Quintus awoke to light filtering through his eyelids and shooting into the back of his brain like needles. He groaned and tossed the bedding over his head to filter out the light, but the headache remained. Two tankards of ale had left him like this? He was turning into a lightweight.

Back in his formative years he could tank bottles upon bottles of stronger stuff into the godless hours of the night and kick a netherborne’s head sideways at dawn the next morning. Now look at him, whimpering in bed over a little hangover.

Quintus tossed the covers off and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. The cold floor against his bare feet shocked some of his grogginess away. He was better than this. One little hangover would not beat him. He took one step ford and went sideways, hitting the floor with a thump that made him bite his tongue. A fucking mess was what he was.

He grabbed the bedside table and pulled himself up to his feet. The room swung this way and that, but if he squinted long enough, it got steady enough for him to make it to the washbasin in the corner. He dunked his head in the cold water and kept it under until his lungs screamed for air.

The room still swayed, but more like a tree in the wind than a ship on a stormy sea. Quintus ambled over to the bed and tugged on his clothes. Some insufferable bird had made its perch outside his window and chirped incessantly, but it felt as though the damn thing was atop his brain. He used his power to block out the noise.

As Quintus left the room, he dragged his cross behind him. The thump thump thump of it on the stairs announced his arrival into the main tavern below. He met one of the servers wiping down the tables and moping the floors.

“Morning sunshine,” Lailah said from behind the bar. “Go ahead and have a seat.” She didn’t have to tell him twice. He dumped himself at the nearest table and slouched. A moment later a bowl of porridge and a tall cup of tea landed in front of him.

“Eat up,” Lailah said. “It’s my special hangover cure.”

Quintus stirred up the porridge and found small pieces of fruit inside. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. Comes with the room.” And she traipsed off behind the bar.

He dug into his breakfast. The porridge tasted plain, despite the bits of fruit, but he guessed that was better for his stomach. The tea tasted strongly of several herbs—a few he could name and most of them bitter.

The gruel did its job though. His headache lightened by a fraction, and the room stopped swaying. Quintus closed his eyes for a moment and tuned out the bustle of the tavern staff going about their morning.

But his peace didn’t last long. The tavern door swung open and in walked the priest, not dressed in his gold and white jacket, but in simple black slacks and a tunic. “You, necromancer.” He made a beeline for Quintus’ table.

Quintus groaned and cracked an eye. He wasn’t drunk enough for this. “Don’t make me regret saving your life, priest.”

“Don’t make me regret not lopping your head off, necromancer.” He slammed his hand on the table and leaned over until they were eye level. The air simmered between them as they glared at each other.

“Now kiss!” Lailah yelled from behind the bar.

Quintus swore under his breath. “What in damnation do you want?”

“You didn’t heal anything.” The Priest pointed to his bicep. “It still feels like I have roots growing in my arm. And look.” He rolled up his sleeve to expose his arm. The roots had left a stark white pattern against his skin.

Quintus scoffed. “You’re such a baby. The blight takes forever to heal. You’re just going to have to live with it for the next ten or twenty years. What the hell are they teaching you all in the Divine City? You should know this.”

He went pale. “Twenty years? No, you’re lying.”

“You’re one to talk.” Quintus polished off his porridge and tea and stood. “Well, this has been lovely, but I have other places to be. Have a nice life. Unless of course another netherborne comes. Then you’d all best turn tail and run. Or at least asked the Divine City for a more useful Priest.”

Malachi scowled, much to Quintus’ amusement.

A morning breeze chilled Quintus’ still damp head as he stepped out the tavern. To the east, several guards were clearing the debris from the gate. Or what was left of it. He shouldered his cross and headed in the opposite direction. The cathedral came up on his right and he saluted it with his middle finger.

Where to next? He wondered silently. The coast was still a ways away, a week, maybe more, if he hurried. Perhaps he’d head that way, then head to the waypoint north of Ewell like Octavia asked. And then what? Harass some netherborne, drink himself into a stupor and hopefully wake up with a pretty boy in his bed.

Maybe a pretty boy who’d stay? He almost laughed at the notion. With all his literal and figurative baggage, he couldn’t think of anyone save for Octavia and Celesta who’d want to deal with his insufferable attitude for more than a few minutes. And said attitude was just the start. Once he got into the necromancy and immortality bit, they’d go running for the hills.

Fate, you heartless bitch.