whispers to his ears. They were watching; he knew they were. Could feel it on the back of his neck.
Ferro raised his chin in hello to his secretary, Camilla, and entered his office, the thick tome detailing the history of his kind under his arm. Fortunately, he had the Gordian Knot of the Houses well in hand. Like Alexander the Great, he held the mages at both ends of the string.
Humankind, however, was a mystery. The difference between the two races was subtle at first, as if they were parallel lines in the course of history. But a negligible divergence of trajectory forced the lines farther and farther apart. At a distance, they were clearly at cross purposes.
Therefore: There is only one world. Humanity has had its time. Now rise the mages.
Ferro dropped the history book on his desk, picked up the television remote, and seated himself.
Reality television intrigued him, this idea of looking into a house, just like the fae who looked in on his. This particular program featured twelve young people confined together, their goal to find a way out either through their ingenuity (of which they had none) or through clues they earned performing certain tasks. One million dollars was at stake, but these people seemed more interested in having sex with one another and crying at the camera.
What did this human generation, his new generation, want? How could he give it to them and take what he wanted as well?
The show was Ferro’s homework. A lesson in human nature via their entertainment. One per day to keep his sensibilities current, his mind, like his body, young. At one hundred and two, he needed it.
Some fifteen minutes into his work, a polite knock sounded at the door. His appointment. Early.
“Enter,” he said, but didn’t shift his gaze from the screen. A blond girl on the show had walked right by a concealed doorway in the mazelike house. Right there! Her gorgeous breasts were admirable. Her attention to detail, lacking. She reminded him of Gail Meallan.
“Miss Darshana Maya and her father have arrived to see you,” Ferro’s secretary said from the office doorway. “Her father brought his wraith.”
Ferro went inside himself, deep inside, and sought the umbra echo of the Grey House ward stones that protected the building from entry. He allowed the Mayas to enter, but refused the wraith, which would stink up the whole house with its decay. “The wraith will wait outside.” A moment’s thought. “And have her father wait”—the fool had caused him too much trouble—“in the library . Just send the girl in.”
“Yes, sir,” his secretary said.
On the show, a young man made himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He’d taken to wearing only swim trunks, probably in the event that he needed to use the Jacuzzi at a moment’s notice.
Shana shrieked her fear from outside the office door, and Ferro heaved a sigh.
The father bellowed to match.
And on the show, the girl with the breasts leaned her back on the concealed doorway. This was agony. Ferro willed the girl to turn around, but she struck up a conversation with the boy in the swim trunks, who was ogling her assets.
The hidden door. Was. Right. There.
“Miss Maya, sir,” Camilla said.
Ferro looked away from the TV. Shana Maya, eighteen-year-old scion of Maya House, stood two feet inside his office, body held tense as if only force would move her farther. Her gaze darted around his office—touched the windows, the grouping of comfortable chairs, the flat-screen TV to the left of his desk. There was no way out, and so her gaze came back to him.
“Do you watch Mad House ?” Ferro asked her.
Shana just stood there, white-faced. Her straight black hair had a jagged urban cut, longer in the front, short in back. She was petite, like all the Mayas, and dressed in some kind of Euro-chic jumper with too many zippers. Or were zippers the new trend? Hmm.
“ Mad House ,” Ferro repeated.
She shrugged. He couldn’t tell if that meant yes or
Ferro raised his chin in hello to his secretary, Camilla, and entered his office, the thick tome detailing the history of his kind under his arm. Fortunately, he had the Gordian Knot of the Houses well in hand. Like Alexander the Great, he held the mages at both ends of the string.
Humankind, however, was a mystery. The difference between the two races was subtle at first, as if they were parallel lines in the course of history. But a negligible divergence of trajectory forced the lines farther and farther apart. At a distance, they were clearly at cross purposes.
Therefore: There is only one world. Humanity has had its time. Now rise the mages.
Ferro dropped the history book on his desk, picked up the television remote, and seated himself.
Reality television intrigued him, this idea of looking into a house, just like the fae who looked in on his. This particular program featured twelve young people confined together, their goal to find a way out either through their ingenuity (of which they had none) or through clues they earned performing certain tasks. One million dollars was at stake, but these people seemed more interested in having sex with one another and crying at the camera.
What did this human generation, his new generation, want? How could he give it to them and take what he wanted as well?
The show was Ferro’s homework. A lesson in human nature via their entertainment. One per day to keep his sensibilities current, his mind, like his body, young. At one hundred and two, he needed it.
Some fifteen minutes into his work, a polite knock sounded at the door. His appointment. Early.
“Enter,” he said, but didn’t shift his gaze from the screen. A blond girl on the show had walked right by a concealed doorway in the mazelike house. Right there! Her gorgeous breasts were admirable. Her attention to detail, lacking. She reminded him of Gail Meallan.
“Miss Darshana Maya and her father have arrived to see you,” Ferro’s secretary said from the office doorway. “Her father brought his wraith.”
Ferro went inside himself, deep inside, and sought the umbra echo of the Grey House ward stones that protected the building from entry. He allowed the Mayas to enter, but refused the wraith, which would stink up the whole house with its decay. “The wraith will wait outside.” A moment’s thought. “And have her father wait”—the fool had caused him too much trouble—“in the library . Just send the girl in.”
“Yes, sir,” his secretary said.
On the show, a young man made himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He’d taken to wearing only swim trunks, probably in the event that he needed to use the Jacuzzi at a moment’s notice.
Shana shrieked her fear from outside the office door, and Ferro heaved a sigh.
The father bellowed to match.
And on the show, the girl with the breasts leaned her back on the concealed doorway. This was agony. Ferro willed the girl to turn around, but she struck up a conversation with the boy in the swim trunks, who was ogling her assets.
The hidden door. Was. Right. There.
“Miss Maya, sir,” Camilla said.
Ferro looked away from the TV. Shana Maya, eighteen-year-old scion of Maya House, stood two feet inside his office, body held tense as if only force would move her farther. Her gaze darted around his office—touched the windows, the grouping of comfortable chairs, the flat-screen TV to the left of his desk. There was no way out, and so her gaze came back to him.
“Do you watch Mad House ?” Ferro asked her.
Shana just stood there, white-faced. Her straight black hair had a jagged urban cut, longer in the front, short in back. She was petite, like all the Mayas, and dressed in some kind of Euro-chic jumper with too many zippers. Or were zippers the new trend? Hmm.
“ Mad House ,” Ferro repeated.
She shrugged. He couldn’t tell if that meant yes or
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