Cold Trail, Warm Bed [Nightcrawler!]

[Rhindeer]

The trail had gone cold.

For a while, things had seemed promising. The job was an easy one, an open and shut case: some charlatan mage was performing "miracles", claiming to be blessed by Ansgar or whatever other offensive nonsense those sorts came up with. That was a serious matter on its own, being blasphemy and all that, but what concerned Liam the most was that people actually believed that malarkey. How people who professed their devotion to Ansgar could be so easily mislead by a little smoke and mirrors was...mind-boggling.

But it wasn't his job to judge the believers and the faithless; that was the Church's business. Liam was only in town for the mage.

One would think that a guy that brazen, that foolishly arrogant in his deception, would be easy enough to find, and for a while it seemed like he would be. As it turned out, "miracles" were hard to keep secret and people were all too excited to gush about it. It hadn't been difficult to follow the trail of gossip from one backwater town to a town just outside Uthlyn--but that was where things went quiet. Either the mage knew somehow, or suspected, or they were taking a break and being smart for a change.

How obnoxious.

Night fell and with it came a cold rain that finally forced Liam to admit defeat. He was tired, achy from travel, hungry, and frustrated, and all of that alone would have been enough to sour his mood. Being wet on top of it? Unforgivable. With his clothes sticking to his skin and chaffing in all the wrong places and his hair flat and dripping, he trudged his way to one of the few places he hadn't yet been:

The local brothel.

Liam was a pious man. He followed the rules. He stayed out of trouble. He said his prayers.

He was also only human and made of weak flesh.

Besides, he reasoned as he passed his horse off to a stable hand, brothels were full of scum and villainy and patrons often had loose lips around their...paramours. (Ask him how he knows!) A brothel made a lot of sense. He could kill a lot of birds with one stone: shelter, food, bed, and research.

...Right.

He headed up the muddy walkway to the door, stomping his feet to knock off the filth caked to his boots, but he still tracked in dirt as he slipped inside. His nose wrinkled at the heady scent of smoke, body odor, and too much perfume--it was enough to give him a headache if he didn't already have one.

Some of the patrons and courtesans quieted as he walked past them, dripping water as he went and ruffling his hair in a vain attempt to dry it. He was used to the stares; some of these smaller towns didn't get a lot of Mordecai action and the armor and tabard sort of gave him away. Which was the point, as far as he was concerned, for he wore it for the intimidation factor as much as he wore out of a sense of pride and duty. Liam cast not-so-subtle looks at them as he went, searching briefly for any signs anxiousness, but all he saw was curiosity.

Shame.

He slid heavily onto a stool at the bar and slid the barkeep some coin. "I'll take whatever hot meal you've got to offer," he said gruffly, resting his chin on a hand. God's sake, he was beat--and doing his damnedest not to shiver in the name of stoicism. "Warm bed too, if there's any empty." A pause. A resigned sigh.

"Preferably with a lady in it. Who's free tonight?"

Liam was a pious man.

But not that pious.

[Nightcrawler]

This is it, Evie thought. I'm in too deep. I'm fucked. She'd never wanted her work to spill over and mix with the plight of the Connlaothian mages. She'd kept that boundary firm. Yes, they were targets, but by definition they weren't helpless. They could pick up and they could leave before a Mordecai found them. And where they stood with Ansgar, well...it was complicated. Slaves, on the other hand...slaves were trapped, sometimes for life. And she'd been there before Madam Diedre picked her up. She'd seen enough to know that she didn't want that life for anyone. Especially not the young ones.

The message came in early that morning, tucked under the brown paper in a basket of bread. She'd nicked it and read it and then re-read it five more times while she held her breath. The railroad boys had made an alliance. She'd known they were trying to strengthen ties and broaden their reach. She hadn't known that one of those ties was with the mage terrorists. "Oh, Garrett," she murmured. "What did you do?"

But the message was clear: unbeknownst to her, she'd been promoted. She wasn't just a spy anymore. As of this evening, she'd be hiding a stowaway in her closet. And that stowaway was a god-damned mage. A terrorist mage.

The girl was a tiny thing all bundled up in an oversized cloak. She shivered and refused to remove it, clutching it to her arms as she shuffled along. She couldn't have been more than twelve. As Evie shut her door and ushered her new contraband into that tiny closet, she couldn't help but wonder how such a young girl came to such a violent organization. Out of desperation for freedom, maybe. Maybe. But she'd seen plenty of young ones trying to escape, and the look in this stowaway's eyes told a very different story. Something about all of this was horribly wrong. She just couldn't put her finger on how.

Maybe she didn't want to know at all.

"Stay here. Stay quiet," she whispered. "I have to go down for work. There's a chamber pot right there if you need to go. You know where your food and drink are? Good. And close your eyes and plug your ears if you hear me come back in with a man, alright, sweetie? You look like you've seen enough shit already." The kid said nothing in response and stared at her with those blank, dead eyes. Evie winked, smiled nervously, stood, and closed her in. She hesitated, fingering her key ring. Finally, she took a breath and locked the closet door. Like a cadaver in a coffin, she thought. She calmed her nerves, straightened up, pasted on her prettiest smile, and headed down into the din.

The Wild Rose was short-staffed. It must have been, because Madam Dierdre worked the bar that night. The girls would all be working. She'd be guaranteed some work, too, unfortunately for the kid in the closet. Evie scanned the room, her stormy eyes darting from patron to patron. Any other night and it would have been business as usual: find a man with means, status, loose lips, and an interest in something a little different, ply him liberally with wine, and...see what there was to learn. But right now? Right now, she needed to be damned certain that there weren't any...

Her gaze froze on the Mordecai at the bar. She was lucky that he was facing away from her at that very moment. Her mask dropped like a rock. "Noooo nononono," she whispered to herself. "Fuck. This can't be happening." Nearby, an old, graying patron eyed her, confused at her unbecoming expression and choice of words. Or maybe he'd just never seen anything like her before. But no — he glanced between her and the Mordecai like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Evie hastily glued her smile back on again and touched the man on his forearm, startling him. "I think I know that man," she smiled. "If you'll excuse me, honey. But I'll be right over there if you make up your mind."

There was only one thing for it. She had to follow through. She had to keep pretending. And now Madam Dierdre waved her over to the bar, too. Shit. She glided across the floor, weaving between the patrons and the girls, her practiced expression held together by a thread. "Evira, come here, darling," Dierdre called when she got within earshot of the bar. Shitshitshit. Madam Dierdre only called her darling like that when a man expressed an interest. But surely not...this man. Evie looked him over under the guise of batting her lashes at him. She knew how to read them. She knew how to find the ones that sought her out in a crowd. This man? This man looked like he thought toast was too decadent. He was missionary in male form. This man had definitely not asked for her. Which meant one thing: she was the only one available.

"I'll go and dish you up, love," Dierdre said with a simpering smile. "Darling Evie here will see to anything else you might desire."

Evie's smile strained ever so slightly as the panic set in. She looked him over again: this miserable, drenched, sour-looking Mordecai. She couldn't bring the man to her room. If he found the girl, her life would be over. What was more, her railroad friends would be in grave danger. There had to be a way out of this. There had to. "Well, now," she lilted from behind the bar. "Aren't you easy on the eyes? But don't you want to dry off first, soldier boy? You look awfully cold."

[Rhindeer]

Oblivious of "Darling Evie's" plight, Liam followed Madam Deirdre's gaze--and his eyebrows rose when he had to look up.

Oh.

He was used to looking down at women; most Connlaothian women were small enough to toss around. This Evira, though? She was one of the tallest women he'd ever seen, never mind the fact that she had horns. But the third thing he noticed was that she was also quite pretty with a cute smile--and it was that last detail that made his tongue grow thick and heavy with sudden nerves as he stared. Her beauty, compounded with the height and the horns, somehow made her...

Intimidating.

And Liam wasn't used to feeling short. Or intimidated, for that matter!

But there was a first time for anything, he supposed. He could be adventurous! Really.

Realizing he had been gawking like a moron, and irritated at his own mental stuttering, he cleared his throat and muttered a quick, "Thanks," to Madam Dierdre before turning his attention to Evie. She gave the usual pleasantries, the flirting she was paid to do--which was fine; Liam was under no illusions that this was anything but a job for these women and he would have been perfectly content if there was less talking. Her comment about his looks, though, drew a sharp snort.

"That's because I am cold," he said--and then bit his tongue as soon as the words left his mouth. That wasn't quite the first impression he wanted to make but...really? Of course he was cold! But she was just trying to make small talk, statements of the obvious aside, and his moodiness over his situation was not her problem. The whole point of coming here at all was to relax and vent a little frustration, so...

He let out a slow breath and tried again, raking a hand through his hair. "My apologies. It's...been a long day. Ah, Evie was it?" he said, giving her another once over. "Yes, I'd certainly prefer to be not-wet, if it's not much trouble?" He had brought a small rucksack with him which was settled near his boots, and he gave it a light kick.

[Nightcrawler]

Okay, Evie thought as she listened to him grump at her. I can work with this. She'd have to delay him from bringing his bag upstairs right away. She'd have to be slick with the sleight of hand. But she could do it.

Maybe.

After all, she wasn't some shadowy assassin. She'd only knocked out a few unruly clients before, and she was still clumsy with her measurements. The last time she tried it, her target fell asleep in his shepherd's pie. She'd just have to use less this time.

The Mordecai wasn't exactly the sweetest man. He seemed a little impatient at the whole song and dance. The way he snapped at her, he might as well have come here to do barn chores, not enjoy an evening's entertainment. And he was very...unremarkable. She'd been right about that much, judging by his slack-jawed gaping. He'd expected someone classically Connlaothian. He'd gotten the opposite. Evie doubted that he fully grasped what Madam Dierdre had just offered him; if this were any other night, he'd probably be confused and fussy before the end of it, like any other beige, unimaginative man. But he was a far cry from some of the odious old priests who liked to frequent their establishment. He didn't seem like he'd hurt her. Maybe he just needed a little less song and a little more dance.

And he was cold. And that would buy her time.

Evie set a hand gently over his own. It was clammy. She didn't flinch. "Of course. No, please. You don't need to apologize," she assured him. "It was a silly thing for me to say. You're right. I think I have just the thing to warm you up." She beamed at him, her radiant smile still very much at odds with the electric fear in her eyes. Yet somehow, dropping the over-the-top flirtation and dishing out kindness made this night's game of chess just a little bit easier.

Too bad it was about to be a very early evening for Mr. Toast.

"Let me fetch you a towel and a warm drink. Madam Dierdre should be back with your food shortly, and then when you're done, we can find somewhere a little quieter to get you out of those wet clothes." Evie patted his cold hand, withdrew hers, and gave him a knowing look. "I'll be back before you know it." With that, she headed back to the kitchens, pushed through the doors, and dropped her smile like the weight it was. It was time to focus. She had one shot at this, and she had to do it right.

She grabbed a sizable goblet and approached a kettle. Within it: mulled wine, sweet, spiced, and steaming. No man who'd braved a rainstorm to sit at a bar would refuse it. "Tabitha?" she called over her shoulder as she ladled it up.

"In here, lovie," came the cook's reply. The tiny thing bustled in, wiping her hands on her apron. She frowned. "What you need, swee-'art? You alright? You look peaky."

"Yes. I mean, no, no, I'm fine, but...one of the girls has a bit of a live one. I'm starting to get worried. I'm...going to need a little of your candle snuffer again."

Tabitha raised her wirey salt-and-pepper eyebrows. She sighed, eyes wide with exasperation. "I trust you know what you're doing. It's a dangerous game you play with the powder. Especially considering last time."

Evie winced. "I know. I'll measure it right. I'd just rather not see another...you know. Bruise. If I can help it." Please say you believe me, she thought. Please say I pulled it off.

The cook scratched at her cheek. She seemed to slump a little in defeat. "Alright, then. Come on. I'll open me cupboard. But be careful, missy," she warned with a wag of her finger. "This doesn't get back to me."

A moment later, with a warm, dry towel over one arm and a tantalizing (and drugged) goblet of hot mulled wine held firmly in her hands, Evie pushed back out onto the floor. It appeared that in her absence, Madam Dierdre had served her Mordecai client: a bowl of hearty stew sat before him, as did a small basket of bread and a plate of simple cheeses. "Here. I think this will get you well on your way to warmed up," she smiled. She set the wine down in front of him, laid the towel next to him on the counter, and pulled up a stool. She looked him over with feigned intrigue. "You know...I never did get your name, soldier."

[Rhindeer]

By the time Evie came back, Liam had practically inhaled the stew. He had been so absorbed in the job that he'd forgotten to eat--which, of course, would explain the headache. With a little food in his belly, he already felt leagues better. 

And as the headache faded and his mind cleared, guilt was soon to follow.

With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he recalled with growing clarity that he had told the old priest at last week's confessional that he was going to stop this. Stop blowing his money on hedonistic nonsense and devote himself to Ansgar. He was done with this and ready to focus on what was important once more: his duty and his God. It was only in the last year that he had hit a low point and given into temptation and it was a slow, brutal struggle to get back on the correct path--or it would be, but falling off the path meant he would have had to succeed getting on it in the first place.

Slouched where he sat, he scowled into his stew, absently stirring around a chunk of potato. His conscience told him he could leave and start over, resist temptation and show he was stronger than this--but another voice reasoned that Ansgar had been a man once, had He not? That's why He was so forgiving. He'd just have to make up for it at next week's service and this time he would actually--

Evie's chipper voice came to him and he jerked and looked (up!) at her. She was all smiles and, bless her, he had to give her credit for trying so hard. But maybe she wouldn't mind a client like him? He didn't make any weird requests and he didn't demand pointless small talk--that had to get exhausting, right?

He was kind of exhausted just watching her work. He didn't think he could maintain a smile for as long as she did.

"It's Liam," he said, and he motioned to the plate of cheese and bread, offering it to her as she sat. There was no way he would be able to finish everything and besides, he did have some manners. It seemed common sense to be courteous to a.) the people who handled your food and b.) the people who handled your genitals. 

He took up the towel and quickly rubbed his hair as dry as it would get, then set it aside and took up the wine, sighing as the glass warmed his icy hands. Taking a good swallow of the stuff (which tasted absolutely sublime), he gave Evie another curious once over.

"So, Evie," he said, his eyes pausing to linger on her horns. "What are you, anyway?"

[Nightcrawler]

Liam. Liam the Mordecai. Liam, the worst luck she'd had in years.

The smile was starting to hurt her jaw, but she kept it up. She couldn't let it drop now. Once the candle snuffer got into his veins, he might start to wonder if his sudden fatigue had anything to do with what he'd just put away — and the women who'd given it to him. But he seemed tired already. Maybe he'd just chalk it up to his long day. Or maybe he wouldn't feel it at all, and then she'd really be out of options. Her fate would be entirely in the hands of that stowaway girl. Her spine felt like ice. She hoped to Ansgar that she'd given him the right dose.

Liam nudged the cheese plate. Evie blinked. Something about his offer took her by surprise. It wasn't the first time a client had showed her basic decency, by any means, but...him? The damp, sullen man who had snapped at her for doing her job? Her stomach sank and it had nothing to do with the cheese. Had she misjudged him?

"You're sure?" she asked, her curious expression now, for once, genuine. "Thank you. You're very kind." Truthfully, she thought she could use something in her stomach if she was going to survive this. She reached for a bit of bread. Liam took a hearty gulp of the mulled wine. Good, she thought with a little sigh of relief. Now keep going.

"So, Evie. What are you, anyway?"

Her hand paused halfway over the counter. Her smile strained. No...she'd judged him exactly right. There it was: the second question they always asked. Well, at least he was creative in his ability to skip past the first one. Or maybe he really didn't know. Evie resumed her course towards the bread, took the most graceful bite she could out of it given what she'd just heard, and returned his gaze. She touched his arm and fed him the same lines she'd spoken time and time again.

"It's a good question, isn't it? I do kind of...stand out. But I'm actually not sure. My mother is Adelan, of course. I'm sure you can tell. But Dad was something else. Um..." She paused, batted her lashes like she suddenly wasn't sure of herself and then delivered the coup-de-grace. "You don't mind it, do you Liam?"

She had another bite, and with it she chewed on something she knew she shouldn't say at all. But it was something that he might actually hear. That might speak to him. And sometimes, that connection meant the difference between danger and safety. She swallowed and took a breath. "In the end, I'm Connlaothian, same as you," she added. "I was born and raised here. I work hard. I take care of my own. And...I pray that Ansgar sees the good in me. That I've made enough of a difference to my nation to make up for my sins." She gave him a coy wink. "And obviously we have no shortage of those here."

It was a scandalous insinuation: that a lowly whore and an agent of Ansgar's justice would ever have something in common. But...it wasn't a lie. And if it scared him off, well...then she'd be safer tonight, and so would her charge.

[Rhindeer]

Liam didn't notice the way Evie's eyes didn't quite match her smiling expression. He noticed her heavy pause, but he filled it with another gulp of wine. Someone more socially and emotionally adept may have put two and two together and figured out it was an (obviously) insensitive question to ask, but Liam just figured, hell, she might not even know? People of her station were often born to people of similar station, after all--bastards who never knew their father.

Her answer confirmed that--more or less. Yet he hadn't expected said answer to make him regret asking. The insecure hesitation in her voice, the demure flutter of her lashes, the uncertainty in her question: "You don't mind it, do you Liam?"

He stiffened, flashing her a startled look. "Uh...no...um, not at all," was all he could manage before she continued--and it took an effort not to squirm as she circled in for the kill. She likely had no idea what she was doing; there was no way she could know about his moral struggles. Yet for a second, it felt like she was peering directly into his soul in an uncomfortable, uncanny sort of way that made him feel disappointed in himself, like a misbehaving child getting called out by a priest at Mass. When he had stepped inside a brothel, he had come expecting the barest, lightest of obligatory chit-chat before they got down to business and went their separate ways. The last thing he had anticipated was talking God with a whore!

Yet there it was. There they were, just two Connlaothians sinning and hoping for Ansgar's forgiveness. 

Liam's mouth opened in protest, then closed in resignation. He took another swallow of wine and almost finished it off, just to avoid having to respond right away. When he finally set the goblet down and looked to Evie, he didn't quite meet her eyes. Partially out of a weird sense of shame, and partially because...whoa...the room kept moving even after he stopped, as though everything was on a slight delay.

Was he...was he tipsy? Already?

"I was just curious about the horns," he grumbled lamely, having no good comebacks to anything else she had said. How could one refute the truth, as irritating of a truth as it might be? "I, uh, I don't mind them. They're...unique, I guess. Just haven't seen many. Horns, I mean. Horns on people."

Lord. The room hadn't stopped swaying, and it kept moving even after he blinked a couple times. Rubbing his temples, he peered into his goblet. It was only his first serving; he usually drank quite a bit more before he felt tipsy. It must be strong stuff, or he'd drank it just a bit too fast? But it wasn't like he was drinking on an empty stomach...

"Not saying it's a bad thing," he added quickly. "Just. You know..." He trailed off, then frowned. "What kind of wine was this again?"

[Nightcrawler]

Alright. So she hadn't banked on shaming him until he chugged the rest of the wine. Still, Evie thought as she watched the man drain the last dregs from the goblet, it worked in her favor...sort of. He'd feel the effects of the candle snuffer a lot faster, and they'd probably hit him harder, too. She could help him out the door, and he could sleep it off in some God-awful alleyway, and then she'd wipe her hands clean of this Mordecai complication and finish the damned job. Then again, even with his seeming lack of observational skills, maybe he'd be more inclined now to notice something was wrong with him.

As if on cue, Liam's words had begun to slur together. He spoke haltingly, and a note of uncertainty now surfaced past his gruff demeanor. He squinted at her — or rather, just above her eyes — as though he couldn't quite focus. Well, Evie thought as her stomach turned over again. Shit. The drug had hit him like a shovel to the head. She'd have to move fast if she wanted to get him on his way. It wouldn't be the first time a patron had passed out at the bar, but it was never as suspicious as she was sure this was starting to look.

"What kind of wine was this again?" he asked.

"Oh!" she laughed. "It is a little strong, isn't it? It's just mulled wine. We usually add some brandy for a little kick. Did Tabitha...?" She took the goblet gently from his fingers and feigned sniffing it. "Oh, not again." She returned it to the counter and set her hand back on his arm. "I think our cook might have overdone it on the brandy. I hope that's alr — "

Evie paused for dramatic effect, frowned, and held the back of her hand to his forehead. "Are you alright? You look ill. Oh no...oh I'm so sorry. I hope this isn't somehow my fault." She peered at him and bit her lip, still fully committed to the performance. "Maybe we should get you home, sweetie. You really don't look well at all."

[Rhindeer]

"No no no," Liam said, swatting lightly at Evie's hand--or he would have, if her hand was where he thought it should be. It was difficult to tell when there were suddenly two of her, and it seemed he had picked the wrong copy as he swiped air instead.

Blast it.

"No, it's...s'fine. I'm fine. I'm not sick, m'just...uh...wow. Yeah. That's good brandy." He blinked hard, trying in vain to refocus, but that only seemed to make it worse. Because when he blinked, he really wanted to just kind of...keep his eyes shut.

Liam rubbed at his face, shaking his head. This was not how he'd intended to spend the night, but maybe God was sending him a firm message here about upholding his vows to do better by cockblocking him in the stupidest way possible. Evie was right, though--he needed to sleep this off, whatever it was.

With one hand still cradling his face, because that at least kept the world stable, he waved at Evie with the other. "Jus...get me t'yer room," he mumbled through his fingers. "Y'don't gotta do nothin'. I'll jus' sleep or...or whatever..."

[Nightcrawler]

Evie went green. "My room?" she repeated. She thought about the girl in the closet. Another chill ran down her spine. "Uhm..."

She glanced around the room, eyes flitting from patron to patron, still desperate for a way out. The girls were all busy with their own clients, smiling and simpering and playing the game. Madam Diedre's fake laugh pierced the din as she patted a gentleman on his shoulder, pretending to be amused by something he'd said. Evie watched her. Could she ask the Madam? No. She'd already had one too many close calls to risk drawing attention to herself again. Between the odd hours and company she kept, and now her hesitancy to bring a Mordecai to her bed, Diedre would start to put the pieces together. She might be suspected of conspiring with mages, even if helping them was the last thing on her mind. So no. Nobody was coming to her rescue. Not this time.

Evie looked back at Liam. The poor man barely knew where he was at this point, and he hardly seemed observant enough to suspect her. If she snuck him out and dumped him in an alley somewhere, there was a chance it would come back to her. If she took him back to her room, though, he'd likely pass out long enough for her to move the girl, or contact Garrett, or at least think of something. Was that really it? Was it really that easy?

"Of course. You're right. Here, let me — " Evie slid gracefully from the barstool and hoisted Liam's rucksack over her shoulder. She slid her other arm around his damp back (was he really wearing armor?) and held him steady. "Let's get you upstairs. Come on."

It was slow going, but step by stumbling step, they finally managed to get up the stairs and make it to her door. Evie paused with her hand on the handle. She should at least give the girl a warning. "Well," she said, just loudly enough to be heard inside her room. "This is me." She turned the handle slowly. Behind the door, Evie swore she could hear panicked footsteps and scrambling. She drew a sharp breath. I know I locked that closet, she thought. So how in the hell did the girl get out?

But even with Liam in the state he was in, she couldn't afford to act suspiciously. She had to think quick. She jiggled the handle a few more times, feigning a stuck door. "I'm so sorry. Sometimes it takes a special touch," she laughed. It sounded forced. As she listened again, the noise in her room seemed to stop. The girl must have either jumped out the window or found a hiding spot. Evie secretly hoped for the former...she'd had quite enough trouble for tonight. "There it goes," she assured Liam, and opened the door.

She stepped in, still helping this sad, drenched, drugged Mordecai along. The closet was indeed open, but she breathed a sigh of relief — the girl was nowhere in sight. What was in sight were her things. Dresses and shoes and cheap costume jewelry were scattered all over the floor, the vanity, the bed. A box of candies, a gift from a recent client, sat open and well indulged in. Her charge had quite obviously gotten bored and rifled through her room, and for the first time that night, Evie's fear gave way to annoyance. Who'd taught this kid her manners?

"I'm so sorry about this," she muttered as she steered Liam around the mess. "I think one of the other girls must have been playing dress up. Here. Why don't you come lay down while...I..."

She hadn't seen it when they entered. But now that they were both well inside the room, it was all too obvious a sight. In her panic, the girl had hidden, not back in the closet, but behind a curtain. A very thin curtain. A sheer curtain. It billowed out around the oversized cloak and fluttered every time she breathed. Evie met her eyes. The kid stared back, mouth pursed thin with instant regret at her terrible choices. A blind bat couldn't have missed this. Evie didn't think a drugged Mordecai would, either.

Shit, she thought. It was over. The jig was up.

[Rhindeer]

Fortunately for Evie, Liam was too far gone to notice any panic she may have let slip into her eyes or body language or voice. It was taking all his willpower just to concentrate on simple things like keeping his eyes open or moving his legs as she helped him to his feet, his limbs suddenly as heavy as boulders as he slouched against her. It was nice that she was so tall and capable, graceful even when he stumbled over her feet or his own, and he realized somewhere through the drunken haze that he was kind of into it. Being side by side with her, able to comfortably lean his head on her shoulder, brought along a novel appreciation that fully replaced his earlier intimidation. Huh. Never thought he'd be into tall women, but he could get behind this...in multiple ways...

Yeah, this wasn't so bad...being manhandled by a tall beauty and all...

The bad part was everything else about the journey, like how moving too quickly made his stomach flip and his head pound. Soon the silly, dumb thoughts of tall, pretty women were replaced with desperately willing himself not to puke.

The trek upstairs was tortuous. Without Evie there, he would have likely face-planted right there on the steps and remained there until morning, or until someone dragged him out of the way. But somehow they made it, and he was pale and breathless and nauseated by the time they did, like he'd been running miles after a heavy meal. Maybe another time he would have heard the ruckus behind the door, but right then all he could hear was his own pulse in his ears. Damn. What even was that drink? He realized suddenly that Evie was talking to him as she fumbled the door open and guided him inside, and he blinked dully at her.

"Huh?" Other girls? Dress up? He squinted into the blurry room and the mess scattered all over, but he couldn't have cared less about a little clutter. He was most interested in the laying down and--

A motion caught his eye, just a little flutter of fabric. Even through his fuzzy vision he could make out the shape of a person. A very young person. Too young to be here, that was certain.

His eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth to speak--

And doubled over instead, vomiting onto the floor.