In photographs—and on the internet, and on the cover of his bestselling album Fae Seasonal Song-Cycles—the cultural envoy from the Otherworld appeared, essentially, to be a man: a strange man, with a serious, high-boned face. A tall and slim man, with large eyes, pale skin and hair, clad in black. Accounts of his first appearance from the tree said he’d had long hair, but it was short in every picture Ángel had ever seen. He seemed odd, not normal, but not necessarily inhuman.

In person?

He was utterly, utterly inhuman. He didn’t look or sound or smell human. He was white and weird and frighteningly beautiful, more beautiful than any human. Now he glanced at Ángel, catching him studying him, and Ángel flinched, heart in his throat.

“This estate is very large,” Oberon said. “You will be comfortable here.”

His voice was deep, a velvety bass-baritone. It sounded inhuman too, as if the organ from which it emerged were different from a man’s larynx. He spoke slowly, but with an unimpeachable North American accent, more neutral than Ángel’s own Cuban-inflected English. His expression didn’t change as he spoke: it was impossible to imagine what thoughts or emotions were happening behind his shining green eyes. The curve of his wide mouth looked contemptuous. Or cruel.

He was a walking Uncanny Valley—almost human, but every tiny difference was just different enough to make Ángel’s scalp prickle.

What the fuck have I done? How am I going to live with this thing for four years?

They crossed a broad tiled patio, past an out-of-commission fountain of frolicking dolphins, toward the house’s porticoed front entrance. The house was sided in big sheets of pink-veined marble, like raw pork belly. It must have been ruinously expensive to ship all that stone up here. Above each roman-arched window was a circular white frieze, featuring a flying cupid in gilded bas-relief; above the door was a fan-shaped stained-glass window depicting a baroque angel, clothed only in her pink hair and surrounded by purple morning-glory flowers. Ángel mouthed a silent Wow.

They approached the house, Oberon moving with inhuman grace, turning a simple walk into the lazy stalk of a hunting cat, boneless and deadly. The big door was opened, as they approached, by a petite woman wearing jeans and an embroidered shirt. “Ángel Cruz,” said the envoy, “may I introduce Lily Va. She does the cooking and cleaning for us.” He gave her Ángel’s guitar.

She was human, middle-aged, Asian. Short and sturdy, a bit of silver in her black ponytail. He wanted to stare at her all day, rather than look at Oberon. She said, “I’m here every day. Let me know if there’s anything you need,” and reached for Ángel’s backpack.

He reluctantly surrendered it to her. “Thanks,” he said. “I will. Um, do you live here too?”