“First, though, you must see the security system.” Oberon crossed to a panel of monitors built into the wall. “Most rooms have one of these terminals,” he said, pushing a button. A live video image of the living room appeared: empty fireplace, pink sofa. “Push this to scroll through the feeds.” He flipped through images: the gym, the dining room, the music room, all empty. The kitchen showed glittery granite countertops, stainless-steel appliances, and Lily, slicing vegetables. The office showed Ángel and Oberon.

Ángel looked up, trying to find the camera amid the crown molding. He couldn’t see it. “All the rooms have cameras?”

“Yes. These household terminals show the rooms we use most frequently. There are several rooms I never go into—guest bedrooms and so on—and of course the security team at the gatehouse monitors those feeds, but they don’t show here. You can add them from this menu, if you wish.”

“Oh.”

“You have full access. Feel free to watch whenever you like.” The way he spoke was pleasant, and Ángel found himself baffled as to how to respond. Why would I want to do that? seemed rude.

“Okay.”

“Your room is upstairs. This way.”

Oberon led him up a curving staircase, fingertips trailing on the wooden banister. “Do you like this house?”

“It’s very nice,” said Ángel politely.

“This is your room,” Oberon said, opening a door. The room was big, dark, decorated oppressively with a peacock theme: vibrant blue-green walls, curtains, and bedspread. “There is a bathroom through there. There are ten bedrooms, and they are all the same size—you may explore the others and pick a different one, if you prefer.”

“Thank you.”

“Mine is at the end of the hall, on the left. You are welcome to come there whenever you wish.”

Ángel’s mouth went dry with terror. “Thank you,” he managed to say again.

Oberon turned to look at him, eyes wide and expressionless in the dim room, and without warning placed a palm on Ángel’s cheek, fingertips tracing his ear.

Ángel startled like deer at the sound of a gunshot. The elf’s skin on his face—it was inhuman, it was wrong. He flinched away, tripped over his own feet, and started to fall. Oberon caught him, strong hands gripping his upper arms, and Ángel’s strained nerve broke entirely. He wrenched himself away and crashed to the floor, his head bouncing hard off the peacock-feather rug. Oberon made another swift move to reach for him, and Ángel scuttled backward. He fetched up against the wall in the dark, dusty space under the bed.

There was a long pause. Ángel curled his legs up against his chest, pressed a hand over his mouth, panting.

The envoy stood motionless by the side of the bed for several long moments. Ángel stared at his well-shined black shoes.

Then Oberon turned and silently walked out, closing the bedroom door behind him.

Chapter 4