Since he’d already come this far, he decided to confirm his suspicion by accepting the drink he’d been given. Clint tossed it back, set the glass down, and waited for the fire to work itself all the way down to his belly. All the while, Leo watched as if he were witnessing a miracle. “Well?” he asked before he busted at the seams. “What do you think?” “I think it’s vodka.” “That may be one word for it, but I assure you this is something altogether—” “No,” Clint cut in through a hacking cough. “It’s potent, I’ll grant you that much. But it’s vodka.” “And how would you know?” “Because I’ve had it before.” Leo picked up the bottle and scrutinized the label, which was written in another language beneath a black drawing of a wolf’s head. “This is just wonderful. Then again, the way things have been going, why should I have expected anything different?”
