Geryon’s study faded into view around her, the portal-book on one of his side tables snapping itself shut. Geryon was waiting for her in his ancient, fraying chair. His desk was a mess, as always, covered with scraps of paper and bowls of the concoctions he used for Writing and binding his books.

“Welcome back, Alice,” he said. “Your mission was a success, I trust?”

Alice was suddenly aware of what a state she was in. Her clothes hung ragged and torn, and her skin and hair were liberally smeared with dirt, blood, and wasp goo.

“Yes, sir,” Alice said.

Geryon himself wore the same ratty, stained robe he always did. With his flyaway hair and fantastic, out-of-control sideburns, he cut an almost comical figure, if you ignored the cold, hard set of his eyes. Alice forced herself to meet his gaze, and not to flinch. She couldn’t believe she’d ever thought of trusting this man. Disgust and hatred burned furiously inside her, and she had to fight to keep her expression neutral. His words scraped across her ears, and every moment that she had to pretend to be calm felt like holding back the tide.

If I summoned Spike, right now, he could charge across the room and put a horn through that nasty old man’s chest. She pictured Geryon pinned to the wall, like a butterfly mounted in an insect collection.

It wouldn’t work, of course. Geryon hadn’t gotten to be as old as he was by being careless. He’d have defenses, and his own summoned creatures to back him. In a head-on fight, she was still no match for him. Patience.

“You retrieved the century fruit?”

Alice held out one of the purple globes, and Geryon took it, his face betraying, for once, a hint of eagerness. He held it up to the lamp on his desk, admiring the smooth, unblemished skin.

“Ah, perfect. The very peak of ripeness. Exquisite.”

“What is it good for?”

Geryon was pleased enough that he didn’t mind this impertinence. “Many things. Elixirs of longevity, or protections against certain poisons. Crushed into ink, it makes an excellent medium for some types of spells.”

He pressed his thumbnail against the skin of the fruit until it broke, then delicately peeled back a thin strip. Inside was a mass of little round seeds, translucent and faintly pink. Geryon worked one loose and held it between thumb and forefinger.

“But mostly,” he murmured, “it’s the taste.”

He popped the seed into his mouth, and Alice heard it crunch between his teeth. For a moment, his face went slack, and he let out a long, satisfied breath.

“They ripen only once every hundred years, you know,” he went on, setting the fruit on his desk.

“Those wasp things certainly wanted them badly,” Alice said.