The boy frowned, then he shrugged. “What does it matter?”
Her eyes bulged. Then she pulled in a furious breath. “Fine! Great! Wonderful!” She stomped three steps forward and shoved the boy against the wall. He wrinkled his brow and looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. She loomed over him and pressed her mouth to his ear. The wind lurched over the pounding of her heart.
“Unlike you . . . I don’t enjoy favors in dirty, trash-filled alleyways. I prefer a bed. Or at least a clean floor. Perhaps a rug. I prefer to be myself. What is wrong with you?”
“Umm . . .” The boy swallowed but didn’t say more, because the woman/rude man was thrusting her finger into his chest.
“Yes. I’ll kiss you. Yes. I’ll go to bed with you. But it will be in. A. Bed. And I will be me. Are we clear? And then, after I blow your mind, because you’ve never had and will never have anyone like me again, you can weep sad-man tears at the realization I just exploded your Ward mind, and then you’ll leave me alone. Okay? Good? When should we do it? I’m busy tonight. How’s tomorrow? The Regis works for me. Not the Four Seasons.”
The boy cleared his throat.
“What?” She glared. “You want the Mandarin?”
“I . . .” The boy paused. Took a deep breath. Shook his head.
“What? Spit it out.”
He smiled, but it was a tight, pained smile. The wind didn’t blame him. The woman was strange. Very, very strange.
“I had a different favor in mind.”
The woman’s expression blanked, clearing like a cloud swept from the sky. “I don’t do that.”
The boy hit his head against the brick wall. Thud. Thud. Thud.
The woman shook him. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Hmm?” He smiled. “Oh, you know. Just thinking about life choices.”
She scowled.
“I want the lyre,” he said.
Ha! The wind knew it! The boy had wanted the lyre since the Bard’s game. It could entrance armies; it could ensorcell conjurers; it could make men fall in love so deeply they’d do anything for the object of their desire.
“You . . .” The woman paused. Cleared her throat. Took a step back.
The boy nodded. “Could you get me the lyre? From the Smiths.”
“That’s your favor?” The woman/rude man’s cheeks burned nearly as brightly as the boy’s.
“Is that all right?”
She nodded. Slowly. The wind laughed at the heat flushing over her body. Embarrassed. She scratched her chin and the stubble growing there. Then she winced.
“When do you need it?”
The boy shrugged. “As soon as you can.”
They stood in silence, staring at each other.
The wind trailed around the concrete, pushing at dirt and broken glass, trailing over the thin, beleaguered weeds sprouting from the cracks, seeking the blocked sun.
“Okay,” the woman finally said. “And then we’re even?”
The boy nodded.
The woman stared a moment longer and then turned, quick on her feet for such a giant of a man.
