Giles gulped down the water, his pounding head and cotton mouth testament that one shouldn't pour new wine into an old wineskin. How much had he consumed last evening and with whom?
Oh, blast. How loose was his slate?
Indefensible that he'd agreed – again – to share a pint. Far worse, he'd let Ethan into his flat, and, moreover, his sorrow.
A mirror revealed only blood-shot eyes and a gray pallor – no demon countenance. (As if Ethan would repeat a trick.) Undoubtedly, new mischief would follow. And he welcomed it. Perhaps old sins would help him pay penance for new failings.