Predominance by H. I. Defaz Page B

side of her face. Thick, well-defined eyebrows and impossibly fleshy red lips stood out in her exquisitely pale complexion, which seemed intensified by the moonlight.
    “Yeah,” she confirmed, tightening her arms around her lithe body—a black leather jacket covered the long, white nightgown she wore underneath. “You know, you're not supposed to be out here.” she accused quietly.
    “Neither are you,” I returned, residues of anger from my mood-swing still lingering in my voice, “But I guess that didn't stop you either.” I added, “What are you doing here, anyway?”
    “Not much; just getting some fresh air, avoiding the guards—oh! And watching you climb down that tree over there,” She snickered. “Which I do not recommend you do ever again. You really sucked at it.”
    Her blunt candor made me laugh. “Yeah, well, I'm not too deft when it comes to heights,” I admitted. “What about you? How did you get down here?”
    “Same way, just a little more gracefully.” She laughed, again. “So? Are you trying to run away, or are you just looking for a way to break your neck?”
    “You're not going to let that one go, are you?” I chuckled, hoping the embarrassment burning on my cheeks wasn't visible in the dark.
    “I'm sorry.” Her apology sounded sincere. “I didn't mean to embarrass you. You just looked kind of grumpy. I thought I should try to make you smile.”
    Her words made me realize that my anger was indeed gone, and that even my headache was fading. “You did,” I admitted, a smile on my face. “Thank you.”
    “You're welcome.” Her pillow lips curved into a triumphant smile of her own, yet her eyes seemed expectant, somehow. “You never answered my question, though.”
    “Huh?”
    “Are you running away?”
    “No!” I laughed, “Goodness, no. I just don't like to be told what to do, that's all. Besides, I thought a little fresh air would help me get rid of my headache. What about you?”
    “Same reason.” She sighed.
    “Headaches?”
    “No. I just don't like to be told what to do.” She gave me a cocky smile and pulled a hip flask out of her inside jacket pocket. She took a big gulp from it and handed it to me. “Care to join me?”
    I smiled as the smoky aroma coming out of the flask brought me back to the last time I shared a drink with my father. After years of living with him, I never needed more than a whiff to identify the smell of a good Scotch.
    “Don't mind if I do,” I answered willingly, reaching out for the flask.
    Her hand suddenly trembled forcefully, as if a shock of electricity had run through her entire body, making her loose her grip on her flask.
    I caught it and held it steady in her hand, as my eyes rose to meet her self-conscious stare. “Are those the tremors you were talking about?” I asked carefully.
    “Yeah,” she answered quickly, embarrassed, pulling free and hiding her hand behind her back, her eyes avoiding me now. Looking at her, I realized how uncomfortable this incident had made her feel, so I quickly changed the subject to something less solemn.
    “So…” I began with a smile. “Isn't a 12-year-old single-malt Scotch just a tad too bold for a little girl like you?”
    She realized I hadn't even sipped from it yet. “How did you…” she trailed off and smiled, “Very impressive. Scotch drinker?”
    “My father was,” I noted, taking a sip from the flask. “Now I kind of have a nose for it.”
    “Hmmm…”
    “You didn't answer my question.” I pressed teasingly.
    “I'm not a little girl anymore, Victor.” Her words held a meaning behind them that I couldn't quite perceive at the moment, though she was clearly expecting me to. “Besides, I discovered that, sometimes, this works better than those stupid pills they prescribe.” She snatched the flask from my hand and took a big gulp from it—way too big.
    “I know,” I agreed, taking the flask back from her hand. I held an authoritative stare and tightened the cap.