Claires attention was caught momentarily by the insistent ringing of the bar's wall phone.

Answer it, Claire. Ask not for whom the phone rings; it rings for thee.

…

The ringing was blinked away as if it were an annoying insect, Claire smiled, and the crowd cheered at this show of bravado. Someone thunked down another heavy shot glass; an unmarked bottle tilted and splashed more rotgut, filling the glass and dousing the table around it.

The crowd started clapping in unison, shouting something. Her name? Some Asian word that meant "crazy white lady"? Daedalus couldn't tell. She wasn't going to answer the phone-no one was. She wouldn't hear his message. He would have to try to catch her when she was more sober. Good luck. It would take her days, at least, to dry out from today's little episode.

Her eyes glowing greenly, as if lit from within, Claires unsteady hand reached out for the glass. It wobbled, clear liquid running over her fingers. She didn't notice. She held the shot glass to her lips and tossed back her head. Then, triumphantly, she slammed it down on the table. The crowd roared its approval; money openly changed hands. Across from her, the Asian man bluffed by reaching out his hand for another glass but then slowly leaned sideways, sliding gently against the table. He was lying on the floor, eyes shut, shirt wet, before anyone had realized he was out.

Daedalus groaned. All right, later for her.

At least Marcel wasn't likely to be pickling himself from the inside out, Daedalus thought, closing his eyes and focusing on the man who'd been a mystery for as long as Daedalus had known him. Marcel He pictured the youthful face, the smooth, fair skin, the blue eyes, the pale auburn hair.