Free Brimstone Angels by Erin M. Evans Page B

Lorcan,” she added.
    “He doesn’t count because he only talks to you,” Havilar said. “You think he’d have two words to say to me, since I brought him here and everything, but no.”
    “Havi, you don’t want to talk to Lorcan,” Farideh said. Her hand gripped her upper arm tightly now, and Havilar glared at it. “Trust me.”
    “Of course you say that,” Havilar said. “What do you tell him about me?”
    “I don’t,” Farideh said. “We don’t talk about you. Havi, it’s not personal. It’s Lorcan. You don’t want him to notice you—I promise.”
    “You want him to notice you.”
    Farideh’s cheeks flushed again. “No, I don’t!”
    “Then why are you always going off to talk to him? What are you doing? Calling him down when you get sick of us? You don’t even know him.”
    Judging by Farideh’s startled expression, she’d thought it was a secret—which only made Havilar more annoyed. “It’s not like that,” Farideh said tightly. Then, “Has Mehen noticed?”
    “After today? Probably. Even he’s not that dense.”
    Farideh was quiet. “Havi, please,” she finally said. “It’s not because I’m sick of you. He’s just … He agreed not to turn up when people were around. So I have to be somewhere else to talk to him. It’s not about you,” she added. “Only about … spells. And things.”
    Things which she didn’t bother to include Havilar in. Havilar turned and studied the open window, churning with unpleasant feelings she didn’t want to think about. Fine. If Farideh wanted to stay hidden up in the room, staring at the empty fireplace instead of going on a little adventure with her sister, Havilar wasn’t about to sit around with her. If she got bored, she could talk to stupid Lorcan.
    “I’m getting Brin,” she announced. “Or whatever his name was.”
    “No,” Farideh said. “Mehen told us to stay here.
    “And he told you to stop talking to Lorcan,” Havilar said. “Who cares what Mehen says? I’m going out the window anyway. He won’t see.”
    “Havi, please. I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Farideh said. “Please. Stay. Don’t leave.”
    “I’ll only be a moment,” Havilar said. She wasn’t going to be the careful one, the boring one. She threw one leg over the sill. “And if I’m not, you can tell me you were right. Until morning.”
    “Havi, it’s not—” she started, but Havilar was out of earshot, sliding down the edge of the roof and off into the night.

    Brin found a spot behind an empty wagon where some crates had been stacked, and made himself a little nook between two. He shook the bottle until the whiskey swirled around in a whirlpool that collapsed with a brief, frothy splash. What in the world was he going to do with half a bottle of whiskey? What had he thought the tavernmaster would do
without
half a bottle of whiskey?
    He’d been so angry when the tavernmaster refused to rent him a space on the floor for anything less than three pieces of gold. And after giving a full room to the man in front of him for the same price. The tavernmaster hadn’t even the manners to be embarrassed at being caught in such a swindle—he only shrugged and turned away from Brin, as if he were no one important.
    Which I’m not, Brin reminded himself glumly. In a fit of pique he’d snatched up the closest thing he could reach: the half-empty bottle of whiskey.
    He put the bottle to his lips and wet his mouth. Sharp as broken glass on the tip of his tongue and bitter with the taste of a bad barrel. Not very good, but not likely to kill him. Human-style whiskey, but a strong, unwatered sort Brin could imagine being favored by the sort of people who lived along this rugged road, tolerable to the dwarves and orcs that passed through, and not bad for cleaning wounds. Or maybe spoons.
    He was never going to finish half a bottle.
    Not even by trying to slow his thoughts down enough to figure out what to do about Constancia. The tieflings and the