Ursula stilled, something unreadable drifting behind her eyes. “If you really can do that…” she trailed off, studying Emmaline for a moment too long. Then, almost too casually, “I’d pay a great deal of money for it.”
“If I get out of this, you can have it for free.”
Ursula dipped her chin and then turned her attention to the glass in Emmaline’s hand. “You sure you want that? I have something lighter for you and Margo in the back.”
Emmaline narrowed her eyes, gripping the crystal a little tighter. If Ursula was drinking it, she could handle it. She was tougher than any of them thought. She lifted the glass to her lips, the iron-heavy scent lodging deep in her sinuses. She wrinkled her nose, her stomach already tensing in warning.
Ursula smirked over the rim of her own glass. “I really don’t think you’ll like it. I only keep it on hand for my mother’s side of the family, and the occasional indulgence myself.”
Emmaline stilled, understanding clicking into place. Trolls. There was mountain troll blood on Ursula’s mother’s side. And that scent—
Fuck it. She’d drunk worse.
Emmaline tilted the glass back, keeping her gaze locked on Ursula as the thick liquid spilled over her tongue. It was only when she swallowed, when the dense, coppery heat coated her throat, that realization struck.
She had made a grave mistake.
It was dense like warmed honey but coated her throat like oil, burning on the way down with a slow, unholy warmth that settled deep in her bones. The taste was earthy and mineral-rich, with an underlying tang of something ancient and primal.
Goddess, please don’t let this be from something cute. A rabbit. A fox. A—
She forced herself to swallow again, her throat tightening, protesting, but she kept her smile fixed in place, her expression all false confidence and reckless bravado.
Ursula merely rolled her eyes, taking a dainty sip from her own glass.
Then—
Emmaline’s stomach lurched. Viscous heat spread through her gut, clawing its way back up her throat with a vengeance. She clenched her teeth shut against the rolling nausea, pressing a fist into her stomach as if that might somehow keep it down.
Ursula, of course, only laughed. Deep, booming, and wickedly delighted.
“Did you really just pour that Dwr Anwn straight down your throat, Emmaline?” Margo materialized next to her, arriving through the shadowed doorway. “I thought only trolls and vampires drank that bloody concoction.
Emmaline grimaced, forcing herself to straighten, throat bobbing hard, her entire body working to keep the infernal liquid where it belonged.
“She did!” Ursula nearly rolled off her lounge chair in her glee. “The little psycho chugged it right down like a fresh-hatched fledgling at their first solstice feast!”
Emmaline shot her a murderous glare, still bent forward, while Ursula wiped at her eyes, trying to contain herself.
“I thought you were pulling out the Fion Dathliad tonight,” Margo pouted, crossing her arms. “I’ve been looking forward to it.”
“Of course!” Ursula downed the rest of her glass in one smooth motion before slamming it down onto the table with a sharp clink. “I offered it, but she refused.”
“Really?” Margo looked unconvinced, but Emmaline barely heard her over the acrid burn still clinging to her throat.
“Yes, ha ha ha.” Emmaline wiped the traces of Dwr Anwn from the corners of her mouth, giving Ursula a rude gesture with the other hand. “Laugh it up.”
“I hope you don’t plan on kissing tall, dark, and emerald with that drink still on your tongue, Emmaline.” Ursula paused thoughtfully, then arched a brow. “Unless he’s into that sort of thing?”
“Kissing?” Margo’s eyes widened as she processed the words. “Tall, dark, and—just what in the name of the Sentinel have I missed? Last I recalled, Caelith was light-haired.”
Emmaline opened her mouth, but Ursula waved a dismissive hand, cutting her off before she could stumble through an explanation.
“Lord Caelith is no longer in the picture.” She pushed up from her seat and strode toward the back of the room, her fingers trailing lightly over the built-in wine rack—a sprawling display of bottles in every shape, size, and color. “Here we go.” She plucked a sleek, amber-hued bottle from the collection.
“You didn’t—you didn’t kill him, did you?” Margo squeaked, hands flying to her mouth.
“Of course not.” Ursula rolled her eyes. Then, with a thoughtful pause, added, “At least not yet.”
