A pair of enormous, dark, dusted wings fold inward as a tall figure eases through the door. A handsome mothman’scompound red eyes glint under the fluorescents, huge and unsettling, but his voice is gentle—reedy, almost apologetic.
“Sorry. Draft caught me.”
“Jack, Vanessa’s out sick. This is Jamie Torres, one of our new junior strategists.”
“Jack Stein.” He extends a hand, one wing shifting slightly behind him as if to balance the motion.
I shake it, and unlike Magnus’s soft fur, Jack’s hand is cool and dry, with a faint, papery texture—like the crisp edge of a book page just before it turns.
Jack sets a thick file on Vanessa’s desk. His long fingers leave a faint smear of powder on the desk, like chalk dust.
“Compliance reports,” he says. “The quarterly audits came back clean, except for one… small… thing.” His voice trails off like he’s narrating a bedtime story.
I nod as if I understand. I absolutely do not.
He turns his vast eyes on me. “You’re not new.”
Something about the way he says it makes it sound less like a statement and more like a prophecy.
“Um, yeah. I am. New here, I mean. Upstairs. I was in the mailroom, but now I’m in the junior strategist program, and I’m… filling in.”
Magnus’s eyes narrow, and it hits me—maybe all those times I walked past his office thinking he hadn’t noticed… he actually had.
Jack tilts his head. “Temporary things tend to last longer than people expect.” His wings twitch once, sending a shimmer of dust across the carpet. Then, as ifrealizing he’s said too much, he adds, “Welcome upstairs.”
Before I can reply, Magnus clears his throat. “Jack. Anything we need to handle immediately?”
Jack looks between us, unreadable behind those giant eyes. “No disasters today. But don’t sit in the red chair.” He nods toward a small chair in the corner of the office I’d hardly noticed before.
Magnus frowns. “Why not?”
Jack just shrugs. “You’ll see.”
And with that, he slips out the door, leaving a trail of faint powder in his wake the custodial staff will handle.
I stare after him. “…Is he always like that?”
Magnus exhales heavily, tugging at his tie. “Yes. Unfortunately, he’s usually right, too.”
I shrug and wander toward the small chair, still unsure what in the world he could’ve meant. I lower myself onto the cushion carefully… and instantly regret it.
A booming, squeaky honk erupts beneath me, echoing through the office like a dying goose… or a substantial fart.
I shoot to my feet, horrified. “What the—? I didn’t?—!”
Magnus pinches the bridge of his nose. “Told you.”
I glare at the offending cushion, cheeks burning.
Magnus’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “Welcome to the executive floor, Torres.”
I let out a breath, shaking off my defeat at the hands of cursed office furniture, and retreat back to the desk. The papers are safer territory—the campaign, the notes, Magnus himself.
“Anyway,” I say, forcing some professionalism back into my voice, “I’m glad you’re pleased. And I’m happy to meet again. Whenever you’d like. Vanessa mentioned lots of meetings. I know securing this account is important.”
I smile, not too broadly. There’s nothing flirty about it, but Magnus jumps to his feet—suddenly brisk, almost fleeing the office.
“Tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock. Come to my office.”
