The gull video was Ángel’s one viral social media moment. It was a low-quality iPhone recording, and there was a lot of ambient noise: wind and the surf, people chattering. Ángel had been performing on the patio of the Blowhole Beachside Brewpub on Captiva Island. He’d played Paul Simon’s “Homeward Bound,” and some of the audience had sung along.

It wasn’t his greatest moment of solo fame because of the quality of the recording or the brilliance of his performance, but because of the big white gull that had sailed through the air and alighted on the railing beside him in the middle of the song. He hadn’t missed a beat—he was, after all, a professional—though he’d given the gull a startled glance. He’d finished the song with a flourish of guitar strings. The bar patrons had applauded, and he’d smiled his thanks. And then he’d gestured to the gull, indicating that they should applaud his fellow-performer as well, and, as if on cue, the bird had opened its beak and emitted a cry. The audience had erupted into cheers and laughter. The video ended with Ángel laughing too.

“Your voice is pleasing,” said Oberon. “Untrained, but your breath control is very good, and so is your pitch.”

Ángel smirked. “Thank you.” He wasn’t the world’s most gifted musician, but he worked hard and was sober and reliable—valuable traits in a session man.

“That video got over ten thousand views.”

“It was a nice-looking bird.”

“It was,” said Oberon. “If one didn’t know better, one might think it was your familiar.”

“Huh.” That was one of the legends of the fae, of course: the animal companions, with whom they shared some mystic bond. “No familiars, then?”

“No.”

“Too bad, that would be cool.” He brushed crumbs off his fingers, stealing a glance at Oberon. “You do do magic though,” he ventured. “You came through the veil. They say you can read people’s minds, and charm people into doing what you want.” Oberon said nothing. After a moment, Ángel shook his head at himself. “No, huh?”

“Not noticeably.”

No. Oberon had tried to charm Ángel, tried to touch him, tried to get him to come to his room. But no matter how much he liked Oberon’s smell, Ángel wasn’t seriously considering taking him up on it. Ever.

“I wonder, sometimes, if it would be worth the risk,” continued Oberon, thankfully unaware of Ángel’s thoughts. “If I moved back into a town or a city, where more people were exposed to me, if they could grow to know me . . . Even if I were killed, it might make it easier for the next envoy. And I would like it better if I weren’t so isolated.”

“Until you got killed,” Ángel noted.