“Er...” Eddie looked at Harold, who shrugged.
“He comes from somewhere hot.”
“He?” Eddie's countenance clouded as if he were trying to think of something just out of reach of memory. “He?”
“She, I mean.” Harold clapped him on the shoulder, realising he'd accidentally given the thug a tool to twist off the lid of fabrication and illusion to see the reality beneath. Or a reality, at any rate. Never having seen reality from anyone else's viewpoint it was difficult to know if they viewed the same one as he did. Did anyone else realise he was the single most important person in the world, for example? Or did they mistakenly think they were the heroes of their own lives, when in actuality they were just supporting characters to his mightyness? More fool them. They were the villagers, helpless to defend against the Host of Angels until he came to lead them.
Never mind. The contact had served to derail Eddie's train of thought and the youth smiled again.
“It'd be warm upstairs, under the duvet.”
“Would it?” Jasfoup raised an eyebrow. “When did you last do laundry?”
“Er...I don't remember.”
“If you think I'm getting under a young man's bedlinens without a signed contract duly lodged with the relevant authorities you've another thing coming.” He paused. “Not that I have anything against young men's nightly rituals, you understand, but a girl has to have standards.”
“Of course.” Eddie tilted his head to one side, his lips moving with the thoughts that managed to climb out of the tar pit of cognitive function. “Contract? What sort of contract?