"How would you know," he asked with a coy glint in his eye and a curl of his lips, "after one go of it?" And that was as true of murder as of anything else, Alastor thought. One success could be pure luck, nothing at all to do with your skill. In most hobbies, most professions, there were ample texts to study, degrees to be had, mentorships to take on. If you happened to discover your calling was to rid the world of men who never should have graced this earth in the first place, where were you to go?

There were no signposts, no guides.

Alastor laughed at that, on the tail end of another drink from the bottle's mouth. He could almost taste Lotte there, now, he thought, and he pressed the back of his hand to his lips, to stifle any further cackling, so that he could get his words out. "I think not. I'll show you up soon enough, you've caught me at a disadvantage. Is that honorable? I don't think so."

He hoped she enjoyed this, this ephemeral and false sense of having the upper hand over him. It was false enough that he could find amusement in it, rather than alarm. She couldn't really harm him, nor could she really outdrink him, if he was in his proper faculties. He shrugged and handed the bottle back to her. "But I don't mind."