At those fighting words, his nostrils flared. “Fine. But we’re taking North with us.”

“Right.” I cringed, feeling like a heel for teasing him. “Security. I just assumed since we’re going somewhere unplanned . . .”

“Things can get out of hand when you least expect it,” he said tightly.

“I’m sorry I called you chicken.”

“But not that you called me lazy?”

“Asks the man who needs his smoothie brought up to him.”

A brief gleam of acknowledgment lit his eyes before fading. “I know it sucks, Delilah. But this is your life now.”

My life. Inexorably tied up with his.

All in all, our tentative truce is going as expected. Which is to say, we still find ways to squabble like chickens going after the last piece of grain.

Now, however, he’s like a puppy finally let out of his pen.

“It smells so fresh here. Where do you want to go first?” He has a cane—mahogany with an amber top—that he loves because it looks like the one from Jurassic Park. I told him that if he wants to channel his inner John Hammond, he really should be wearing a white suit as well. Unfortunately, he didn’t go for it.

“It’s your first time here.” I put on sunglasses so I can see without squinting. “Have at it.”

Smiling wide and joyfully, he takes another survey of the place, then heads for a stall selling fruit and inspects a mango. North keeps an unobtrusive distance away. They warned me that when we went out on the fly like this, North wouldn’t be our friend. He’d be working, constantly scanning for trouble.

“Can I have a sample?” Macon asks the guy manning the stall, a young hipster with a full beard and a tattoo that says “Grow It Green” along his inner forearm.

“Have one on the house, Arasmus.”

Upon hearing the name of his character, Macon does a double take as if he’s gauging how intense this potential fan might be. Then his easy good-ole-boy smile is in place. “Kind of you.”

That smile used to grate on me like nails ambling down a chalkboard. But there is no denying its efficacy. When Macon smiles like that, people react.

“Thanks . . . ?” Macon trails off in question.

“Jed,” the seller replies as he takes a mango and begins to prep it, slicing the fruit along each side of the pit and then scoring a crosshatch along each half.

“Jed, I’ll share it with my girl here.” Macon grasps my elbow and gently tugs me to his side.

His girl? I cut him a glance, but he’s not looking my way—I can only assume it’s intentional.

Jed gives me a quick smile of acknowledgment, but his attention is purely on Macon. “Man, that scene where you chopped off Thieron’s head with one swing of your sword, then gave that war cry and tore his army apart . . . fucking beautiful. You gonna finally marry Princess Nalla?”