Santiago nods, and with a last glance at me, he turns away and retreats back to the bar.

“I hate ale,” I say.

“I know,” Ana replies.

“Then why did you order it?”

“Because I’m selfish like that.”

Santiago returns with two large cups, filled to the brim with the vile brew. I bring it close enough to sniff. Make a face. Ana smiles. It’s disgusting but drinkable. It’ll do for now.

“I had another reason for ordering the ale,” Ana starts, tentatively, as if she’s uncertain of my response. “I happen to know that Ale preferred the taste of ale to the taste of wine.”

She pauses for a beat, studying my reaction. When I don’t scream or cry or hurl invectives at her, she holds up her cup and says, “To Alejandro.”

The snake that had been coiling around my rib cage since the night of his murder constricts, stealing my breath. But then, it loosens. I have spent every waking moment agonizing over his death without sparing a single thought for his life.

He would hate my grief. He would loathe my self-indulgent suffering. He would despise my torment.

I lift my own cup, tapping it against the rim of Ana’s. “To Alejandro. And to justice.”

With that, I knock back the ale, relishing the way it burns all the way down.

CHAPTER 17

Ana

Why in the nine circles of hell did I think this was a good idea?

A swirling combination of horror and awe fills my gut as I watch Kiki down her fifth—or sixth?—cup of ale. Her cheeks are rosy, the way they always get when she’s had a bit too much to drink, but it’s not mirth filling her eyes tonight. It’s something different, something darker. A manic, unfocused energy that’s so unlike her, I don’t quite know how to handle it.

Grief, as it turns out, is a terrible drinking companion. Some part of me knew this. I had drowned my own sorrows for days, but it was sobering to see it happening to someone else.

She slams the heavy metal cup down on the table, the sound ringing in my ears, loud even in the bustling chaos of the tavern. “Another! Santiago!”

From across the room, the man in question shoots me a look. Get ahold of her, that look says. Normally, I would tell any man suggesting we rein it in to go fuck himself, but Santiago isn’t just any man. And he has a point.

“Kiki,” I say softly, like I’m trying to corral a wild horse. “Maybe you should slow down.”

She turns her unfocused gaze toward me, swaying slightly in her seat. The ale shouldn’t have hit her this hard, this fast.

She hasn’t been eating.