Free A Few Good Men by Sarah A. Hoyt Page B

heavy in my grasp, and I thought the reaction probably made him weak enough he couldn’t harm me. I also knew the only way to bring Ben out of one of these, and there was a chance it would work on Nathaniel too.
    I saw the drinks table to my left, went over to it, and grabbed a bottle at random. It didn’t matter what it was, provided it was alcoholic.
    Ben thought the alcohol worked because of its effect on the nervous system. I thought it worked because it made him concentrate on the burn of alcohol. By the time I got back to Nathaniel, he was in a heap on the floor, shaking, his hands over his face.
    I treated him exactly as I’d treated Ben in the same circumstances. I uncapped the bottle, pulled his hands down and shoved the bottle at his lips, then tilted. Most people will drink rather than drown. He did, taking three startled gulps, before pulling his head back and taking a deep breath.
    His shaking lessened and he took another breath, then he reached for the bottle from my hand.
    Yes, I did think that it might be used as a weapon, but I was now forewarned and, anyway, I was faster than he was. In the event, he did nothing but take another swig of the bottle, swallow, then look at it and say, in startled shock, “Gin. I don’t drink gin.”
    I couldn’t keep the laughter in, though I tried, and he looked at me as though seeing me for the first time. The bottle fell from his grasp. It didn’t break, but it rolled sideways, spilling liquid on the carpet. His mouth fell open. His throat worked.
    “You,” he said. “I . . .  Damn. I . . .” He covered his face with his hands, then lowered them and looked resigned but not scared. “I attacked you, Good Man Keeva, and I want to make it clear that I’m acting on my own. Neither my father, my mother, nor any of my siblings, nor any acquaintance or friend or colleague or teacher incited me to do this. It is my fault, my fault alone.” He stood, and faced me, managing to look dignified. “And I will repeat this statement as needed.”
    It was, in the circumstances, as noble a speech as I’d ever heard, and he stood with his shoulders thrown back, his head held high, ready to die alone for a moment’s fury. He was an idiot, but a gallant idiot.
    “Very likely,” I said. “But you forgot to exonerate one person. I would swear you had nothing to do with your own actions, either.” And, to his startled look. “How long have you been holding back the berserker fit? Since I came in the door?” And, because I’m not a genius, but I can think through cause and effect, and I remembered the horrible description of Max’s death through torture. “You and Max were friends, weren’t you?”
    He took a deep breath, nodded. I turned my back on him, deliberately, and walked back to the drinks table. “What do you drink?”
    “Nothing. Not at this time of morning. My father would have my skin, and besides . . .” He sounded surprised. “I don’t think I’ve eaten in . . . over a day.”
    “I imagine,” I said. “With the search for Max and then their finding him murdered.” I found the soda dispenser, filled a glass of soda water, and took it to him. “Drink,” I said, “or you’ll start hiccupping in no time.”
    “I cut your lip,” he said. His gaze arrested on my lip. “You’re bleeding.”
    “You did?” I wiped at it, leaving a red streak on the back of my hand. “So. No big deal. I’ve done worse to myself.”
    He took a sip of the water. “Any other Good Man would have had me—”
    “Not a sane Good Man,” I said. “Grief and shock hit you too closely together. You weren’t in your right mind.” Which was true enough even if he did have one, which, of course, I couldn’t know. “But for the record, I didn’t maneuver or intend to spend a year in a prison for violent criminals, and fourteen in solitary confinement in Never-Never.”
    “Solitary?” he asked, clearly surprised.
    “Yes, and I didn’t do it just to escape the Sons