"Mick," he corrects, but says no more, partly due to the fact that such phrasing is eerily similar to something he's said before. Even so, such phrasing from a fae was quite straightforward - If I wanted you dead or harmed you already would be. He wondered briefly what the catch was, there. Fae always had a catch, even the dumb ones. And he knew this faerie was not dumb.

"Until dawn, then." He counters, wanting a concrete timeline for his safekeeping. "And I have no friends, little or great. The last two near-friends I had died five hundred years ago." And it was true - in a sense. Cesare had gained unlife just before his assault on Forlì, and Machiavelli had died just before 1530. It had truly been a shame to lose such a wise man. He sometimes wondered what Niccolò would think of all these petty supernatural politics.