Armando said. He stood at his window, which was triangular—he occupied one of the peaks of the mansion. He’d demanded the position.“Can I shoot him?” J.C. asked me softly. “You know, in a place that’s not important? A foot, maybe?”“His Majesty heard that,” Armando said in his soft Spanish accent, turning unamused eyes our direction. “Stephen Leeds. Have you fulfilled your promise to me? I must be restored to my throne.”“Working on it, Armando,” I said, handing him the picture. “We’ve got another one.”Armando sighed, taking the photo from my fingers. He was a thin man with black hair he kept slicked back. “Armando benevolently agrees to consider your supplication.” He held it up.“You know, Steve,” Ivy said, poking through the room, “if you’re going to create hallucinations, you really should consider making them less annoying.”“Silence, woman,” Armando said. “Have you considered His Majesty’s request?”“I’m not going to marry you, Armando.”“You would be queen!”“You don’t have a throne.
