Who ya gonna call? Those —-!

“Why?” Keenan growled, turning to Bertram. He shook his head. “Why do we have to go to them for help?”

“They’re the only ones who might have a hope of dealing with this problem before it gets out of hand, Keenan,” Bertram said, his tone soft and reasonable. “Try to think about what’s best for the people. Swallow your pride and ask them for help.”

Keenan cursed and slammed his fist down on the smooth wooden surface of the desk. “I hate this! They – they’ll make me plead with them and draw it all out and get pleasure out of the fact that I need their help.”

“I know that,” Bertram said, maintaining an even tone.

Sighing explosively, Keenan flopped into his chair. He grabbed his telephone and dialed a number. After a moment, he said, “Listen good, ’cause I’m only saying this once. I… need your help.” There was a pause and Keenan nodded. “We’ll be waiting for you.”

As he replaced the handset, Bertram said, “They agreed to help?”

“They want to negotiate face to face,” Keenan said, shaking his head. Then, he used a word that, while describing them perfectly in Keenan’s mind, made Bertram flush and scold him. Royalty wasn’t meant to use such coarse language. Keenan never seemed to care, even if Bertram did.


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