“No buts. You signed a contract in which you agreed to submit to any and all measures deemed appropriate by the envoy’s security staff. Learn to live with it, Mr. Cruz. And don’t lie to me again—you’ll find I don’t like liars. Gather your stuff and my men will take you up to the house. Oberon is waiting for you.”

Chapter 3

Two of the goons walked with him out across the dry lawn toward the house. They were brawny and fit in their navy suits. They might be carrying guns.

In the distance, at the top of the hill, the tall form of the cultural envoy from the Otherworld stood silhouetted against the sky, his black clothes and famous white-and-green-streaked hair fluttering a little in the breeze. Ángel took a long, shuddering breath of cool mountain air.

The goons exchanged a glance and stopped. Ángel stopped with them.

“Go on,” said one of them, waving him on.

“Aren’t you coming?”

“Oberon will take care of you,” said the same goon, with fake heartiness. He waved a hand in greeting to the distant envoy. “Go on. Call us if you need anything.”

Ángel swallowed and kept walking.

Behind him, he heard the other goon mutter, “Better him than me.”

“Me too. Damn, it gives me the willies.”

“Fuck me,” whispered Ángel.

He was on. He could do this. He forced his feet to move, kept his chin high, his shoulders loose. Pretended he was stepping onto a stage. Giving a performance. He looked taller when he was performing.

He met his audience on the brow of the hill.

The elf-lord said, “Good afternoon, Ángel Cruz. Welcome to my home. I am Oberon. Am I pronouncing your name correctly?”

“Yes,” said Ángel. No sound came out. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yes.”

“May I carry your guitar?” The elf extended a languid hand.

“Oh. Yes, thanks.” Ángel was very careful not to touch Oberon as he gave him the guitar case.

Side by side, they walked back toward the pink mansion.

He felt like a rabbit taking a stroll with an Alaskan malamute. His blood was rushing with adrenaline, his mouth dry, heart thumping. Sweat pooled in the small of his back, ran coldly down his temples to his jaw. He had to force himself to take each step forward, to not break and flee back to the gatehouse, to beg Chandler Evanston and the goons to protect him.

Just stay cool, Ángel.

He kept his eyes forward, but examined Oberon with his peripheral vision.