“See what you are,” the quetzal voice inside told him, and his image seemed to glow orange around the edges. Shifting. Flickers of green began to form along each side of his nose. Pale blue was darkening across his forehead. As he watched, the colors brightened, and his face morphed, flattening. The mirror began to warp; the image split into three, which gave him a third eye in the middle of his forehead.

For a fleeting instant, a finger of fear reminded him of Batuhan, which faded into a quetzal’s visage. Not Flute, the shape was wrong. And the mouth didn’t have Flute’s familiar angle. Not Rocket’s, either.

“Demon?”

“Your true self. Not even quetzals are so heartless.”

“No. I suppose they aren’t.”

He clamped his eyes shut, arms trembling as he steadied himself on the grimy sink. Swallowing through a sudden knot in his throat, he made himself remember what he looked like. The designer-yellow eyes that shaded into green, his straight and perfect nose, the dimple in his chin. That pink and shiny scar disfiguring his cheekbone. Sandy hair, with a wave on top of his head.

“You’re my handsome young hero.” Kalay’s words took the place of Demon’s, her lilting Greek accent filling the vowels with life.

“There are no heroes, my love. They died in another age.”

When he forced his eyes open, stared into the mirror, it was to see himself restored in the glass, the image somewhat blurred by the film and specs of mold.

In the stand beneath the sink, he found a rag. Used it to scrub off the mirror, though it still left streaks. His face—but for his eyes and the zygomas of his cheeks—looked the same. Right down to the triangular scar. What was it about his eyes? As if the pupils were expanding. And something . . . wait, it was as if his cheeks were wider. Or was that just the cheap and streaked mirror?

He used the toilet, then washed. Tucking in his shirt, he stepped out into the hall and padded to the main room. Talina stood over the counter, was using a fork to pull apart a large squash. A puff of steam erupted from the split skin, and he could see the thick orange interior, packed as it was with poblano, apple, sweet potato, and garlic.

“Let’s eat,” Talina told him, dishing it out onto plates. “Don’t have my red sauce, but hey, we’ll live. Might be able to shoot a crest or a roo later. Add a little meat to the mix.”

He sat, trying to center his thoughts . . . only to have Kalay’s image fill his vision. Her voice whispered softly; the way her smile parted those full lips exposed perfect white teeth. Her laughter had always been magical.