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“You’re a very dramatic storyteller. I don’t suppose you have an Olive Garden here in Elysium so I can get my fettuccine alfredo fix?”

He waves a hand, and a table appears a foot away from us, complete with an Olive Garden feast and two seats. “Does that work?”

The scent of hot bread and scrumptious food is too much to resist. “Yes, it does. Let’s eat.”

We switch seats, and it’s not long before I’m biting into a hot breadstick. “How is this even possible? Magic can literally make Olive Garden?”

“No, but the chef at Olive Garden can, and I claimed someone else’s meal.”

My eyes widen incredulously. “No, you did not.”

He shrugs. “They’ll make another.” He grabs a breadstick, then chuckles. “Of course I didn’t grab someone’s meal. Magic can do about anything. But that said, I don’t encourage using your magic so readily on a day-to-day basis. It’s critical we blend in with the humans, and it’s easy to slip up and get caught. You need to get comfortable with your assets, and that requires practice. You can provide dessert.”

“We’ll see about that,” I say, unwrapping the napkin from around my silverware and on a mission to learn more about him and this place, rather than me. “Does Elysium have grocery stores?”

“The house will anticipate your needs.” He digs into a bite of his pasta.

“Why are there so many seats here in the library? Do you allow public visitations? And are Nephilim living here in Elysium?”

“Each Overseer is free to use their world as they wish. They are the king. They are the law maker. They are the visionary. In my case, I want my world in its truest form, sheltered from the corruption of other beings and worlds. I allow only a few select people to visit and an even more select group to have hall passes to get in. And those who do not, do not know it exists.”

“Do other Overseers approach their worlds differently?”

“I do not know what they do with their worlds. I don’t ask. They don’t ask. Do not speak of this place to anyone. We don’t want to lose it. Ever.”

“No. Never.” I set my fork down, watching him swallow another bite—the act of eating so very human. I decide the humanity in sharing a meal is what I like about these moments with Micah.

“People, humans and Nephilim alike, have limits. Make sure you know what they are before you give them a chance to betray you.” He motions to my plate. “I slaved to make that meal. The least you can do is eat it.”

“Haha,” I say. “You are sort of funny, aren’t you?”

“Thank you,” he replies smartly, sipping his iced tea. “What else do you want to know?”

Everything about Celine, but I let it go, slightly agitated at my irrational interest in his love life. “Who gets a hall pass?”

“A few trusted warriors in my inner circle, and the only people you should trust other than me. You’ll meet them soon enough.”

I wrap pasta around my fork. “Are they old men, too?”

“Old enough to show me their characters.”

“Which is what you’re waiting for me to do, right?”

“Aren’t you doing the same with me?” he counters.

“That’s a yes,” I say, feeling the twist in my belly. “I hope you’re wrong about me.”

“I don’t,” he says. “Because I happen to believe you’re special, Ember.” His voice softens on my name, a rasp on the tip of the words I illogically feel low in my belly.

“Special, but not dangerous?”

“Oh, you’re dangerous, sweetheart, but that doesn’t make you less special.”

I’m intensely aware of the intimacy laced in the depth of those words, of the raspy way “sweetheart” has lingered on his lips. I’m also acutely aware of the implications of him confirming I’m dangerous, and I don’t allow myself to focus on anything but how I make sure I direct the power within me toward demons, not angels or humans. “The book reminds me of the Bible,” I say. “It’s hard to understand.”

“You’ll understand when you get to the right place.”

Still not really understanding his insistence on a labored, time-consuming process, I ask, “Why not just direct me to get there?”