Rhapsody

23: truth or drink

"The rules are simple," Maverick says, setting up six shot glasses between them. Three vodka for him, three Moonklaw for Emery. He struggles as one of the glasses sticks to a beer spill on the table, and continues, "You ask a question. The other person either has to answer honestly, or drink."

"This is childish," Emery sneers. "And it's exactly the kind of pathetic solution I'd expect from you."

Yet, he still reaches for his Moonklaw shots and lines them up neatly in front of him.

"And a pissy insult is exactly the kind of thing I'd expect from you," Maverick retorts. "Real predictable."

He picks up each of his shot glasses, swirls, and sniffs them, ensuring that they're truly his. Vodka looks eerily similar to Moonklaw, and he'd rather not go ballistic tonight drinking werewolf liquor.

Sure enough, his glasses are as safe as they'll ever be, filled with the trusty, cheap shit that he knows he can always find in a place like this.

The bar on the corner of 10th Avenue is a lively little neighborhood secret—and one of Maverick's favorite dive bars in the city. It has little to no charm and smells of sweat and beer as far as the street. The two dirty pool tables jam far more than they cooperate, and the bartenders meander through each night as if they rather be anywhere else. But it's home, or as much of a home as Maverick has found in this god-forsaken city.

Anxiety surges in Maverick's stomach, but he forces it down. He and Emery both have skeletons in their closet; it's about damn time they exhume them.

Across the table, Emery reaches out an elegant hand to prod one of his glasses. "This is poison."

"Oh, stop bitching. Alcohol is a truth serum. We need a bit of that, don't you think wolfy?"

Maverick leans forward, placing his elbows on the sticky, vandalized wood. Emery levels his gaze, which causes his stomach to do a few strange, involuntary turns.

Honestly, screw the universe. It's almost as if it probed the darkest corners of Maverick's brain and used every little wanton thought he ever had about a man to build Emery, and then made him the most stubborn motherfucker Maverick has ever had the misfortune of meeting. If it's a fight the wolf wants, then shit, Maverick will give him the whole goddamn war.

"I'll go first," he says. "Why are you so fucking pissed at me?"

"I told you why," Emery fires back.

"Nah-ah." He waggles a finger. "That's not how this works."

The angle of the amber light above their heads casts long shadows across Emery's face. A hanging neon sign nearby bathes him in red—a most fitting shade for tonight, Maverick thinks. Crimson like their respective ledgers, dark as their unpaid dues. The wolf looks as elysian in this light as he does devilish.

Emery tilts his head, and the shadows shift.

"You lied to me, detective," he says slowly, the picture of quiet rage. "You could never begin to understand what I—what lycanthropes as a species—have to go through to achieve even half of the recognition human are gifted just by default. Your flippant attitude in the field has the potential to cost me my entire career, simply because society is waiting for me to fail."

"Wolfy, I—"

"It's my turn," Emery cuts off. He leans forward and curls his lip, giving Maverick a wicked smile that's all teeth. "What is Eselheim?"

"I know you've read the case."

"I want to hear it from you."

Maverick sucks in a breath that smells of stale alcohol, sweat, and wood, and squeezes his eyes shut.