He was falling.

Posten's head nodded and he had to catch himself before he toppled forward. He had landed a dream gig and didn't want to blow it by falling asleep so he decided to stand at attention. He was still getting used to the night shift, reporting at 10:00 PM and standing guard until 6:00 AM. He had done his share of midnight posts outside Mansion Inn, Tombstone, and Ol' Federal, but there the wind bit your cheeks and you could always pace a little to keep awake. But this antechamber was a claustrophobic space crowded by a couch, an end table, and too much dining furniture shoved against a small counter with a sink. The shift officer said he was allowed to drink a little from the tap—clean water being one of the many perks of this station—but he was afraid the door could fly open at any moment and he would be caught standing with his head in the basin, looking every inch a fool. Worst of all, it was warm. Warm and cozy. He tweaked the tip of his nose so hard his eyes watered in order to rouse himself. That cleared away the cobwebs. Momentarily at least.

Behind the floor-to-ceiling doors at the end of the room lay Delia Reichman, whom he had pulled from the dying grasp of an MPD officer amid pelting, freezing rain two nights ago. Her body had chilled him as he carried her through the piercing glare of the searchlight back to the mansion, half fearing that some trigger-happy guard might cut them both down. But they made it, and instead of expulsion from the MPD he earned a hatful of feathers and instant reassignment for his heroism—just one of the many examples of MPD inconsistency. Had it been some scavenger tramp he'd rescued, his disobeying of standard protocol could have just as easily resulted in his summary execution.

With that thought lingering, the enormous bedroom swung inward with a deep creaking he could feel in his belly, revealing the silhouetted form of his charge. Posten swallowed hard as she stepped languidly into the antechamber, wearing a clinging nightshirt that didn't cover much of her bare legs. Posten licked his lips.

Delia was painfully beautiful, possessing the kind of sculpted face Posten thought no longer existed. They were about the same age, just over thirty years old. Posten remembered hearing the news of her disappearance as a teenager and thought it sounded like some fairytale meant to romanticize the plight of the Four Families, to make it seem like they had troubles too. Yet here she was, stepped out of a dream and back into the cold hard day-to-day reality they all shared. It somehow seemed quite impossible.

"I can't sleep," Delia said with a pouty sigh. Posten was surprised at the deepness of her voice. He had heard it only once before, when she had offered him a word thanks as he shepherded her inside that night.

She gave him a quizzical look. "Relax officer," she said.

Posten realized he was standing rigid, as if at attention. He cleared his throat. "Good evening, miss."

"Good evening," she replied sweetly and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

She stepped to the counter and opened the cabinets above the sink. Posten wiped his face, not wanting to be caught leering as her nightshirt rose. He heard the clink of glass and glanced over in time to see her placing a bottle back on the shelf and closing the doors.

Delia turned quickly and caught him looking at her. He felt his cheeks blush as she walked to him, her feet perfectly silent on the plush carpet. "I said relax. That's an order." She held a glass before him, filled about an inch with an amber liquid.

"I shouldn't," he said and coughed uncomfortably. "I'm on duty for a couple hours yet. I'm having trouble keeping my eyes open as it is."

Her laughter filled the small room and she covered her mouth. Posten felt his blush deepen; his ears felt red hot. He couldn't believe what was happening. Was she flirting with him?

"What's your name, soldier?" she asked and he told her. Her teeth were white squares, all perfectly shaped, all perfectly aligned. His mouth was dry.

"I don't claim to know everything this dreadful organization my parents have created Mr. Posten, but I do believe you have to do what I say. And I'm saying that I want to have a drink with the man who saved my life." She pushed the glass into his hand. He held it with numb fingers.

"What is it?"

"Whiskey, I suppose. You don't drink much?"

Posten shook his head. Delia wrinkled her nose. "Me neither. Look, I didn't pour much. My father would fill his glass to here and then have a second. This little won't make you drowsy, I promise. Besides, I'll stay up and talk with you to make sure you don't doze off. Deal?" she asked.

She raised his hand holding the glass to his mouth. Her fingers were shockingly cold. The harshness of the liquor stung his nostrils as he lifted it to his face. He noticed then that she had poured almost twice as much in her glass and he felt shamed. She clinked his glass and tipped hers back.

The whiskey electrified his lips and stung all the way down his throat until it was simmering in his belly. He coughed into the back of his hand. A hideous metallic aftertaste lingered in his mouth. "Are you sure that was whiskey?" he asked, sputtering again.

It was then that he noticed she was staring intently at his face. Her face blurred and the room flooded with light.