Lois Greiman by Seducing a Princess

the life of him, he couldn’t guess what they were. Who the devil was Victor Rambert and why had he needed to die?
    “Mr. Slate?”
    Will shrugged, fighting for normalcy, for memory. Should he deny it? Admit it? Boast? It was impossible to guess, for the world was a gray haze of uncertainty. “There’s little enough to tell,” he said, his ridiculous words sounding vague to his own ears.
    “Little enough!” Peter jerked forward as if on puppet strings. “Tell us how you done it. Vic was the meanest son of a bitch…Begging your pardon, Princess…in all of Skilan. Maybe in all of Sedonia.”
    So Peter wouldn’t mourn his passing, but what of Poke? If Slate were to offend the master of the Den, there was little hope he’d escape with his life. In fact, he was entirely uncertain he’d make it to the door, deadly assassin or not.
    “We wait with bated breath,” Poke said.
    Will considered shrugging again in an attempt to appear casual, but the reminder of pain dissuaded him. “It was dark,” he said instead.
    “But you knew who he was?”
    “His name didn’t matter a great deal to me at the time.”
    “He had a gun,” Peter reminded them, gazing around at the audience. “Slate here only had a knife.”
    “So ’e’s dead?” Gem’s voice was soft, her face pale.
    “Dead as a stone,” Peter said. “And he was stabbed in the chest. Not in the back like some might.” Not a soul spoke.
    “Well,” said Poke finally, “I believe this calls for a drink. Princess, will you bring us a drop of the good whisky?”
    She disappeared without a word.
    Will watched her go. Felt his stomach cramp. He shouldn’t drink it, he thought, but when she handed him the glass, he took it, watched his fingers curl around the smooth surface, watched the amber liquid slosh gently.
    It trembled slightly as he brought it toward his lips.
    “A toast,” Poke said, interrupting the moment. Will steadied his breathing. “To Mr. Slate’s survival.” They all raised their glasses. The lovely fluid sloshed gently to and fro. His throat felt painfully dry. “And to Lord Rambert’s death.”
    They drank. Slate bore his glass to his lips with greedy haste. It felt like heaven on his tongue. He closed his eyes to the lovely burn and reminded himself to drink slowly.
    “So our guest does gift us with multiple talents,” Poke said, swirling the whisky in his glass. Will watched the movement. “He is not only a dancer.” He smiled when he said it. “But he is a killer as well.”
    William said nothing. Two-thirds of the whisky remained in his glass. He took another sip, remembering to savor. He’d only have this one, for he dared not become intoxicated. Not in this company.
    “Did he come at you, Slate?” Peter asked. “Or was it you what found him?”
    The whisky called to him. “It’s not something I care to talk about,” he said, and took another careful sip.
    “Not talk about it,” Peter said, and laughed.
    “Ahh,” sighed Poke. “’Tis just as I thought. Our Mr. Slate is a man of mystery. Or perhaps…” He watched Will carefully, reminding him not to empty his glass immediately as his body begged him to do. “Could it be that we have a man of morals in our midst?”
    His hands felt steadier and his head clearer, but his stomach was cramping up again. Perhaps Gem had been right. Maybe he should have eaten something first, but the whisky was so smooth, so lovely and golden in the glass.
    “Which are you, Mr. Slate?”
    Will tightened his hand on the smooth crystal and hardened his muscles against the pain in his gut. “I am…” His stomach knotted up hard, pitching him forward. He fought down the agony, gritting his teeth against it.
    “My apologies,” Poke said. “I didn’t realize you were averse to strong drink.”
    “I…” he began again, but in that moment his stomach revolted, violently rejecting the offensive alcohol. He shivered, hacked, and shivered again. When next he glanced up through