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O-fucking-kay.

Allof them. Larch. Lilian the waitress. “The customers?”

“Yes.”

“The performances?” I yelp.

“Yes.”

I’m running through the whole list in my head, until one name snags me. “Lysander?”

Syril smirks, which apparently dryads can do. Who knew? Not me. “Lysander is a fairy.”

I straighten. “Like a little guy with wings?”

“Little? Perhaps if you’re a dragon.”

A dragon.I have to shut my eyes. Looking at Syril’s face — their real face — is making me dizzy. With shaking hands, I lift the amulet over my head. When I open my eyes again, thank god, the truth is hidden.

But I’m not stupid enough to think it’s gone.

I hold the amulet out to Syril, but they reach out and close my fingers around it. “You have three days to choose.”

I don’t understand. Then I do. My heart sinks.

“You don’t want me to stay if I can’t wear the amulet.”

“I want to open our world, Ezra. But I need humans who can handle it. Who embrace the different, the in-between, the weird and beautiful truths.” They release my hand. I can feel their skin under the illusion, rough and warm.

I want to tell them not to let random humans put the amulet on. I want to say I know people who would rip open a beautiful truth and smear it into nothing. I wonder, very briefly, if they chose mebecauseof my record. Because I’m alone.

My fist clenches around the gem so hard it digs into my palm. I’m not that kind of person. I don’t believe — can’t believe — that all this has been a lie to lure me in and somehow… use me. Besides, I’m just not that important.

I believe what Syril told me. They want to integrate, and I’ve somehow been judged trustworthy.

It’s a terrifying thought.

The look Plato gives me when I come out of the back room is sympathetic. What kind of monster ishe? God, I want to know. I also desperately want to pretend it’s not true. I put my apron on. The amulet is heavy in my pocket.

“Have you prepped the fridge?” I ask him brightly.

He takes it in stride. “Nah, left that for you. For a guy who can’t cook for shit, you sure like chopping.”

“It’s meditative.” I take the knife down. “Also, I hate the dishwasher.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I gathered.”

The glasses rattle as Plato slides them into their home. He whistles to the Mariah Carey song drifting over the speakers. My thoughts bounce like ice in a shaker. Do I ask about it? I get the feeling that would be rude, like going into a gay bar and asking the nearest guy whether he enjoys rimjobs.

Does everyone agree with Syril? Obviously Syril is in charge at The Sanctum, but they said ‘and more’.That implies there are monsters out there who have nothing to do with this place. Plus, I know from experience that just because the boss’s word is law doesn’t mean the rest of the crew won’t find ways to express their own opinions. I’ve run afoul of more than one job that way.

“You okay?” Plato’s voice cuts through the din of my inner monologue and I jump.

“Fine! Fine.” The half lime slowly oozes juice under my too-tight grip. I quickly slice it into wedges.

“Are you planning to stay?”

He sounds uncertain. I look up finally. Without the amulet, Plato just looks like a big, muscle-bound gym bunny. His big brown eyes are sweet, even though his nose looks like it’s beenbroken several times. For the first time, I notice the thread of chain around his neck that disappears into his t-shirt.