Egg Nog

" Really , Murph. Who gets tipsy after the tiniest bit of egg nog?"

The man shambled along the hall, leaning heavily on Levity. "Tipsy means … foolish from drink," he muttered, not slurring at all. If anything, he spoke even more precisely than usual, as if carefully putting one word in front of the next. "From tip, of course. Adding an s … fairly common … like tricksy or drowsy or whimsy. Tipple came later."

"I once met a beagle named Tipper."

"I am a big tipper." He snorted and shook his head. "Service industries. Wrong place to be stingy. Say, why are you shorter?"

"I took off my heels. We're practically the same height, Murph." The man was actually one of the only people in Levity's acquaintance who could throw an arm over her shoulder. She was smallish for a Highwind, but she was still a wolf.

He frowned at the floor, then complained, "You're barefoot."

"Because I took off my heels," she patiently reminded.

"But it's January!"

"Only just. Happy New Year, Murph."

"You need slippers," he said peevishly.

"I don't need slippers."

"I may have spare socks."

"Murph, it's fine. I'm not cold." Levity braced the listing man and tried to open his office door. "It's locked. Where's the key?"

"Almond rocks is cockney for socks."

"We need a key, Murph."

"Knobby knees is slang for keys."

"Do you really want me in your pockets?"

He blinked a couple of times, then fished out a small ring holding three keys. "I have a blanket. You may borrow my blanket." Then leaning close enough to go cross-eyed, he asked, "Do you wear heels to look down on editors, Levity Jones?"

She laughed. Heels were part of her public persona, just like yellow was her signature color. Plus, open toes were more forgiving when it came to claws. Lowering him to a seat on his pew, she said, "I'm not looking down on you, Murph. You're a fine editor."

She turned him sideways, making him lie down, and folded his plaid blanket for a pillow.

When she pushed it under his head, he said, "Liar."

Her brows shot up. "Have I lied to you?"

"You are looking down on me, Levity Jones." His hand was warm and dry when it found her cheek. "Also … flimsy."

It took her a moment to realize he was adding to his list—drowsy, whimsy, tipsy, and the rest. She leaned into his palm and smiled. "Don't forget cutesy."

His whole face lit up with a rarely-seen smile. "You understand."

And then he pulled her down to kiss her.

Levity was surprised into letting things linger. And when Murph made a low note in the back of his throat, she responded instinctually, yielding to a deepening kiss that tasted like nutmeg and rum.

He fell back onto his makeshift pillow with a grumbled, "Stop distracting me, Levity Jones."

"Am I distracting?" she asked.

"You get all my allusions," he muttered, eyes drifting shut.

She stole golden confetti out of his hair, kissed his brow, then his frown. "You're such a sweetheart, Murphy Koogan. But I'll file away the expose. Your secret's safe with me."

"Bury it on page ten," he sighed.

"Mm-hmm. Let's hope you're not only an affectionate drunk, you're a forgetful one." She was quite sure he'd be mortified that a touch of drink had caused him to take leave of his senses. "You're too kissable for your own good."

Murph twisted his lean frame around, putting his back to her, muttering, "Don't make light of me, Levity Jones."

She took his coat from its hanger on the back of his door and draped him in dark wool.

He sighed deeply, then lapsed into the slow, even breathing of sleep.

Levity had been mingling with humans for long enough to know that every person had charm.

But Murph was … extra. Not a reaver, not even an unregistered one, yet he shone in her eyes. Really, she wished she could find an excuse to introduce Murph to her landlady. Mare Blazelock had a knack for sorting souls.