The Alastor House meeting hall was on the twenty-ninth floor, one floor below Rhea’s office, and was — Adrián discovered upon entering — the kind of hall one only saw in movies about old Italian families or in catalogs of converted European castle architecture.
Vaulted ceilings. Black marble floor with gold veins. A round dark wood table in the center, the exact diameter of a small swimming pool, with sixteen high-backed chairs arranged around it. On the table, a silver candelabra with sixteen lit candles — one for each seat — and a deck of Tarot cards in the center, face down, with the black and gold back that Adrián already recognized.
Portraits of Alastor ancestors on the walls. An enormous floor-to-ceiling window at the far end, with the city lights shining below like an inverted sea of stars.
And fifteen people already seated around the table.
All looking at the door.
All looking at him.
Adrián stood in the doorway with one hand still resting on the doorframe, feeling his body trying, without success, to decide whether to walk in normally, walk in with forced dignity, or just turn around and go back to his human apartment where his worst problem was paying the rent.
"Vega."
Rhea’s voice came from the far end of the table. She was sitting in the only chair slightly taller than the others, her black dress from the morning exchanged for a wine-red sleeveless, high-necked dress, her hair pulled up in an elegant bun, and a glass — naturally — of red wine in her hand.
She gestured with two fingers.
"Come."
Adrián breathed.
He walked.
He could hear every one of his own steps on the marble. He could also hear — thanks to the enhanced senses he still didn’t know how to turn off — the breathing of each of the fifteen present. Some were slow. Others fast. One made an irregular sound with each exhalation, as if there were a structural problem with their lung. Two weren’t breathing at all. Adrián decided, for the fifteenth time in twenty-four hours, not to question things.
He reached the empty chair to Rhea’s right.
The adjacent chair — to Adrián’s right, then — was already occupied by Ishtar. She smiled at him around her lollipop with the exact satisfaction of a little sister watching her new brother being thrown into the lion’s den.
"Bro-in-law," she murmured. "Smile. Look good."
"Shut up."
"I’m trying to help you."
"Shut up."
Adrián sat down. Looked at Rhea. Rhea smiled at him very faintly, almost imperceptibly, with a warmth that was probably reserved for the five people in the world to whom she showed visible warmth.
"Welcome," said Rhea, in a clear voice, addressing the whole table. "Today we officially incorporate Adrián Vega into the deck. Bearer of The Fool. Reincarnated last night. As is tradition, today he meets the rest of the entourage. As is tradition, you introduce yourselves one by one. As is tradition, you behave."
A short, feminine laugh sounded from somewhere to the left of the table.
Rhea turned her head without looking up.
"Lira. Before you start. No."
"I didn’t say anything, mistress," responded a voice, and it was — Adrián noticed with a very conscious part of his brain — the strangest voice he’d ever heard in his life. Melodious, sweet, measured, with a tone that was half monastic calm and half contained laughter. It was impossible not to turn his head to see who it came from.
Adrián turned his head.
And for the second time in twenty-four hours, he forgot to breathe for half a second.
The woman who had spoken was sitting three seats to the left. Very long black hair falling to her hips, with violet highlights that only showed when the candelabra’s light hit it at a certain angle. Dark violet eyes, almost black, with an inner intensity that made it hard to maintain eye contact for too long. A modernized black kimono with side slits that revealed a lot, a lot of thigh. A small mole at the base of her neck, just above her collarbone. Serene smile.
She was looking at him.
Directly.
Without blinking.
"Ufufu~" she said, her sweet smile widening in a way that wasn’t entirely sweet. "How young he is. How tender. What a waste of a pretty face to carry the most pat—"
"Lira," Rhea repeated, sharper.
"Oh, mistress, let the new addition meet his family. I’m being affectionate."
"You’re being yourself."
"Same thing."
Rhea sighed. Drank wine.
"We’ll start from the left," she announced to the rest of the table. "Be brief. Adrián won’t remember everyone’s names today. It’s too much information for one day."
The fifteen members of the entourage began introducing themselves one by one, around the table. Adrián tried to memorize. He successfully registered approximately four of the fifteen names.
A short woman with white hair and pink eyes, with a barely audible voice: Rhoswen Aine, The High Priestess. She specialized in barriers. She didn’t look at him.
A short man, as wide as a wardrobe, with a braided black beard: Thane Cross, The Tower. Destruction. He gave a brusque nod. His voice was deep as an avalanche.
A tall, very pale woman with ice-colored eyes: Nikita Volkov, The Hanged Man. Sacrifice and healing magic. She smiled without showing her teeth. It was worse than a frown.
Then came six names in a row that Adrián completely lost because his brain was trying to decide what category of danger each of these beings represented and didn’t have capacity left for auditory memory.
Then came Lira’s turn.
She didn’t stand up. Didn’t bow. Didn’t make any formal gesture. She simply rested her chin on the palm of her hand, turned her head to look at him with that serene, penetrating smile, and said:
"Lira Vex. The Moon. Fifth strongest at this table, though on a full moon I could argue with third. A pleasure to meet you, darling~"
Adrián nodded slowly.
"A... pleasure."
"Ufufu~ so formal. We’ll fix that soon."
"Lira," said Rhea from the head of the table, without even looking at her. "Behave."
"Mistress, I’m sitting. In a chair. At the meeting. What more do you want from me?"
"For you not to eat him alive before the first week."
"Oh, mistress. I never eat. I only taste."
Ishtar, next to Adrián, snorted audibly through her nose. Adrián didn’t know if it was laughter or disdain. With Ishtar, it was impossible to tell.
After Lira, the introductions continued.
Two more members Adrián failed to memorize.
And then he reached the seat immediately to the left of the head. The most important seat after Rhea’s. The seat that — Adrián understood in a flash when he saw who occupied it — belonged to the second-in-command.
A man.
Tall. Very tall. Adrián estimated him at nearly two meters even sitting down. A full-weight boxer’s build, broad shoulders, thick neck. Short blond hair combed back with two strands falling over his forehead. Electric blue eyes. A vertical scar from his left eyebrow to his cheekbone. Formal black shirt with the first buttons open, revealing part of a complex tattoo on his neck. Small gold earrings. A ring on his right thumb.
He wasn’t looking at Adrián.
He was looking at his own glass. With an expression of profound boredom. As if this meeting were personally insulting him.
When it was his turn, he didn’t speak immediately.
Finished drinking. Ran his thumb along the rim of his glass. Looked up.
And his electric blue eyes locked onto Adrián with the exact clinical indifference of a butcher evaluating a pig.
"Kael Vandragh," he said, in a deep, drawling voice. "The Emperor. Second-in-command of this house. And personally against this specific reincarnation."
Silence in the hall.
Rhea, at the head of the table, didn’t look surprised. She drank wine.
"Kael," she said, patiently. "It’s his first day."
"Mistress, with all due respect" — Kael didn’t take his eyes off Adrián — "you just brought to this table a freshly dead human brat who carries the card with the least military utility in the deck. I can behave during introductions. I can give a formal welcome. I can toast. What I can’t do is pretend this is a sensible decision when this house has been losing ground to the Malachai and the Vex for a year, and instead of recruiting muscle, you decide to fill empty seats with... this."
Adrián felt Ishtar tense beside him.
He also felt the temperature in the hall drop two degrees — or at least the perception of temperature dropped, because something in the room’s energy contracted suddenly.
Rhea set her glass down on the table very slowly.
"Kael."
"Yes, mistress?"
"You’re going to moderate your tone."
"Mistress, I spoke with formal respect."
"You’re going to moderate your tone."
Silence.
Kael held Rhea’s gaze for three seconds. Then he lowered his eyes — a fraction, barely, a minimal concession — and looked at Adrián again.
"Welcome to the Alastor house, bearer of The Fool," he said, and the words came out with the exact neutrality of a threat wrapped in courtesy. "It’ll be a pleasure watching you work."
Adrián held his gaze.
Okay. That’s the one who’s going to bully me.
Noted.
Next to Kael, someone else spoke.
"Silvano Marchetti. The Hermit."
The voice was very different. Soft, measured, almost tired in a warm way. The voice of someone who had lived so long they no longer felt the need to raise their volume to be heard.
Adrián turned his head.
The man who’d spoken was completely different from Kael. Thin. Short graying hair. Well-trimmed short beard. Calm gray eyes behind round glasses he’d put on to read something before the meeting and hadn’t taken off. He wore a wool vest over a white shirt. An antique ring on his right pinky.
He looked like a university professor. Like the kind of man one would expect to find in a library, not at a meeting of demons.
He was looking at Adrián with attention, but without aggression. With genuine curiosity. And with something else, something Adrián didn’t quite identify in the moment but that — he would later discover — was recognition.
"Welcome, boy," said Silvano. "I hope the house treats you well. And if you need explanations for anything Rhea or Ishtar consider ’obvious,’ come to my library. I have more patience."
Adrián nodded.
It was the first greeting in the hall that didn’t put his stomach on edge.
"Thank you."
"You’re welcome."
Silvano went back to looking at something on the table. Adrián noticed it was a small book, face-down and open. The man had been reading throughout the entire meeting.
After Silvano, the rest of the introductions were quick. Adrián stopped trying to memorize.
The other twelve could wait.
When the introductions finished, Rhea stood up.
"Good," she said. "Now that everyone knows each other, we proceed to the second item on the agenda."
Everyone present straightened slightly. Adrián noticed the shift in the atmosphere — until then the meeting had the tension of a formal ritual, and now it had the tension of a functional ritual. Something was about to happen.
"Tonight, Adrián will receive his first human contract," Rhea announced. "It’s tradition. Every reincarnate must prove before dawn of the second day that they can complete a basic contract. Regardless of their card. Regardless of their affinity. It’s the minimum test of usefulness."
Kael, from his seat, snorted very softly. Rhea ignored him.
"The contract will be assigned by lot, as is custom. Lira, the box."
Lira Vex rose with the liquid fluidity of a cat, walked to a cabinet on the far wall, and returned with a small black lacquered wooden box, the size of a jewelry box. She placed it on the table in front of Rhea.
Rhea opened the box. Inside were dozens of small rolled parchments, each tied with red thread.
"Each of these parchments is a pending human request," Rhea explained, addressing Adrián specifically. "Humans who invoked our house through ancestral contracts, family marks, or ancient rituals. Each request was previously vetted by administrative services. None are dangerous. All are suitable for a new reincarnate."
She reached into the box. Stirred the parchments with her fingers, mixing them.
Pulled one out.
Untied it.
Read it in silence.
Her expression changed very slightly. Just a tiny crease between her brows, very faint.
"Hmm," she said.
"What?" Ishtar asked, already leaning over the table with curiosity.
"It’s a standard human contract. But it’s in a slightly..." Rhea searched for the word. "Interesting area. Vega, do you know Ferrer Street, in the university district?"
Adrián nodded slowly.
"It’s near my apartment. Like five blocks away."
"Perfect. Familiar to you. Good news."
"And the bad news?"
Rhea lifted the parchment. Read it again. Then spoke with the calculated neutrality of a director giving business instructions:
"The human’s name is Nikolás Ríos. Forty-two years old. History teacher at a private school. He’s requesting our help to find someone."
"...who?"
Rhea looked him in the eyes.
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