Next time you need real sneaky crafts- manship, look Mickey up, yes?" "Mick,'" Dancer says, and seats himself at the table of dreamthings. I can tell Harmony is growing a bit dizzy from the smoke. I'm used to breathing worse stuff. "Now, Harmony, my love," Mickey purrs. "Have you given up on this crip- ple yet? Come to join my family, per- haps? Yes? Get yourself a pair of wings? Claws on your hands? A tail? Horns- you would look fierce in horns. Espe- cially wrapped in my silken bedsheets." "Carve yourself a soul and you might get a shot, Harmony sneers "Ah, if it takes being a Red to have a soul, on this I shall pass." "Then to business." "So abrupt, my darling. Conversation should be considered an art form, or like a grand dinner. Each course in its own time." His fingers fly over the cube. He's matching them based on their electronic frequency, but he's a bit too slow to match them before they change. He still hasn't looked up. "We have a proposition for you, Mickey," Dancer says impatiently. He glances down at the cube.
Mickey's smile is long and crooked. He does not look up. Dancer repeats him- self "Straight to the main course then, eh, cripple? Well, propose away.' Dancer swats the cube out of Mickey's hands. The table goes silent. The thugs bristle behind us and the music contin- ues to pound. My heart is steady and H eye the scorcher on the thigh of the nearest thug. Slowly, Mickey looks up and cuts the tension with a crooked smile. "What's what, my friend?" Dancer nods to Harmony and she slips a small box over to Mickey. "A present? You shouldn't have." Mickey examines the box. "Cheap stuff. Such a tasteless Color, Red." Then he slides the box open and gasps in horror He recoils from the table, slamming the box shut. "You stupid sodding bastards. What is this?" "You know what they are." Mickey leans forward and his voice becomes one lone hiss. "You brought them here? How did you get them? Are you insane?' Mickey glances at his fol- lowers, who peer down at the box won- dering what has so unbalanced their master.
"Insane? We're bloodydamn manic." Dancer smiles. "And we need them at- tached. Soon." "Attached?" Mickey starts laughing "To him." Dancer points at me "Leave!" Mickey screams at his en- tourage. "Leave, you simpering syco- phantic miscreants! I'm talking to you ... you freaks! Get out!" When his en- tourage has scurried away, he opens the box and dumps the contents onto the table. Two golden wings, the Sigils of a Gold, clatter onto the table. Dancer sits. "We want you to make our boy here into a Gold."