And right as Ari steps out the door, the tips of his fingers start to tingle.
By the time they arrive at the top of a hill overlooking Angel City and stop before the front gates of the Getty, the most well-endowed museum in the world, Ari’s senses are heightened and the world around him seems clearer than he’s ever known it. Everything makes more sense; he is feeling more himself than he has ever felt before. He stares at his hands, turning them over and over, as if searching for physical evidence of the change. When he looks at himself in the rearview mirror, he still recognizes himself—the makeup artist and the hairstylist and the designer have done their jobs well—but there is something else, an intangible factor that he can’t quite put his finger on, a new gleam in his gaze that makes him feel like he is someone else.
Someone better.
The Getty is not usually open this late, but tonight there is a charity art auction, and massive installations of flowers greet guests at the front steps. Ari follows Mr. Rudra as the man guides them through the crowd. People stop when they recognize him, smile and exchange niceties.
Then they see Ari.
Eyes have followed Ari his entire life—but tonight, they pinpoint him with a degree of fascination and attention that he has never experienced before. As they head up the steps, he can feel the stares follow him in a wave. He can hear whispers as he passes. He can sense the shift of bodies in his direction, drawn to him in a way that makes him feel like he is walking through a dream.
Anxiety builds in his chest, his shyness sharper tonight than usual.
But at his expression, Mr. Rudra gives him a knowing smile. “Tonight will feel strange,” he says. “But I promise you, it will also feel like the kind of night that you were always meant to have.”
And Ari, strangely, understands exactly what the man means. He feels himself return Mr. Rudra’s smile with a genuine one of his own, then turn that smile to the next person they greet. The shyness in his heart still roils, but words come easily to him regardless, phrases perfectly formed. Something he says has just the right amount of wit and charm, and the person they’re speaking to laughs loudly. A woman in the next cluster of guests asks Ari endless questions about where he comes from, how he is enjoying the evening. Ari responds without effort. Another woman smiles at him, her eyes dilating at the sight of him, touches his arm, her fingers lingering. She comments on his eyes, and he thanks her politely. He has never performed this well in a crowd. His skin tingles pleasantly. His mind is warm, his thoughts quick. He is somehow both anxious and enjoying the attention.
What was it that Mr. Rudra had once told him?
Everyone is drawn to a strong soul. It pulls, and people look. Some like to call it charisma.
Charisma, enhanced by sand into something nearly magical.
Eventually, they head out through glass doors into the Getty’s sprawling central courtyard. The wind streams Ari’s coat behind him. Tonight, the trees lining the central fountain are all wrapped in shimmering lights, and chandeliers hang suspended on wires overhead, casting kaleidoscopes oflight and shadow against the ground. Beyond, Angel City lies in a twinkling cityscape along the horizon. From here, the place looks serene, the land breathing silently around the concrete.
At last, they reach the end of the courtyard, where the landscape slopes down into a circular garden. A crowd is mingling there around a man with a neat black beard.
Eight years of education in the dark—immersed in academics, in the basics of alchemy—before Ari has been allowed into Alexander Reed’s presence, to understand the bigger picture of why he is here. And yet, in this moment, he feels like he is underprepared. His hand brushes against the chain at his collar, sweat turning his palms clammy, and he inspects the rest of the crowd. He spots Isla, resplendent tonight in a sleek sapphire dress that shows off her legs. The sight of her familiar face gives him some courage.
“You’re ready,” Mr. Rudra tells him. “Or you’ll never be ready.”
Stares fixate on Ari as they descend through the garden’s circles to the center, where they stop before Mr. Reed. While Mr. Rudra has always looked imposing to Ari, he now seems to hunch in the other man’s presence, his entire body turning smaller and tenser, as if a wolf greeting his alpha. Ari has never seen Mr. Rudra defer to anyone before, and the sight alarms him.
Mr. Reed’s eyes are calm and professional, but something wild and unpredictable flickers behind the veneer of business etiquette. A promise of violence.
“So,” the man says. “This is the boy?”
“Yes, sir,” Mr. Rudra replies.
“You’ve kept me waiting on this one,” Mr. Reed says, still addressing Mr. Rudra even as he studies Ari. “How is his progress?”
“Slow, at first.” Mr. Rudra looks at Ari. “But that’s to be expected, with one like this.”
“Like what?”
“His soul. You’ll see what I mean.”
Mr. Reed doesn’t look convinced. He studies Ari again, and Ari allows him to stare, lets himself stare back. The man is tall and lean, cheekbones sharp above his neatly trimmed beard, glasses round, features refined. There is a slight hunch to his back, but if it is a weakness, it doesn’t come across as such.
“Well,” the man says, and for the first time, he’s addressing Ari directly. The entire crowd is staring at him now. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”
Mr. Rudra leads the way. Most of the crowd stays behind, but Isla comes along. They leave the garden and head toward a quiet corner where the east and south pavilions overlook the valley of the city.
Here, nestled in the corridor between the two buildings, in a space carved overhead by lines of stone connecting the two buildings, is a serene pool of water dotted with a few boulders. A lattice of quivering light dances against the walls.
Mr. Reed stops and folds his hands behind his back, says nothing. Isla does the same beside him. Ari focuses on the fox pin on the man’s lapel.
“Come here,” Mr. Reed says to Isla.
