I straighten, fully prepared to defend myself, when I notice the drink he holds, the subtle sway of his body against the overgrown grass, the glaze of his green eyes.
My mouth flattens in distaste. “You’re drunk.”
“Enchanted,” he corrects, lifting a finger. “I amenchanted.”
“I thought you said the wine doesn’t affect you.”
“It doesn’t. Well, not in the way it affects you.”
“Then why drink it?”
“This isn’t wine.” Raising the glass, he swirls the gold liquid around, lifts it to his mouth. “What you see here is a taste from my homeland. This, as it turns out, is the last of it.”
His words alone do not give me pause. Rather, the longing behind them. “Is it a liquor?”
Tilting back his head, Zephyrus stares up at the strange, oily sky, beyond which lies the earth, grass, Carterhaugh, all veiled behind a blackness without end. “It is not, though it does alter one’s state of mind.” He leans back, supporting himself with one hand, and considers me. “But we both know you would never broaden your horizons in such a manner.” With a satisfied smirk, he downs another swallow.
Oh, he dearly loves to push my buttons. Who defines my character? I do. No one else.
As he takes another mouthful, I swipe the glass from his grip.
Zephyrus lurches forward, blinking a few times. When he spots the drink in my hand, his eyes glimmer, as though delighted to have been proven wrong. “I have spoken too soon,” he murmurs.
“What would happen if I were to try the drink?”
His eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “Perhaps you should see for yourself,” he hedges.
“Perhaps I will.”
“Then by all means.” Zephyrus gestures for me to proceed.
I take a small—very small—sip, and frown. “It tastes like…”
“Beets,” he says.
It tastes nothing like beets. “It tastes like freshly baked bread,” I correct him.
“To you, yes. But to me, it tastes like beets.” At my look of confusion, he elaborates, “Where I come from, we call it nectar. It tastes like one’s favorite food. Thus, the taste differs depending on who consumes it.”
I see.
“Your favorite food isbeets?”
Zephyrus looks affronted. “Do you have something against them?”
“They taste like dirt.”
Slowly, he crosses one ankle over the other. Ponderous. The effect suits him. “I agree. I wonder what that says about my tastes?”
“That they are poor.”
Zephyrus smiles, as do I—the first we have shared.
“I wouldn’t say poor, exactly.” His grin widens. It eases the awkward planes of his face and allows them to slip into something more harmonious. Pleasing, even. “After all, I kissed you, and I thoroughly enjoyed that.”
Despite my burning face, I force myself to maintain eye contact. His dancing gaze meets mine, and slowly warms as silence ensues. At some point, I have managed to relax in the West Wind’s presence.
Lowering the glass into my lap, I examine the gold substance, if only to avoid some undesired realization coming into sharper focus. “This is the last of the nectar?”
