Vilanos and Absolis shared a disgusted pout, both of them holding out their empty glasses for Boozey to refill.
Boozey obliged—that is, both Boozeys did because there were now two of them.
“Fine.” Absolis snorted, his eyes returning to normal. “What was it?”
“Yes.” Vilanos slurped his drink. “The question?”
Seymour peeked over Sariel’s shoulder. “I want to know if bringin’ back the consort’s head is gonna be enough to make your king happy. ’Cause leavin’ it open ended doesn’t sound like fun. After all, it could just go on and on. What if he wants a new puppy? Or the fuckin’ moon?”
“And?” Absolis drawled.
“And that’s bullshit.” Seymour put his hand on Sariel’s wing, gently pushing it down so he could address the twins without anything between them. “I’ll go get the damn head, but that’s it. Our lil’ deal is that. I get the head and you give Mr. Heiss his fuckin’ whatever it is, so I can go home.”
Absolis and Vilanos both gave a thoughtful hum.
“I suppose that can be arranged,” Absolis said at last. “Your bravery is very admirable.”
“So very admirable,” echoed Vilanos. “Enough that yes, we shall agree to your terms. Should you successfully return the head to our king’s consort, we will grant the wish Mr. Heiss has requested of us.”
“But.”
“But.” Vilanos smiled. “You must give us something in return.”
“What?” Seymour blinked.
“A gift of our choosing,” Absolis replied.
“Uh, yeah, no. That sounds real dumb.” Seymour snorted. “You might ask me for my fuckin’ kidney or somethin’.”
“We will ask until you say yes.”
Vilanos nodded. “Yes, until you say yes.”
“But what are you gonna ask me for?” Seymour looked to Sariel. “I don’t get it.” He glared at the two fae suspiciously. “You could keep askin’ me for anything forever and I could just keep tellin’ you no. What gives?”
“I do not know.” Sariel narrowed his eyes, asking firmly, “Seymour is allowed to refuse any number of these requests until one is suitable to him? There are no constraints or limitations to how many times he can refuse you?”
Absolis lifted his glass. “Not a one.”
“Not a one,” Vilanos purred sweetly. “Do we have a deal?”
Seymour still didn’t trust this, but he found himself replying, “I guess, but?—”
“The deal is done.” Absolis wiggled his fingers in farewell. “A pleasure, Mr. Madison.”
“Such a pleasure,” gushed Vilanos. “We’ll be in touch soon.”
“Very soon.”
“What are you—” Seymour gasped as the space abruptly melted. He flailed, watching the dais and the dancers and everything else erode into an explosion of floating blobs as if a giant lava lamp had ruptured. “The fuck!”
“I have you,” Sariel said quickly, wrapping his arms around Seymour from behind. “You are safe.”
Seymour clung to Sariel, squeezing his eyes shut. The spectacle was nauseating, and his head was left spinning as the weird circus dripped away. He caught one last glimpse of Boozey, but it was only a quick flash.
One of the dancers hanging in a hoop had slumped over and was no longer moving, and Boozey was draining blood from their wrist into a pitcher.
As the blood filled the container, it turned black.
