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Anna’s blood started to boil.

Jorge had left the theater. She could tell by sniffing the air when she dropped in the open window: his scent was faded, dissipating in the musty room. She stared around her, picking out, in the dark, all the details Mortal eyes would have needed assistance to see. What was it about this place, Il Pasquino? Why had Jorge chosen to hide here? Dust, mold, and spiderwebs; torn curtains and bubbling plaster. Another object once valuable, now discarded, discounted, by myopic Mortals, who found no worth in what they couldn’t use right that instant. This had been a beautiful place once, she could tell, before it was chopped up, then closed and allowed to rot. Sleek, art deco lines, comfortable, wooden-armed seats, even a retractable roof. A place to relax and be transported to someone else’s fantasy, where you’d be safe for an hour or two.

Maybe, after she and her followers were successful and Noantri rule was established over a peaceful—a pacified—world, she’d reopen this theater. She’d name it after Jorge, she thought, smiling. L’Ocampo. He’d like that.

Too bad he wouldn’t be around to see it.