Mr. Bck Sheep's office was a monument to excess. Mahogany desk the size of a small ship. Velvet curtains in deep crimson. Gold fixtures on everything that could possibly be gilded. Paintings of himself in various heroic poses lined the walls—Mr. Bck Sheep sying dragons, Mr. Bck Sheep counting coins, Mr. Bck Sheep standing nobly on a mountain of wool bales.

  The sheep himself sat behind that massive desk, his bck fleece immacutely groomed, his suit tailored to perfection. Anthropomorphic didn't mean uncivilized, after all. He had standards.

  The door opened and his secretary entered.

  Dolly was a rabbit—young, curvy, and dressed in exactly the way Mr. Bck Sheep preferred his female employees to dress. Which was to say, barely. The "uniform" consisted of a corset that pushed her breasts up to an almost obscene degree, a skirt so short it was practically a belt, and heels high enough to make walking a deliberate, hip-swaying affair.

  She knew better than to compin. Mr. Bck Sheep paid well, and in his world, women had two roles: look pretty or stay home. Dolly had chosen to look pretty.

  "Mr. Bck Sheep," she said, her voice soft and deferential, "a package arrived for you."

  She carried it carefully in both hands—a box, elegant and beautifully wrapped, about the size of a hatbox. The paper was cream-colored, the ribbon bck silk. It looked expensive. Important.

  Mr. Bck Sheep gestured for her to bring it closer. "From whom?"

  "No return address, sir." Dolly set the box on his desk, then stood back, hands folded in front of her. She knew to wait. He might want her for other things.

  He waved her away dismissively. "Go."

  Dolly left, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

  Mr. Bck Sheep studied the box. It was handsome—whoever sent it had taste. Perhaps a gift from one of his distributors? A token of respect? He'd been making moves tely, expanding territory, refusing to bow to that upstart Jack's ridiculous demands.

  Sending a *woman* to negotiate. The nerve.

  He untied the bck silk ribbon, letting it fall to the desk. The wrapping paper came off easily, revealing a polished wooden box underneath. Dark wood, beautifully crafted, with a small brass crank on the side.

  A music box?

  How quaint.

  Mr. Bck Sheep smiled to himself. Someone was trying to butter him up. Well, he'd see what this was about.

  He turned the crank.

  The mechanism inside clicked and whirred, and then—music. Tinny, cheerful, the kind of sound that belonged at a fair or a child's party.

  *Pop goes the weasel...*

  The tune pyed through once, twice, building toward that final note—

  *POP!*

  The lid burst open.

  Lysander's head unched out of the box on a spring, eyes still open, mouth frozen in a rictus of terror and death. It bobbed there obscenely, the spring bouncing slightly, the head swaying back and forth like some grotesque puppet.

  Mr. Bck Sheep recoiled, his chair smming backward, hooves scrabbling against the floor. His heart hammered in his chest. The smell hit him a moment ter—blood and something chemical, preservative maybe, something to keep the head from rotting too fast.

  "What—"

  Lysander stared at him with dead eyes.

  And there, gripped between the corpse's teeth, was a folded piece of paper.

  Mr. Bck Sheep's hands shook as he reached forward. He didn't want to touch it. Didn't want to reach into that cold, dead mouth. But he had to know. Had to read whatever message this was.

  He pulled the letter free, the teeth releasing it with a faint scrape. The paper was heavy, expensive. The handwriting was neat, almost elegant.

  ---

  *Mr. Bck Sheep,*

  *I offered you a partnership. You chose pride over profit. Lysander chose violence over business.*

  *Here are your new terms:*

  *? I'm taking the eastern territory* *? You get 0%* *? Any of your people I find selling there will join Lysander* *? I will kill you*

  *Regards,*

  *- J*

  ---

  Mr. Bck Sheep read it once. Twice. Three times.

  His hands were trembling so badly the paper rustled.

  Lysander's head continued to bob gently on its spring, the music box mechanism winding down with a final, discordant note.

  Mr. Bck Sheep looked up at the head. At Lysander's dead eyes. At the neat hole where Lysander's brain had been skewered.

  The letter fell from his hand.

  Mr. Bck Sheep sat frozen behind his expensive desk, surrounded by his office finery and paintings of himself, staring at the severed head of his second-in-command.

  *He was furious.*

  *Mr. Bck Sheep looked at the mirror on the wall.*

  *"Magic mirror, connect me with Dolly."*

  *The surface rippled, and the rabbit's face appeared.*

  *" Get me a meeting with the Crickets."*

  *"Yes, sir."*