on this, making a rollicking noise with hand drums. They drowned out the chatter, almost as loud as any band in human clubs, but without electricity.
No one stopped and turned when Cian and his warriors walked in with Shifters. They didn’t gape, gasp, draw weapons, or cease drumming. A few glanced at the nearly naked Crispin, who had condescended to put on a cloak one of Cian’s men had handed him, but mostly, the Shifters and Stuart were ignored.
Cian led them to a table in the back, which was miraculously empty in this apparently popular tavern. Cian’s people dispersed, except for the woman who’d first addressed Stuart, to shove themselves onto barstools or greet people who were obviously friends.
Cian, Stuart, the woman, and the Shifters gathered around the table, and the woman signaled to the barmaid. “Gularain,” she ordered.
Peigi squeezed in next to Stuart. Cian took a place at the head of the table and the two Shifter males perched on stools across from Peigi and Stuart.
The barmaid promptly brought six ceramic handleless cups on a tray and set it down in the middle of the table. Hands reached for the cups, which had been chilled. Good thing, Peigi thought. Anything to keep the liquid inside from combusting.
Stuart had once made a batch of home-brewed dokk alfar whisky and invited their Shifter neighbors to try it. The Shifters had taken one drink and then cursed hard and accused Stuart of attempting to murder them from the inside out. It was the closest Peigi had come to witnessing Stuart laugh his ass off.
He’d advised Peigi to try the drink cautiously, and had helped her work her way up from one sip to a whole glass over the course of about six months.
She lifted her cup, as Cian watched her closely, and inhaled the aroma as she would a fine wine. Cian’s eyes narrowed as she sipped, nodded her approval, and set the cup down without a word.
Cian said nothing but Peigi noted his amusement. Cian threw his drink back, draining the entire contents at once. Stuart and the dokk alfar woman did the same.
None of them exploded. Cian let out an ah of satisfaction and thumped his hand to the table. Encouraged, Crispin and Michael seized their cups.
“I’d go easy on that if I were you,” Peigi warned them.
She figured they wouldn’t listen, and they didn’t. Crispin took a tentative sip, probably more cautious from living in Faerie, but Michael decided to down his in one go. He swallowed.
Michael did nothing for the first second, and the second. In the third second, his eyes widened until the whites threatened to overwhelm his irises, the scarred side of his face pulling. He dropped the cup and gasped for breath, pawing at his throat. Fierce yowls leaked from his mouth, and he started to shift.
“No!” Peigi yelled at him.
The woman solider put her hand on her knife. Michael stopped himself before his claws sprouted, but his eyes became fully bear—large and brown with pools of black in the middle.
“Holy fuck.” His voice barely emerged, hoarse and breathy. “What the total …” He coughed, half rising from his stool and holding his stomach. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Peigi took another demure sip. “Gularain can be a little strong.”
“Dokk alfar whisky,” Crispin said, his voice also hoarse. “Rumor has it they put old boots in it. And gravel. And iron.”
“Exaggeration,” Stuart said calmly. “It’s a grain, sort of like barley in your world, and a little sugar. That’s all. But distilled until it’s pure. The aged stuff is a little more mellow.”
“You mean mellow battery acid?” Michael demanded. He continued to cough. “Goddess, it’s burning a hole right through my gut. I’ve been stabbed in the stomach before. This is worse.”
“You have to get used to it.” Peigi tortured him by taking another sip. Crispin, she noticed, had pushed his cup aside. “Are we safe talking in this place?” she asked Stuart.
“Probably as safe as anywhere.” He turned to Cian and asked him a question in their language. Cian, still amused, shook his head. “He thinks so, but doesn’t plan on divulging secrets. This is a stop to rest and refresh us.”
“Refresh?” Michael growled. “I’m dying.”
“That’s very sad,” Peigi told him. “Want me to burn an offering for you?”
Michael only sneered at her, but that triggered more coughing. He held his belly and looked miserable.
A small vengeance, Peigi thought as she took another small sip of the strong liquor. But a satisfying one.
“Peigi has a point.” Stuart