Page 84 of Bride of the Midnight Prince

“Drink up!” says Finn, shoving the bottle of whiskey into my hands.

“I really shouldn’t drink,” I whine. “And I don’t like whiskey.”

“Stop being a blubberinggirland drink!”

I’m acting like a girl, am I?Fine. I grab the bottle, uncork the top, brace myself, and take a swig. It is like drinking liquid fire, which burns all the way down. I cough and sputter as Finn pulls it away, laughing hysterically.

“He drinks like a girl!”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I demand furiously, blinking against the fire that has somehow made its way up to my eyes.

“You act like it’s going to bite you!” laughs Finn.

“You’ve got to be the whiskey’s master, not let it be master over you,” says Jack.

“Don’t worry,” I reply. “I’m just letting itthinkit has mastered me before I destroy it. You’ve got to let the whiskey put its guard down. Don’t you know anything about drinking?”

The three of them stare at me in surprise, then seem to silently contemplate if this might be a valid approach to alcohol. I would smack them upside the head if I thought I could get away with it.

Then it’s my turn. I look at my hand and curse violently. The boys laugh and shove the bottle of whiskey back to me.

“Drink it! Drink it!” they chant, and then nearly roll around on the ground in their laughter at the way I cough and sputter the drink down. “Make it put its guard down!”

We lay out our cards for the next round. I win the trick yet again.

Chapter 26

Rahk

Natistakingaverylong time to deliver the dishes to the kitchen. I tell myself to stay focused on this book I’m trying to read on Harbright’s history—it is mind-numbingly dry—but as the night darkens and the shadows of my flickering candles lengthen, I grow more worried. I don’t want to be overprotective when everything is almost certainly fine. She is probably tending to one of her various feminine needs that she avoids me knowing about. I want her to have her privacy.

Still, the sharpness of my concern makes reading impossible. I give her half of an hour. When she still isn’t returned, I regret applyingolleawhen I entered this room—it deadens my ability to scent her. I push up on the table, rising to my feet, slamming the book shut.

Privacy or no, I need to make sure she’s safe. And if I invade her privacy at the wrong moment, perhaps it’ll make her finally confide in me. Maybe then I can finally find out what is wrong, and how I can help her.

Maybe, at last, I can learn her real name.

I’m not even halfway to the door before the scuffle of shoes up wooden stairs reaches my ears. My awareness prickles, my relief almost frightening in its intensity—until I realize her gait is not what it usually is. In fact, it might not be her at all.

I swing open the door just as a loud thump and grunt burst from beyond. And there is Nat—collapsed in the stairwell, her arms and head on the floor while the rest of her body is arranged awkwardly across lower stairs.

“Nat!” In two strides, I’m at her side. My blood turns into a dark, lethal rhythm I know so well. I grab her upper arm and pull her upright. “Nat! Are you hurt?” If she has gotten hurt again because of me, I will never forgive myself. I scan her body for signs of injury and find none.

Then she belches. I stare at her, shocked, but only for a second. My lids shutter. “Great Kings help me, you’re drunk! You little fool!”

I pull her head to my shoulder, getting one arm under her ribs and another beneath her legs before I hoist her up. I carry her inside our room, kick the door shut, and drop her onto the seashell-colored bedspread. “You were alone for thirty minutes. How in the Mountains of Ildrid did you come to be drunk?”

She giggles, rolling to her side. “I cannot hold my alcohol. Not at all!”

“Clearly!” I reply with a huff, marching to the door and throwing the bolt. “Where did you get alcohol?”

She mimes sealing her lips and tossing away the key. “I’m not a tattletale.”

I stand there beside the bed, one hand on my hip, the other one dragging down my face. “I’m not asking so I can go punish someone. It’s just . . . This isn’t like you!”

I forget she’s supposed to be a twelve-year-old boy. It’s impossible to think of it when she’s giggling in that very distinctively girlish way. And when she grins up at me, I find it impossible to believe that I bought her disguise for the first few minutes of our acquaintance.

“Am I drunk?” she asks, her arms flung wide on the bed, her body at a crooked angle.

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