Monday morning, Evelyn spent longer in front of the mirror than he had intended. Not because he was trying to impress Mr. Johnson.

It was his first day at work. Naturally, he ought to look neat and professional. A dark navy suit, white shirt, and restrained gray tie suited the purpose considerably better than anything else in his wardrobe. The fact that the suit emphasized his waist and fit perfectly across the shoulders was merely an incidental advantage.

Evelyn redid the knot of his tie twice, arranged his hair, checked his watch, and only then allowed himself to step away from the mirror.

On the way to the agency, he methodically assured himself that his previous reaction had been exaggerated.

Three days had passed. He had calmed down, slept properly, and recovered his ability to think. Surely Mr. Johnson would now seem like nothing more than an attractive monster of unusual height.

The first time, Evelyn might have been affected by exhaustion, interview nerves, and the thick damp evening air the wind had pushed in from the Kerro. Perhaps fumes from the old city collectors had seeped into the office. Or an unregistered artifact nearby had caused temporary impairment of judgment.

The artifact explanation seemed especially convincing.

This time Evelyn would walk in, look at his future boss with fresh eyes, and discover there was nothing extraordinary about him.

He climbed the familiar steps and pushed open the agency's heavy door.

Voices came from reception.

"Ollie, brevity makes the insurance company's job easier," he heard a calm, low voice say with a faintly instructive note.

"No. Brevity makes Phelps call us at seven in the morning."

Evelyn stepped inside.

Oliver stood behind his desk with the phone receiver in one hand and a crumpled sheet of paper in the other. Mr. Johnson was by the window, fastening the cuff of a snow-white shirt.

He wore a dark three-piece suit. Black hair had been combed flawlessly back. Morning light slid over high cheekbones, emphasized the unnatural smoothness of pale skin, and caught in eyes almost entirely filled with black. He raised his head and looked at Evelyn.

Evelyn groaned inwardly.

No.

He had not imagined it.

He had not hallucinated it.

No wind off the river could possibly have blown such a perfect monster into his head.

If anything, Mr. Johnson looked even better in the morning. Now Evelyn could see him in full daylight and confirm with absolute certainty that nature had shown outrageous generosity where this creature was concerned.

"Good morning, Mr. Gilmore," Mr. Johnson said.

"Good morning."

Evelyn was mildly surprised by how steady his own voice sounded.

Mr. Johnson glanced at the clock.

"You're seven minutes early."

"I prefer not to be late on my first day."

"Only the first?"

"On the others, I intend to arrive so precisely on time that it won't deserve separate discussion."

The familiar half-smile flickered across pale lips.

"Sensible."

Ollie put the receiver back down.

"Phelps is calling again in ten minutes."

"Then you have nine to block the number," Mr. Johnson said.

"He knows the address."

"Unfortunate."

Mr. Johnson came closer, and Evelyn was once again confronted with his true height — the physical presence of that enormous body forcing him to tip his head back.

"Your trial period will run through the end of the week," he said. "You'll work with the archive, intake documentation, and public registries. You'll come with us on field visits when necessary. Everything you see in client files stays inside the agency. If you don't know something, ask. If you think we're wrong, say so immediately, not after the mistake gets someone killed."

Evelyn nodded.

"Encouraging start."

"I prefer to establish possible consequences in advance."

"Then establish the probability of being killed during the first week."

"Low."

Evelyn raised an eyebrow.

"But not zero?"

"A zero probability usually indicates insufficient information."

Unfortunately, that was entirely fair. Mr. Johnson — his boss now, more accurately — held out a hand.

"Glad to have you with us, Mr. Gilmore."

Evelyn looked at his palm.

It was large. Considerably larger than Evelyn's own, with long, strong fingers. A narrow strip of pale wrist showed beneath the perfectly fitted cuff.

A perfectly ordinary handshake. All Evelyn had to do was extend his hand, squeeze the other man's fingers once, and let go. He had successfully performed this operation thousands of times.

He put his hand in Marcus's.

The skin held a faint coolness. Not unpleasantly cold — merely missing the ordinary human warmth Evelyn expected from skin. The fingers closed around his with confidence but care, as though his boss knew his own strength perfectly well and never used more of it than necessary.

A thrilling shiver ran up Evelyn's arm.

For one insane instant, he wanted not to break the contact. To catch the other wrist, run his thumb over smooth skin, slip beneath the cuff, and find out whether the rest of his boss was just as deliciously cool.

Worse, Evelyn seemed to be staring far too openly at their joined hands.

He forced himself to look up.

His boss was watching him. Black eyes had narrowed slightly. One corner of the broad mouth had lifted by the smallest degree.

He knew. Of course he knew.

Heat flooded Evelyn's face and reached his ears. Nevertheless, he kept his expression composed, held the handshake for exactly as long as manners required, and only then released the other hand.

"Likewise, Mr. Johnson."

"I'm sure."

Nothing in the boss's voice suggested anything except ordinary calm.

That was somehow worse.

Ollie came over next and offered his hand.

"Reminder: Oliver Burke. But you can just call me Ollie."

His handshake was warm, quick, and inspired absolutely no desire in Evelyn to investigate his wrist. Encouraging.

"Then Evelyn, if that's easier."

Ollie nodded.

"Works for me."

Meanwhile, the boss took a long black overcoat from the rack. Evelyn had known in advance it would look perfect on him. This did not prevent a fresh sense of personal offense when the heavy fabric settled over broad shoulders, lengthened the silhouette, and turned Mr. Johnson into a living illustration from a particularly indecent noir novel.

The boss fastened one button and picked up a pair of leather gloves from the desk.

"I'm going to see Harvey."

"Again?" Ollie asked. "You were there Saturday."

"On Saturday, he claimed the materials I need don't exist."

"And today?"

"Today I intend to give him an opportunity to revise that answer."

Ollie sighed.

"Should I tell Phelps you're at the police station?"

"Under no circumstances. He'll think I'm filing an insurance claim and get excited."

He was already at the door when he turned back to Ollie.

"Show Mr. Gilmore the office, the archive, and the storage rules. Explain which boxes he isn't allowed to open without me."

"Which ones can he open?"

"The ones that don't say he can't."

"Half of them don't say anything."

"Use common sense."

The door closed safely behind the boss.

"Common sense left this place a long time ago," Ollie muttered, waving Evelyn along. "You have no idea how glad I am you're here. And one more thing: don't take it personally if the boss starts teasing you. He's just..."

Ollie paused, searching for the right word.

"Perfection?" Evelyn supplied with complete seriousness.

Ollie blinked. Only after catching the brief confusion in those almost colorless eyes did Evelyn realize what he had actually said aloud. Natural self-control helped him preserve an impassive expression. It also prevented him from immediately putting his head into the wastebasket they happened to be passing.

"Particular," Ollie finished with a snort. Apparently he had decided to treat Evelyn's answer as a joke. "Anyway, come on."