by Jenya Keefe
At noon someone sent down a tray of banh mi sandwiches and bottled water. “I have seen a video of you on YouTube,” said Oberon, picking up a sandwich.
“Oh? The one with the gull?”
“Yes.”
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.
“I am starving to death anyway.” There was resignation and sorrow in Oberon’s voice now. “No one expected me to last this long.”
Ángel opened his eyes. “What?”
Oberon waved a hand. “Nothing. Sometimes I feel melancholy. Don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Ángel, and then, “No. That isn’t what you meant at all. Don’t lie.”
“Ah, Ángel,” said Oberon, his face expressionless but his voice smiling, “I am very new to lying, you know. I need the practice.”
Since Oberon refused to elaborate on that disturbing comment, they passed the rest of the time talking about the one thing they had in common—music. Ángel was a professional player and performer; he was a competent singer and a good guitarist, he was reliable, and he knew the magic that sometimes stirred to life between fellow musicians, between musicians and audience. But as Oberon talked about his favorite—Mahler—it became clear that the fae’s knowledge of music history and theory far outstripped his.
Oberon seemed to have no conception of what was cool or uncool, high- or lowbrow, popular or elite. He knew that musical styles went in and out of fashion, but he either found this difficult to understand, or he just didn’t care. He gave the same grave attention to the latest K-pop single as to a Wagner aria.
Eventually Chandler let them out of the wine cellar. Ángel was longing for caffeine and went straight to the kitchen to make coffee. “Do you want some?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at Oberon.
“No, thank you. I should try to get some work done today,” said Oberon.
“What are you working on?”
Oberon, evidently in no hurry to retreat behind his office door, leaned on the kitchen counter and watched Ángel putter with coffee beans and water. “I decided to send an ABBA song home.”
“Really?” Ángel turned to stare at him.
“They’ve obviously achieved a high level of cultural significance. I called the DOR and talked to several people, and every one of them knows ABBA and has an opinion. And I like ‘Waterloo.’”
“Well, good,” said Ángel, grinning as he filled the moka pot with water. “That will make a nice change from Mahler.”
“I have listened to both, and I find I prefer ABBA to MelodEye. I hope that does not bother you.”
“You and everyone else,” Ángel assured him. “We MelodEye stans are a rare breed.”
“But translating ‘Waterloo’ has become a problem. I had to look up the battle, and then the Napoleonic Wars, and then the French Revolution. I think it might require too much annotation to be a good choice.”
Ángel put the pot on a burner and opening a cabinet for the sugar. “I love that song, but the lyrics are a little, um. I guess it was a pretty horrible battle. I wouldn’t want to try to explain how that spells ‘romance.’”
“So I’m not the only one who finds that confusing? I’m not very good with metaphors.”
“No,” laughed Ángel, rummaging in the refrigerator for milk. “I’m not sure anyone has a handle on that metaphor.”
“Do you have a favorite ABBA song?”
Ángel paused thoughtfully. “I like ‘Angeleyes’ a lot,” he said at last. “It’s simple but kind of sad. Really fun to sing. You might have to explain what angels are, but at least you won’t need to write a master’s thesis on European history.”
“Thank you for the suggestion,” said Oberon. “I will listen to it.”
The air thrummed between them with a low pulsing note, just below hearing. It did something strange to Ángel, made his blood rush, the hair on his arms stand up.
“What is that?” demanded Ángel, his face hot. “Are you humming? I can almost hear it.”
The subsonic vibration briefly intensified, then died away. “It only means that I’m pleased, Ángel.”
After Oberon went into his office, Ángel took his coffee into the living room and leaned against the big picture window, taking in the view. The clouds were low and gray, blustery. He thought it was threatening rain, and as he sipped his coffee he was surprised to see a few feathery white flakes whirl past. A moment later the sky was full of snow.
Ángel nearly jumped up and down with excitement. He was not a complete stranger to snow—he’d seen dirty piles of it on the sidewalks and street corners on recording trips to Nashville, and even a few flakes now and then in Florida—but he’d never been outside in an actual snowstorm before. He went to the kitchen to leave his cup in the sink, then dashed up the stairs to his room to put on his new boots and coat. Then he went outside, tramping around the outside of the house, enjoying the cold wind on his face.
Who knew that falling snow made a noise? It was a hushed, whispery sound, the snow falling straight down from a low gray sky, landing on the crisp brown lawn. He leaned his head back and caught a flake on his tongue.
He came around the side of the house to the garage, and saw that the morning’s workers had forgotten to close the side door. They must have gone in there for tools, he thought, walking toward the building to close the door for them.
Tools. In the garage there were tools.
He stared at the tools for a moment, hugging himself, his hands tucked into his armpits for warmth. ¿De verdad, Ángel?
Yeah.
He selected the tools that seemed most likely to be useful—a small pry bar, two screwdrivers with different heads, two sizes of pliers, a hammer, some electrician’s tape—and closed the box. Stowing his treasurers in the capacious pockets of his coat—thank you, Lily Va—he walked back to the house and ran straight up to his room.
They would be watching this, of course.
Oberon. Would be watching.
Ángel shucked off his coat and laid out the tools tidily in a row on the bed. He removed his boots and climbed up onto the purple leather chair in the corner of his room. The crown molding was ornate, its whorls painted peacock-green. Concealed in the center of a stylized rose was a small hole. He examined it and spotted the shine of a camera lens. Anyone who might be watching was getting an excellent close-up of his face.
He used the pry bar to lever the molding off the wall, careful not to damage either it or the drywall. The camera had an attached microphone and was hardwired into the house’s electrical system. With a screwdriver, he unhoused the camera from its bracket, and then he used the wire cutter on the pliers to snip it free, his hands protected from shock by the rubberized grip.
The camera fell to the rug like a dead cockroach.
He took a moment to tape the ends of the wires. His father, along with being a Ponzi schemer, was an electrician, after all.
No one came in to stop him or shoot him or yell at him.
Encouraged, he pulled down all the crown molding, stowing it neatly against the wall behind the bed’s headboard. He found and disabled a second camera. Then he attacked the pink crown molding in his bathroom and found a third. This one was pointed at the shower. “Vete pa la pinga,” he gritted. His outrage probably showed on his face in the moments before he clipped its wires.
He put all three cameras on the bathroom counter and vengefully crushed them with the hammer, brushing the broken glass and plastic into the bathroom wastebasket.
Then he went to the security monitor and turned the feed to his own room. Blue screen of nothing. He turned up the volume and whistled, snapped his fingers. Nothing. He’d gotten the mikes too.
The alarm clock on the bedside table said it was seven thirty: dinnertime. He had to go down and face Oberon now.
They’d had a nice day, he and Oberon. Down in the wine cellar, eating sandwiches and chatting about the gull video. They’d talked about Mahler and Ella Fitzgerald. Vocal improvisation. “Angeleyes.” And Oberon had purred at him.
Now Oberon would be angry.
Ángel wasn’t sorry about what he’d done, but he was suddenly worried about Oberon’s anger. What his punishment would be for disobeying Oberon and destroying DOR property.
He washed his hands, dried them, and went slowly down to the kitchen, his stomach heavy with dread.
He wasn’t as afraid of Oberon as he’d been at first. The envoy’s calm demeanor, his palpable air of restraint, and even his knowledge of music had reassured him. The adrenaline-fueled terror of the first day had largely dissipated, replaced by caution. Illogical attraction, maybe.
But he’d never openly challenged Oberon before. He’d never seen Oberon really angry. What would he do?
Stop being such a fucking coward, he told himself, bracingly. The cameras were just wrong, an intolerable violation. There was one in the bathroom, for God’s sake. Ángel had a right to take a shower without being spied upon; the fact that Oberon genuinely didn’t seem to understand why didn’t change that.
Ángel went into the kitchen. Oberon was there at the island counter. Lily, who seemed to know something was up, was dishing up black bean soup. She cast him a huge-eyed glance that seemed full of worry. After putting a bowl of soup at his place, she retreated, putting on her coat and slipping out, back to the gatehouse.
Ángel stood waiting, braced for battle.
“Ángel.”
Oberon’s face was as expressionless as usual. His voice vibrated hotly, but Ángel didn’t know what that meant. Was he angry? Upset? Maybe even kind of . . . ill? His gleaming pale skin had faded to a dull beige.
“Hi,” said Ángel, and sat beside him.
“You disabled the cameras in your room.”
Taking his courage in his hands, he said, “I destroyed them. Yes. And the bathroom too.”
Oberon stirred his soup, not eating. Ángel brought a spoonful to his mouth, but he could barely swallow, his stomach was so knotted.
“And if you put them back, I’ll leave,” he added. “I can climb the wall if you shut the gates. I can walk to town.” In the snow? he thought, but didn’t say it. “You would have to hold me here by force if you put the cameras back.”
Oberon said, “Forgive me. I find that I’m not very hungry,” put down his spoon, and got up to walk away.
As he was leaving the room, Ángel nerved himself. “Oberon.”
The envoy turned his head.
Ángel said, quietly, “Please try to understand.” Had he hurt Oberon’s feelings? Sorry seemed like a stupid thing to say. “I couldn’t bear it, Oberon.”
After a pause, Oberon said, “Very well, Ángel.” The blankness of his voice, coupled with the unreadability of his expression, was unnerving. “Do you think you will be happier now?”
“I don’t know,” said Ángel. “Did I get them all?”
“You got them all,” said Oberon, and left the room.
The week that followed was extremely strained.
Ángel got up at around seven every morning and ran on the treadmill. Then he would shower, play his guitar, email Marissa, or otherwise mark time until lunch. In the afternoons he would walk around the estate—the weather had warmed, melting the snow—listen to and play music, or surf the internet and watch movies on the tablet. No porn. Chandler was undoubtedly monitoring his online activities.
The isolation was getting to him. He almost never saw Oberon. The fae would be gone from the gym by the time Ángel got there each morning, though it sometimes still smelled like him. He always took him a lunch tray. Oberon would be listening to music—Kate Bush, or B.B. King, or Handel—but he would not look at Ángel or speak to him, so Ángel would drop off the tray and leave. And Oberon never emerged from his office for dinner anymore, so Ángel ate alone.
He’d never thought that he would crave Oberon’s company before, but he’d never felt so lonely before, either. He suspected it was wearing on Oberon as well—the rich cream of his skin had washed out to a kind of fish-white. Ángel wasn’t certain what that meant, but it couldn’t be good.
He wasn’t sorry the cameras were gone. He slept on top of the bed now, rather than underneath it, but when he masturbated—which he did every night, feverishly, unable to satisfy his longing for human touch—he still did so in complete silence, buried under the covers, not trusting that no one could hear him.
Oberon didn’t invite him to his bedroom again.
“This has to stop,” said Lily in the first week of October.
“What?” said Ángel, as if he didn’t know.
She scowled at him, tiny and fierce, dumping the remains of Oberon’s lunch in the garbage with a flourish. “He’s not eating right. He’s not coming out of his office. He’s all gray and he smells weird.”
Ángel had noticed that too: Oberon didn’t smell like cinnamon anymore. Instead, there was a slightly bitter tang in the air around him. “He’s mad at me because I got rid of the cameras in my room.”
She stamped her foot. “Well, make him not mad at you anymore!”
> “How?” demanded Ángel, defensively. “I’m not sorry!”
“I don’t care if you’re sorry! You’re supposed to be helping him, not making him worse!”
Ángel glared at her. But after a moment he sat dejectedly at the counter. “I know,” he admitted. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”
“I know, but maybe you did.”
“I’m scared of him.” He ran a hand through his hair. “One time he told me he was starving to death. Is he really not eating?”
“He’s not eating very well.” She sighed, hands on hips. “He doesn’t have anyone but us, Ángel.”
“Okay. You’re right.”
“He likes sweet things. I made zucchini bread. Take him some, and make him eat it.”
Ángel took the tray with zucchini bread, butter, and tea, and went into Oberon’s office without knocking. He was surprised to hear issuing from the speakers a song he knew all too well: “Sunrise Love” by an indie country artist named Conner Marr.
The cups on the tray rattled a little—his hands were shaking. He set the tray down on Oberon’s desk to stop the clatter.
“Please tell me you’re not sending this song back to the Otherworld,” he said lightly, hiding his nervousness with a smile. He picked up a plate and sat down in one of the uncomfortable leather chairs.
“Don’t you like it?” asked Oberon.
“Not really.” Ángel nibbled a corner of zucchini bread, letting the familiar sound of Con’s voice warble through the excellent speakers. “Do you?”
The bread was sweet and moist, studded with walnuts. It was good, but it was hard to eat while he waited for Oberon to answer. He forced himself to swallow.
After a moment, Oberon said, “I like listening to you sing.”
“Hah, you read the liner notes,” guessed Ángel.
“No liner notes,” said Oberon. “This is one of the songs uploaded from your phone. I recognized your voice.”
“Are you serious?” Ángel, incredulous, glanced up from his plate to Oberon’s impassive expression. “You’re telling me you recognized my voice from this?”
