“Smells as bad as it tastes, I bet,” I drawl. I hurl it against the mirrored wall behind the bartender. He flinches as it streaks past his ear and shatters into a million glistening pieces. The mirror goes with it, huge shards collapsing to the ground.
The man’s hands are still raised. I can see his fingertips trembling.
“Can we dispense with the pretense now?” I ask conversationally.
The bartender looks at me with fearful calculation. I know exactly what he’s thinking. He’s wondering if he’s going to live to see another day.
“Who the f**k are you?” he asks in a hushed voice.
I remember the words I roared over the ravine after I built Cillian’s makeshift grave.
But I want this poor sap to be cooperative, not to piss his pants in terror. So I save the theatrics for another time.
“Doe
