“Holy shit.” Ángel’s eyes were glued to the screen. Lit by the flames and the whirling lights of police cars, chaos reigned in the street: fire crews, cops, shouting people, flying bottles. Searchlights played over a chaotic riot of hundreds of furious people, all struggling as one to kill Oberon.

The talking heads on the television announced that the cultural envoy from the Otherworld was no longer in the building. Ángel watched as the people broke through the doors of the Tiepolo Ballroom and begin pouring inside. Apparently they were going room to room, trying to find Oberon. He shivered, chilled by the animal violence of the mob.

John Va called later that night to report that seven people had been injured, over two hundred arrested, and Oberon was safe.

Ángel slept poorly that night, his dreams haunted by visions of hatred and fire. The next day he did what he always did when he was unsettled—he turned to music. Specifically, he checked out the music room, which turned out to be home to dozens of instruments. Along with the obvious—piano, electric keyboards, guitar—others were packed into black boxes on the shelves. Banjo, violin, flute, clarinet, trumpet, xylophone, and several hand drums. You could rig out a high school band in here. He wondered if the envoy had bought these instruments, or if they’d come with the house. Most of it was acoustic. Did Oberon have a prejudice against electronic amplification? Maybe he would ask him.

The guitar was a Yamaha dreadnought, newer and certainly more expensive than Ángel’s beloved Martin, no fancy inlay to obscure the gleaming, perfectly even grain of the pale-yellow spruce soundboard. It was plain and beautiful and Ángel would bet money that it had not come with the house. This was Oberon’s guitar.

There was a mandolin, cute and round-bellied. He’d never played one. He took it out of its case and touched the pick to its twinned strings, liking the high plaintive sweetness of its tone. It didn’t sound right when he strummed it like a guitar, though: he didn’t know what he was doing. It was difficult to finger the strings while at the same time supporting the instrument’s neck with his left hand. Digging around the case to see if there was a strap, he glanced up to the open door that led to the foyer when Lily came in from her shopping trip to the mecca of civilization called Stahlberg, accompanied by Logan the goon, carrying shopping bags.

“Take those up to Ángel’s room,” she said to Logan, shedding her coat, “and that one to Oberon’s office. Ooh, it’s cold out! Ángel, help me with the groceries?”

Ángel hauled bags into the kitchen with her. “Are the stores all empty now? Was there anything there you decided not to buy?”