Nothing, and then Anthony was there, looking irate and somewhat ruffled, with his jacket battered and the tips of his glove worn away so his fingertips were visible. He arched an eyebrow and observed, “Well, you look like a ray of sunshine,” and then threw something haphazardly wrapped in a dish towel at her. The charred, pewter medallion, suspended from a heavy chain, had certainly seen better days. “I believe you were looking for that.”

Fumblingly, she caught it, the medallion landing in her lap. “Thank you,” Summer said, surprised. “Are you … no, you’re not okay.” She pressed her lips together, then turned away to tuck the medallion in a safe place. “Anthony.” There was something strange about the way she accented it, something attention-getting. “I know what you are. I know what you do. I even understand, a little, why. But it doesn’t always have to be — hurtful.” A pause, and she looked him right in the eyes, earnest and sincere. “I owe you for this. A favor. Not my soul. You’ve done a good thing here. Maybe, do a good thing again, sometime.”