I grab the back of his head and slam it onto the table. The table shakes, his friends flinch, and when Halfeather comes back up, he’s gasping. “Please. Oh, Wild Gods, please.” Leaning down, I whisper into his ear. “We know about your little schemes, Dirky boy. I’ll send your wives pretty black veils to wear at your funeral. You’re rex to three sweet tweety birds, aren’t you?” Dirk splutters. “Thank you, Mr Halfeather.” Scythe stands and puts out his cigarette on the table. He beckons to Eugene with two fingers. The bird hastily flaps into air and settles on Scythe’s arm.
