Lightning flashed on cue, illuminating her from behind as she stepped into the room. Her eyes met mine, and I deployed my most enigmatic smile.
"Ms. Davenport," I purred, pushing just enough power into my voice to make the crystal chandeliers resonate sympathetically. "Welcome to my home."
She nodded briskly. "Malrik. Thank you for accommodating this site visit." Then, without further acknowledgment of my carefully orchestrated greeting, she turned her attention to the ballroom itself. "These chandeliers are hung too low for optimal guest flow. The floor shows significant scuffing that will reflect poorly under dramatic lighting."
I blinked. Had she just... critiqued my ballroom? My perfect, atmospheric, enhanced ballroom?
The hellhound pup chose that moment to bound into the room, skidding across the apparently "significantly scuffed" floor before coming to a halt at Charlie's feet. Instead of recoiling in terror from the creature that could grow to devour souls, she simply reached down and, to my utter disbelief, scratched him behind the ears. The traitorous beast flopped onto its back, panting happily.
"This draft," she made a note, "will be problematic for any flame elements in your performance."
"Perhaps I could demonstrate why Ashcliff is uniquely suited to my performances," I said, pushing away from the piano.
Without waiting for her response, I summoned my power. Fire bloomed from my fingertips, spiraling upward in patterns and symbols. I directed the flames to encircle us both, creating a sphere of crimson light with Charlie and me at its center. The temperature rose, not enough to burn but sufficient to remind any mortal of their fragile existence.
Charlie glanced up from her notes. "Is this heat level consistent throughout the performance? We'll need to adjust the floral arrangements accordingly. Perhaps succulents instead of traditional arrangements."
"What?" I said as I turned to her. Then something slipped in my concentration. The swirling energy, usually under my perfect control, wavered. A tendril of crimson fire separated from the pattern, drawn toward Charlie like a compass needle finding north.
I tried to pull it back, but too late. The energy connected with her. Just for an instant, barely a touch. Yet in that moment, I felt something unprecedented: a piece of my power detaching, flowing from me to her like water seeking its level.
Our eyes met, and for a moment, I saw my own crimson fire reflected in her eyes. Demonic energy where there should have been only blue. A connection formed between us, gossamer-thin but unmistakable.
Above us, the grand chandelier shuddered as my control faltered, crystals tinkling ominously. Charlie looked up, saw the danger, and raised her hand instinctively. A faint crimson glow. My power. It emanated from her fingers, steadying the fixture.
No mortal had ever taken my power. Not a flicker, not a spark, not a whisper. Such a thing should have been impossible.
The light faded from her fingers. She looked at her hand with a slight frown, then back at me with mounting alarm. "What was that? What did you just do to me?"
"A minor energy glitch," I explained, my voice remarkably steady considering the impossibility of what had just occurred. "Sometimes when I demonstrate my abilities, there can be a small... spillover effect."
"Spillover effect?" She flexed her fingers experimentally, expression shifting from confusion to growing anger. "I felt something pass through me. Did you just... did you try to possess me?"
"Nothing so crude as possession," I assured her, genuinely offended by the accusation. "It's temporary. A brief resonance that will dissipate within a few days. Like static electricity, but with a touch more... brimstone."
Behind Charlie, Paz's eyes had grown wide with horror. He clutched his chest, mouthing a word that looked suspiciously like "catastrophic."
"You transferred some kind of demonic energy to me?" Her voice remained level, but I could see fury building in her eyes.
"It was completely unintentional," I said, which was true. "And as I said, absolutely temporary."
"Are there any side effects I should be aware of? And don't say 'nothing significant' or I swear I will walk out that door and blacklist you from every venue in the region."
"You might notice small environmental responses. Lights flickering, minor temperature fluctuations. Perhaps the occasional object moving without being touched. All perfectlyharmless," I repeated, still confident in my assessment. "Think of it as a brief round of static cling."
She took a deep breath, clearly considering whether to terminate our professional relationship on the spot. "Okay, static cling. I can deal with that. Give me a minute to process what just happened and you'll be responsible for any damages resulting from this... incident."
"Of course," I agreed quickly. She closed her eyes briefly, squared her shoulders, and when she looked at me again the mask of professionalism was firmly back in place. Most mortals would have been trembling, bargaining, begging. Not Charlie Davenport.
She methodically smoothed her jacket, reset her posture. The crisis, as far as she was concerned, was now managed.
"Shall we continue the tour? I'd like to see the adjoining rooms to assess flow and capacity."
"Right this way."
For the next hour, I escorted Charlie through Ashcliff's many rooms. She maintained her professional demeanor, making notes about acoustics and sight lines, measuring doorways, and assessing electrical outlets with a thoroughness that would have impressed medieval inquisitors.
But I noticed something else as we walked. When she expressed mild disapproval of the dining room's dim lighting, the candelabra brightened slightly. When she commented that the library seemed cold, the fireplace flames leapt higher for a moment. My power, working through her unconsciously, responding to her emotions in subtle ways she didn't even notice.
