“You think she’ll get back to us?”
“When has Bunce ever ignored a dangerous proposition?”
42
PENELOPE
“Maybe we should just summon the demon and see what happens.”
“We arenotsummoning the demon, Penelope.”
“Don’t want me to meet your girlfriend?”
Shepard is sitting low on my sofa, his shoulders against the back of it and his legs kicked out. He’s different now that I know his secret. Less happy-go-lucky. Maybe he can’t pretend to be lucky while we’re really plumbing the depths of his bad luck. He’s got his jacket off, and he’s wearing a white Keith Haring T-shirt. And every time I say something that he finds humiliating, like now, he covers his eyes with his forearms and shows me his triceps.
I drop down next to Shepard on the sofa. I’m only half kidding about summoning the demon; maybe she’d be open to negotiation. I elbow him. “Worried she’ll get clingy?”
“Penelope . . .” He lets his arms fall. “You can keep making fun of me . . .”
“I shall.”
“And insulting me.”
“That’s the plan.”
He turns his head towards me. If I had to describe his face and general mood right now, I’d go withunhappy-go-unlucky.“But please,” he says, “don’t make jokes like that.”
“Like what?”
“Don’t call her my girlfriend.”
“Is ‘fiancée’ better?”
“Don’t, Penelope. It’s not funny.”
“It’s funny to me, I have a lot of jokes lined up.”
Shepard frowns at me. It’s somehow even more effective than his smiles—more potent for its rarity. “If I were awomanbeing forced to marry a demon,” he says, “would it be funny?”
I don’t know, would it? I fold my arms. Shepard’snota woman. He’s a big, goofy man—who got himself into this situation and then hid it from me. “Clearly I understand that this is serious, Shepard—I am trying to help you fix it.”
“And I appreciate it! Thank you! Just . . . don’t tease me. About that part. Don’t call her my fiancée.”
“Fine,” I say and wish I didn’t sound so sulky about it.
“It’s not a real engagement,” he says, rubbing the stripes in his trousers. He’s said it before.
“I get that.”
He glances at me, not quite meeting my eyes. “Do you?”
“Yes. I do.” (I mean . . . I mostly do.) “Mages used to have arranged marriages,” I say, looking back up at my lists. “It made sense from a practical standpoint: We like to marry each other, and powerful mages like to marry other powerful mages—it keeps the bloodlines robust.”
Shepard has turned more fully towards me, listening. Of course he’s listening, these are state secrets. I keep going anyway: “There are lots of stories about people trapped in marriage contracts. Beautiful maidens, usually, promised to powerful old men.”
He looks down at his lap, embarrassed again.
“Hey . . .” I say, thinking. “That vampire couldn’t kill you. Back in the desert. In Nevada.”
