Scythe pulls out a chair and sits down. He leisurely takes out a cigarette from the old-fashioned metal case he keeps in his pocket and lights it with a silver wolf lighter I gave him for Christmas. He blows out the blue smoke. “No. Not dead. Instead, the two guards at your door, and this eagle, are dead.” Dirk Halfeather blanches. “But this is not the price of breaking your agreement with me, Dirk. May I call you that?” We all hear Dirk’s audible swallow. “Please,” Scythe says mildly, “sit.” He indicates to Dirk’s chair.
