Sunday dawned with the smell of lemon pie. Mortyss and I left the pocket dimension at nine in the morning, took the black Mercedes he insisted on calling “discreet” (it wasn’t), and crossed the gate of the Rockefeller mansion at ten sharp. Before we even parked, you could already smell the citrus aroma floating in the air like an invitation. "Celeste is making the pie." I commented, adjusting the dark blue dress I’d chosen for the occasion. It was a simple, demure model that covered the bite mark on my neck. I’d learned to choose clothes that didn’t invite questions. "She always makes lemon pie on Sundays." Mortyss turned off the engine and looked at me. His eyes were brown, the human disguise in place. No horns, no tail, no golden skin. Just Christopher Rockefeller, billionaire heir, with his gray blazer and his slightly bored air. "It’s a tradition. Like the whiskey William never drinks and Victoria’s indiscreet questions." "I like the indiscreet questions." "You like the
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