Aconessi’s office was an eidolon of order and tidiness. One of those automatic air fresheners sneezed in intervals of twenty minutes, spraying an aroma I couldn’t pinpoint over the overly-white place. Posters of different fictional universes plastered the walls, including some that depicted creatures better described as an arrangement of crystal, metal and mucus. Six of them, and my favorite was the one with the huge horns on it’s helmet-like skull: one facing forwards, one backwards. This sort of robot had four arms and strong legs, in addition to a core of white, shining quartz. It was a lateral view of the creature, and on his mechanical hand he held a ball of blue and orange fire, lighting up the darkness around, revealing a bunch of dogs. Not vile, twisted ones, no: normal, honest to the dead gods dogs. Mountain dogs, I think? Whatever, the black, white and orange, fluffy dogs. It was a hell of a weird thing to have hanging around your workplace.

  Then again, Retrievers were often hell of some weird things ourselves.

  Other things of note in the office where the plushy chairs, the three stacked portable computers on the right of his desk, the action figures representing the same characters as the ones depicted in the posters adorning shelves stacked with folders upon folders, and the LED lights covered by thick, transparent plastic domes. That last one was a beautiful display of subtly hidden information. Extravagancy alone wouldn’t warrant such a random and unusual addition. It demanded a justification, a rational one.

  To top all of this, I had been left alone in Aconessi’s office, waiting while he went on a hunt. For sugary goods and coffee. You know, his natural prey. I could snoop around to my heart’s content, but I wouldn’t: hell hath no fury like an illusionist scorned.

  The place was squeaky clean, which could indicate he partook in some sort of obsessive behavior. I had expected to find some crumbs from his last victims lying around, but no, there weren’t any to be found. The little trashcan in the corner had gotten its dark bag cared for not long ago. The right days had been checked out the bikini-girl-devoid calendar. And Aconessi didn’t come across as the sort of person that liked men, so, a calendar? Without bikini girls? In the same person who had a toy of a guy covered in belts and raising a Golden Retriever over his head like a bastard sword? Suspicious, to say the last.

  This all led me to conclude I had walked straight into the despicable lair of one of the most productive kinds of member a society has: a serial killer with extremely niche interests.

  He came in through the door without making a sound. His steps were silent, in a way so strange it came across as wrong in a fundamental level. Then it dawned upon me. “You dislike the sound of your own steps, Sir.” I said, my smile and his widening at the same time, while his eyes thinned to lines of complicity.

  “What an interesting weasel you are, Saon. Seeing through my comfort illusion that easily, those modules are serving you well.”

  “I don’t hear you walking. But.” My gaze shot upwards, as I pointed to the LED lights. “Isolated the lights. Because they buzz.” I recreated the sound with my tongue and teeth to drive the point home. “And they do so all the time. You do not walk all the time, you do not sneak on or by people constantly—keeping the illusion going requires effort—but you cannot work in total darkness, so you spared the effort of coming up with another solution, of isolating each lamp so its sound wouldn’t bother you, just like it doesn’t bother most people. So, did a miracle happen, or did I cause a concussion to the nail?”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  “Cause a concussion… Oh.” He let out a little cackle as he placed the tray with the drunks and a paper bag of cupcakes over the table. “Very neat pun, Saon. Very creative. Our father seems to be a prolific sire of peculiar minds.” He smiled without teeth, and then frowned at the sight of my grimace. “Don’t make that face, I don’t like being his son either.”

  “We are too many, with efforts too disorganized, and owe him too many kicks in the nuts.”

  “Maybe. But he keeps us alive. Only nomads could live here without the dome he created and struggles to maintain.” One of his hands went concave-convex, palm facing downwards. “Like, have you ever been out of the city? A wandering meander is no joke. What they do to the rocks, to the ground… it’s quite atrocious to see that weathering, that erosion.”

  “I once heard someone said water wishes it had the eroding power of spirit ashes.” Matter settled, I decided to forcefully stir the conversation towards a theme more of my interest. “So… are you a serial murderer or just…” I gestured at the paraphernalia all around.

  “Our father seems to be a prolific sire of peculiar minds.” He repeated, his eyebrows shooting up when he spoke the word “peculiar”.

  “I see. Well, given you are going to be my instructor in illusion magic, I think we need to settle some ground rules, then. What shouldn’t I expect from you, given you already know what you shouldn’t expect from me?” I put on my serious expression, even if the glittering scarf wasn’t helping.

  “I have an enduring and extreme aversion to certain sounds, like metal screeching against metal. It feels almost like a physical assault. I’d be grateful if you try your best to avoid them in case you notice they are making me uncomfortable. Otherwise, I’ll have to magic some silence in, and that’s not some honest way to solve our issues, Saon.” He swallowed thickly and crossed the fingers of both hands, twiddling his thumbs. “Second, don’t touch me when I am concentrated on some administrative task, it jerks me out of it. And some days I’ll be reticent to speak to you, or anybody for that matter. Don’t push the issue.”

  “I get it. I’ll engage in ‘don’t poke the fucking autist’ behavior and you in turn will engage in ‘don’t expect affection or undying loyalty from the fucking psycho’ behavior.”

  “Don’t be so crass when suggesting proposals of this kind to your superiors. I don’t mind; I understand. Others don’t.” There wasn’t a hint of harshness in his voice: either he was very good at lying, which would be expected of an illusionist, or being earnest with all of his soul. “Ah, sorry, I forgot. I got a mocha—which I’d prefer for myself—and a plain, boring, disgraceful… black coffee. You can choose either, don’t mind my preference.” He said, touching the lid of each coffee with an index, tapping it when he mentioned each drink.

  “Are they from Tobley’s?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Both taste like motor piss anyway.”

  He blinked twice, probably confused. “Motor oil or piss?”

  I tilted my head and leaned on his desk like one does when talking to a stupid child. “I think I was pretty clear. Imagine a motor with kidneys.”

  He stifled a laugh, which sounded like the death wheeze of an innocent deer. Or a guilty deer, I am not the deer judicial system. “You’ll make a fine illusionist. The muffins have a heart of caramelized milk, I bought ten, so, let’s split it five and five.”

  “When does my training start?”

  “After breakfast, of course! We have two hours and Illusionism is more about what happens here.” He tapped his head twice. “Rather than here.” He pumped his chest with his closed fist. “But, if you want a quick oral exam, tell me, how many senses does a human being have?”

  I grinned with malice. I started counting with my fingers, extending one by one of the right hand as I spoke, “That’s for me to decide…” and continuing with the ones of the left hand after exhausting the ones on the right before closing them all, “…and for them to count.”

  Aconessi did the unexpected, and let the muffin he was about to stuff himself with back in the bag with a slow movement. An arc of mercy from the whale, towards krill.

  And with the same slowness his facial features mimicked mine. “To try to count, my esteemed. To try to count. You will make an excellent illusionist, Saon Ladius.”