After that they all trooped off to the shoe store, since Ángel only had his heavy snow boots. And then Marissa saw that, somehow, there was an ice rink in the mall, and wanted to go skating. (She was definitely treating this excursion as a date with Chandler.) Ángel couldn’t get into the spirit, so he sat on the sidelines and watched as Marissa, Chandler, and, surprisingly, Victor, glided around the ice.

The waiting was killing him. He ached to talk to Oberon. Where was he? How did he feel about what had happened? How did he feel about Ángel?

Ángel called Neil Jeremy again. Again Emma put him off.

Was it that Oberon, alone and bereft, had turned to the new envoy and didn’t need Ángel anymore?

Or maybe it was as Chandler believed: Oberon had never loved Ángel, had just manipulated him and used him, and simply no longer required his services?

No. Oberon cared about him. Oberon was his friend. Ángel just needed to talk to him.

After skating they were hungry, so they went to a restaurant and ordered a feast: shrimp and grits, chicken and waffles, crab cakes. Ángel could barely eat. He watched, interested, because Marissa was not fucking around here: she was aiming a firehose of sparkling charm at former DOR goon Chandler Evanston, and Chandler was visibly thawing. Chandler accepted a bite of bourbon pineapple upside-down cake from Marissa’s fork, her cheeks flushing red, and Ángel found himself exchanging a knowing glance with Victor.

“You should come back with me to Jacksonville, retaco,” said Victor.

Ángel smiled at the old childhood nickname. “Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

“Or just come home to Miami,” said Marissa. “Your apartment’s still there, isn’t it?”

“I think I have a sublet,” Ángel said listlessly. “The DOR arranged it.”

“Well, the DOR can un-arrange it.”

“I can’t leave,” he said. “I signed a contract.”

“Yeah, but things have changed, and they don’t seem to know what to do with you right now,” she said. “You don’t have to keep hanging around here while they figure it out. You have a life. You can come back to it.”

“I can’t.”

She leaned across the table, waggling her eyebrows. “I heard Kinsley Halliday’s going to be recording an album in January.”

“Really?” Kinsley Halliday was a young country singer-songwriter who had Kickstarter-produced a bunch of very good songs. He heard she’d been picked up by Sony. “In Miami?”

“In Nashville, but they’re scouting Miami musicians because she wants to do an island sound.” Marissa smiled at him. “Interesting, yes?”

It would be a great gig—to get in on the ground floor with a promising up-and-comer. A year ago he’d have fought for that gig.

“I can’t,” he said again. “I have to talk to Oberon.”