ELIJAH'S POV
The whiskey burned going down, but not enough to drown out the taste of defeat. I had lost count of how many glasses I'd had. Three? Four? The amber liquid kept disappearing from my glass and somehow more kept appearing. The bartender kept shooting me worried looks, but he wasn't stupid enough to cut off Elijah Rossi. Not when I was throwing hundred-dollar bills on the bar like confetti.
The pub was one of those dark places where businessmen went to drink away their failures. Wood paneling, leather booths, the smell of old cigarettes and older regrets. Perfect for my current mood.
"Another," I said, sliding the empty glass across the scarred wooden bar.
The bartender hesitated. "Sir, maybe you should—"
"I said another."
He poured. Smart man.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror behind the bottles. Disheveled hair, loosened tie, shirt wrinkled from where I'd been slumping over the bar. I looked like hell. I felt worse.
