Pluto slams the shot of vodka down so quickly that he would have missed it if he’d blinked.

“Hit me.”

He hesitates. “Are you sure? It’ll be your fourth.”

She does not get angry. She never gets angry, and he swears her expression rarely changes. She simply turns those eyes like crushed red velvet to his and suddenly he feels like he’s going to lose control of his bowels.

He pours the shot.

She knocks it back.

“So,” Endymion begins, “is there a reason why you have decided to get so thoroughly pissed on this fine evening.”

“It’s necessary,” she says cryptically. When does she say anything that’s not cryptic? “Hit me.”

Well, there’s that. That was very direct.

He curls his hand over the top of the vodka bottle. “I’m not pouring you another until you tell me why you’re destroying your liver.”

Her face falls and his heart lodges in his throat. He has visions of a ruined palace, of starving people, of refugees and of bombs, of a war they never saw coming.

“Small Lady is going to get a boyfriend.”

Endymion stares.

Endymion blinks.

Endymion takes the vodka bottle by the neck and drinks.