“I don’t hold any grudges,” Brockhurst continued insistently. “That was just a job! Right now I’m between jobs . . . permanently!”
That last was added with a note of bitterness which piqued my curiosity.
“Things haven’t been going well?” I asked cautiously.
The Imp grimaced.
“That’s an understatement. Come on, sit down. I’ll buy you a milkshake and tell you all about it.”
I wasn’t certain what a milkshake was, but I was sure I didn’t want one if they were sold here.
“Urn . . . thanks anyway, Brockhurst,” I said, forcing a smile, “but I think I’ll pass.”
The Imp arched an eyebrow at me.
“Still a little suspicious, eh?” he murmured. “Well, can’t say as I blame you. Tell you what we’ll do.”
Before I could stop him, he strolled to the counter.
“Hey, Gus!” he called. “Mind if I take an extra cup?”
“Actually…” the gargoyle began.
“Thanks!”
Brockhurst was already on his way back, bearing his prize with him, some kind of a thin-sided, flimsy canister. Plopping down at a nearby table, he beckoned to me, indicating the seat opposite him with a wave of his hand.
There was no gracious course for me to follow other than to join him, though it would later occur to me I had no real obligation to be gracious. Moving carefully to avoid knocking anything over with my sword, I maneuvered my way to the indicated seat.
Apparently, Brockhurst had been sitting here before, as there was already a canister on the table identical to the one he had fetched from the counter. The only difference was that the one on the table was three-quarters full of a curious pink liquid.