Page 50 of Kings of Sherwood

“Your very favorite.” Rob grins. “Paperboy route.”

At that, Will deflates a little. “You’re serious?”

“As a bear attack,” Rob says. “It’s a good first step. Jumpstart things a little.”

Will wrinkles his nose. I swallow the rest of my French toast.

“Question,” I say, leaning in between them a little. “Or, two, actually.” I frown. “What is a paperboy route? And what amIdoing in all of this?”

“Good point.” Rob rubs his jaw. Then shrugs. “Go with Scarlet, I guess. Low-risk, high reward. It’ll give you all those do-gooder endorphins.”

“Okay,” I say patiently, “anditis...what, exactly?”

“Itis piddly shit,” Will says. “It is what it sounds like. Dropping off paper.”

“As in...?”

“As in getting cash from our accounts and just...handing it out.” Will shrugs. “Not obnoxiously, or anything. We’re not flashing Benjamins on street corners. But to people who deserve it. Ad hoc. Just because.” He sighs.

“It’s good work,” Rob says. “It’ll shift the tone on things. Stir the pot just enough. And give us a quick win. Little...morale boost for the team.”

Will sighs.

“You’re not wrong.” He slaps his knees. “Fine. Paperboy it is. Or...paperboy and girl, I guess.” He stands, looks down at me. “You ready for your first ride-along, greasemonkey?”

Chapter Twelve

Maren

Since I can’t shift, and town is too far away to walk both ways as a human and too conspicuous for me to ride in on a goddamndragon,we split the difference: to the edge of the forest by air, then on foot to the outskirts of town and a place I recognize.

Murray’s Used Motors: Bad Credit No Credit All OK!beams down at us as Will literally kicks the tires of the slim pickings of rustbuckets Murray has on offer.

“This place is a rip-off,” I say in a not-too-subtle whisper. “Half of these are gonna be salvage titles.”

“Doesn’t have to win any beauty contests,” Will throws back. “Just has to get us into town and back to the edge of the forest.”

I roll my eyes and look longingly at the cluster of cars under a faded PREMIUM OFFERS banner: an early 2000s-era Corvette with bad aftermarket paint, a not-terribly-shabby Chevy Blazer...hell, even the Jeep Wrangler looks tempting even though it’d be a bitch to maintain.

“No,” Will says, seeing my gaze drift. “Soon enough, greasemonkey.”

He stops at a Chrysler the size of a parade float and the color of regret. Some washed-out, noncommittal beige that screamsdon’t notice me, I’m already dead inside. Will says that’s the point.

“It blends,” he tells me, tapping the hood like he’s proud of it. “No one thinks twice a shitty sedan.” He looks up, signals for the sales guy—Murray, maybe. “Sir? How much for this specimen?”

The sales guy, immediately clocking Will’s tailored outfit and thousand-dollar sunglasses, smiles real big.

“Iwould think twice,” I mutter. “The clear coat’s all jacked up, for starters.”

Will’s lips twitch. “Okay, no onenormalwould think twice about it, Danica Patrick.” He turns to the salesman. “Yes, sir.”

“I can do eight hundred,” the salesman says somberly. “But only for cash.”

Will offers him a hand to shake. “Sold, my good man.” He turns back to me. “It’s invisibility by mediocrity,” he adds in a low voice. “You of all people should appreciate why that’s necessary.”

Eight hundred bucks cash later, I shrink a little in the passenger seat.

Because Will’s right. The first time I inadvertently did a paperboy—papergirl—route of my own, I did it stupidly, by hitting a string of ATMs with the same account and tooling around in a flame-colored Mustang.

---