Page 48 of House of the Iron Reaper

“S-Shu Deimos,” I stammer out. He answered the door quicker than I anticipated. “If you were sleeping-”

“Ha! Sleeping?” a familiar voice barks with laughter further into the House. “I had to wrestle him to the floor to stop him from demonstrating his, and I quote, ‘guaranteed attraction dance’.”

Deimos looks affronted.

“It is guaranteed!” he argues.

I peek over his head to see Ronan lounging back on one of the long benches, a similar amber drink in his hand.

“And what evidence do you have to show for it?” he demands, taking a sip.

“Do come in,” Deimos says to me, ushering me inside before turning back to Ronan. “My lady love in Frostalm-”

“You mean to tell me,” Ronan interrupts. “It has worked once on one woman and, even then, the poor lady was likely already in love with you?”

“Yes, exactly,” Deimos says with a confident nod.

He gestures to the bench, so I sit stiffly next to Ronan and Deimos takes the opposite seat. He jabs a finger at the werewolf, his drink sloshing dangerously.

“As I said, guaranteed.”

“That is not a guarantee, my friend, that is bare luck. And this lady love of yours is a hero to have endured your ‘dance’ and come out unscathed,” Ronan chuckles before turning to me. “Deyanara, you have marvellous timing. Do I have a treat for you!”

Deimos smiles and shakes his head as Ronan pulls a flask free and sets it on the table. I peer at it.

“You wanted to try real whiskey,” Ronan says with a grin that betrays his wolfish nature. “Now’s your chance.”

“Oh.” I look between their glasses. “So that is what I smell?”

Ronan roars with laughter, startling me. It was not meant to be a joke.

“It does have a rather distinctive odour,” Deimos agrees, although it does not stop him from taking another sip. “And the first taste is… uh, somewhat harsh?”

“Deimos understates his reaction,” Ronan says. “The man turned red as a snowberry.”

Deimos opens his mouth to retort before closing it again, shrugging.

“I did,” he admits.

Ronan unscrews the flask lid and pushes it towards me. The smell is even stronger, like a noxious fume. My eyes water with it, which does not bode well.

“I was saving it for a special occasion, however, this beautiful but incorrect man insisted your ‘whiskey’ is exactly the same as ours and that I cannot abide,” Ronan says.

“I am quite beautiful,” Deimos agrees. “And, in this case, I admit I was alarmingly incorrect.”

He hiccups.

“Listen.” Ronan leans in. “You’ve no obligation to try, but you said you might want to, so…”

I glance between them—Ronan with his ruddy red cheeks and Deimos with his slightly unfocused eyes. I remember what Ronan said about it, about lighting a fire in your chest, and curiosity digs its fingers in.

“It cannot be scarier than a doomkin, yes?” I say with a tentative smile, picking up the flask.

“By the Five and all health to you!” Ronan cheers as I take an experimental sip.

As soon as the whiskey touches my tongue, it is as though a sandstrider has kicked me in the chest. My throat and lungs open without warning, and I choke, spraying whiskey over Deimos. Horrified, I try to apologise, but I give a hacking retch instead. Deimos swipes a hand over his face, laughing too hard to look annoyed.

“S-S-Sorry!” I give a hollow wheeze, slamming a fist against my chest. “T-Thousand apol-”