of The Girl Who Inherits the Dead

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When Delina had imagined going and getting intentionally drunk with her ex-boyfriend, she hadn’t anticipated the entire group going along.

The dive bar is far cry away from what Delina would consider adequate, but beggars can’t be choosers and there’s a giant tacky mural on one wall and dim enough lighting that she can’t see the circles under Maison’s eyes.

Chloe orders a round of ‘the special’ for them, and all four of them crowd around a standing booth.

Unspoken, Maison presses his side against hers, and she’s not about to begrudge him that simple comfort. It’s nice, the physical contact, and she never quite realized how much they always touched until all the casual gestures were gone.

And if she leans into it a bit more, she’s not going to admit it.

Nobody’s talking, as Chloe comes back precariously balancing the four drinks. They’re fluorescent green in tall glasses, and the dim lighting does them no favors.

“First time we got these Gurlien got so drunk he applied for law school,” Chloe breaks the silence, as they all stare at thedrinks. “Only stopped because none of his actual degrees could be found in the system.”

“Thanks, Chloe,” Gurlien grumbles, before picking up the drink and sipping it. “It was two weeks after I got kicked out.”

“And your first thought was law school?” Delina asks, not quite containing the courage to pick up the drink, not with Maison still pressed against her.

“One of my degrees is an equivalent,” Gurlien says. “The other is Biofeedback based, and med school seemed worse than law school.”

This thaws Maison a little, and he raises an eyebrow at Gurlien. “You went through twice?”

“So the College does actual Degrees, weird,” Delina says, still staring down at the drink. “I thought it was a ‘school of thought’ sort of college.”

“I liked school,” Gurlien says, almost plaintive. “I liked the research, I liked the clear and achievable goals, and I liked that all that mattered was your brain. It didn’t matter how social I was, it didn’t matter how awkward I was, it was just learning.”

“Mine was technically in logic puzzles,” Chloe says, and she, too, is staring at the drink with some trepidation, despite the fact that she’s the one that ordered them. “But that’s just a fancy term for breaking into things that other people had locked. They really thought I’d be useful for them.”

“I was definitely not given a choice and it was demonology,” Maison replies dryly, and it’s so close to his normal personality that if it wasn’t for the tremor that still ran through his shoulders occasionally, she would think he is better. “Then it was research, then…”

“Art classes after work?” Delina asks, and he nods.

“So if you weren’t born in the college, you would’ve just done art school?” Chloe asks, honestly curious.

“Pretty much,” Maison says, before he shifts away from Delina long enough to grab the drink. “What the hell is in this?”

“Something green,” Gurlien replies sarcastically. “Some mixer. Probably vodka.”

Maison stares down at it, then, in one go, downs the entire drink.

“Alright,” Delina says, as he coughs once. “So tonight’s gonna be like that?”

He sets the glass down with a thunk, and looks to her like she’s the only person in the building. Like the sleepy bartender and the lackluster locals and the other two people at their very table no longer exist.

“You’re the one who offered to get drunk,” he points out, and she lifts her chin, not about to back down at that.

There’s still the hint of a tremor running through his shoulders, and his throat is tight against her scan.

“Fine then,” Delina says, then pounds her drink in one go, and it burns far more than it should, and is somehow not sickly sweet.

She sputters the burn all the way down her throat.

“Yeah, these aren’t nice,” Gurlien says, but both of his eyebrows are raised well above his glasses as he gingerly sips from his glass. “So Delina, how many dead are around here?”

“Ew,” she responds, then lets her eyes flutter shut.

There’s a dead mouse in the walls of the building over, all but a skeleton now, just the vaguest of pulls behind her gut. There’s a trail of dead ants in a pipe behind the bar—ew—and some dead moths under the heater next to the door.

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