Page 39 of Always Alchemy

I squint at the array of shot glasses. The middle one is in an opaque black glass, so dark I can’t see what colour the actual liquid is. Around it is a circle of what looks and smells like Blue Curacao—devil’s piss. And aroundthatstands a circle of glasses filled with milky-white liquid, some kind of cream-based liqueur that will have me hurling, no doubt, seconds after I down the first one.

‘What?’ I ask, still puzzled.

Stephen puts an arm around my shoulder and leans in. ‘We’ve christened it the Old Testament Flight.’

Something is scratching at the edge of my booze-addled consciousness. A realisation, I think.

I’ll regret this. ‘Why?’

He puts his mouth close to my ear and whispers.

‘An eye for an eye.’

The penny drops.

My body freezes.

He is fucking with me. He’s got to be.

All evidence, however, is to the contrary, and byall evidenceI mean the creepy AF cocktail eyeball staring up at me from the table, the overly robust slap Stephen administers between my shoulder blades, and the verti—verity—veritableexplosion of laughs from my so-called mates.

I straighten up and attempt to refocus my gaze to the muppets surrounding me. ‘Were you all in on this?’

‘Come on, mate,’ my former friend Gabe says, wiping away what appears to be a tear with the back of his hand. ‘There was no way you could make Stephen your best man and not set yourself up for something like this.’

I glare at him as best I can. ‘You were a fuckingpriest.What happened toturn the other cheek?’

He shrugs. ‘Nah. The Old Testament is way more fun. Anyway, this strikes me as a verylight penance, given your past sins. Suck it up, motherfucker.’

I tut—so unchristian—and turn back to my future brother-in-law. ‘I thought we were cool,’ I say desperately.

He smiles broadly. ‘We are. Just give me this one moment of triumph, you smug gobshite, and we’ll leave it all behind us. I promise.’

I stare at him. He has a very nice face, though I think the reason I’m so fond of it is because it reminds me of Nat’s. The Bennett gene is strong.

‘Right you are, jackass,’ I say. ‘What am I starting with?’

‘Start with the pupil,’ Zach interjects. He’s watching avidly, arms crossed over his chest, jacket long gone and tie loosened.

‘Which is?’

‘Cassis.’ Ouch. Cassis is fucking grim.

‘Okay.’ I lift the black shot glass in a careful pincer grip from its position--my motor skills feel a little sketchy—and throw it down my throat. It’s absolutely revolting, and my stomach protests instantly.

‘I don’t have to drink all of them, do I?’ I ask. I’m trying to count them, but I keep losing track. I think there are six blue ones and ten—no, twelve—no, ten—white ones.

‘Yep,’ everyone choruses.

Anton claps me on the shoulder. ‘Pace yourself.’

‘What’s the white one?’ I ask with misgiving.

‘Half Malibu, half Baileys,’ Stephen tells me, and I swear I throw up a little in my mouth as a full-body shiver rolls through me. That is justwrong.

‘Okay.’ I inhale deeply in an attempt to psych myself up.

It doesn’t work.

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