Maybe I overdid it. I check myself in the reflection of a car window, adjusting a tuft of hair: I'm wearing one of my best shirts, black, with a Mandarin collar and short sleeves, buttoned all the way up—yes, even in this heat. With my classiest beige shorts, of course. Hoping not to look too "polished," I went with leather flip-flops, a fisherman's hat, and a pair of sunglasses, but the outfit still screams: "Hey sexy, I'm ready for the aperitivo*."
I glance toward the bar: the place is already packed at this hour, voices overlapping, ice-filled glasses clinking nonstop. But no sign of Fiore.
Where could he be?
"Hey, sexy," his voice floats from behind. "Ready for the aperitivo?"
Does he read minds? I flush for a second, embarrassed, but firing back quickly is my specialty, so I shoot: "You wish. Come on, let's order—I'm starving."
"Aw, someone's feeling feisty today! Oh, and FYI, I'm visible now. So you don't look like you're talking to yourself like a lunatic."
"Oh, because that was even a possibility?" I glance at him sideways.
We order a couple of sandwiches and some cicchetti** each, plus two Spritz, and settle at a small table under one of the big trees in front of the bar.
Even though we're along the Bacchiglione River, which cuts Padua almost in half, and the greenery is lush, the sun is merciless, and all around, the cicadas are shrieking relentlessly.
I keep my sunglasses on for a moment longer, so I can watch Fiore without looking like a creep.
He's radiant today, too. You'd never guess he faced off against a demon less than twelve hours ago. Short-sleeve crop top teasingly showing off his six-pack, ripped jeans at the knees, sneakers on his feet, and a crossbody bag slung over his shoulder. No denying it—he's got style.
Watching him messes with me: he draws me in—not just because he's objectively hot, but because I actually want to know him. But every fiber of me is on alert, like I'm permanently wired. I don't know if I can trust him. But maybe I could try. I'm torn. Better to proceed cautiously, in any case.
Still, every time I look at him, my caution ignites like a firecracker.
"Okay, can we talk about yesterday for a minute…" I finally take off my sunglasses.
"Sure."
The waitress sets down our order, but her eyes are glued to Fiore; she makes no effort to hide it. He thanks her with a dazzling smile and a cheeky wink.
"I'm having a hard time processing all of this," I continue, clearing my throat.
"I get it. That's a lot to piece together," Fiore says, mouth full of prosciutto and mushrooms.
"Start from the beginning again, please."
He swallows, then begins calmly:
"The Fantastic World—the one of folklore—and the Real World are separated by a very thin Veil. Invisible, at least to most people. Only a few can catch a glimpse of what lies beyond. They're called Intuitives."
I lean forward slightly, focused, not wanting to miss a single word. Trying to connect the dots. To make sense of it all.
Fiore continues: the Fantastic Creatures are disappearing, victims of increasingly frequent demon attacks. Demons usually live on another dimensional plane, but now and then, throughout history, they manage to cross into ours; usually by accident, through portals or botched summoning rituals.
But now… something has changed.
They show up with a method. With strategy. They're organized.
Someone, somewhere, is summoning them for a specific purpose. And the Fantastic Creatures seem to be at the top of the blacklist.
Dark.
I signal the waitress for another round of drinks. Definitely needed.
"And that laser beam from my hands?" I ask, staring at my palm like it could explain itself. "What does it mean? I'm anxious I'll incinerate my neighbor by accident."
"As I told you yesterday… I don't know. It's something I've never seen before."
"An Intuitive power?"
"Not that I know of. Usually, Intuitives have psychic stuff: channeling, precognition, clairvoyance… that kind of thing. But laser beams from your hands? Never in my life."
I stare at him.
Barely over twenty.
Probably not the most qualified person to get answers from.
"Do you know anyone who might know more?"
At that moment, the waitress brings another two Spritz and she slips Fiore a little note with her number.
He thanks her with a model-perfect smile, folds the note into quarters, and tucks it into his pocket.
How naturally he plays the playboy, huh?
"Normal for you, I guess," I comment, glancing at the note and then away, a twinge of envy in my voice.
"Well, yeah. Did you see me?" he says, flexing a bicep.
The Spritz goes down the wrong pipe and shoots up my nose. I cough like an old man having a respiratory crisis.
"Yeah, but looking good isn't everything, you know?" I manage after catching my breath.
"Couldn't agree more. That's why I never stop learning what's new."
"Learning what's new? Like what?" I ask, curious but with a teasing edge.
"Everything. I've read every book published, studied every discipline, listened to every music genre, and played every instrument. I've seen every museum, visited every country, tasted every kind of food. One perk of being immortal—but also super boring after a while. That's why novelty excites me."
I pause. Blink. Wait, what? "Hold on. Immortal?" Luckily, this time I wasn't drinking.
"Fays are immortal," he says, like he just stated the weather.
"I look twenty just because this form is convenient. In reality… I'm way older."
"How much older, exactly?"
"Five hundred and ten in September," he answers, ruffling his hair with a smile.
I gape, frozen. Then the memory of the light beam snaps me back.
"So… in over five hundred years, you've never seen anyone shoot light from their hands?"
"Exactly. That's why I'd say it's time to go to the Council," Fiore says firmly, arms crossed.
"The… Council?" I ask, curious and a little unsettled.
"The High Council of the Two United Worlds. It manages the balance between the Real World and the Fantastic World. And the Veil, of course. Down there, someone might be able to give us more answers."
"Us? You're coming with me?"
"Of course! I told you, it's the—"
"…Fairy Code. Right. Okay. How do we get there?"
"You have to part the Veil. Once you do, you'll see the Directions too. We have our own 'reserved' entrance—meant for Fantastic Creatures—but there are several specifically for Intuitives as well."
"If only I knew how to part this so-called Veil…" I mutter.
"Easy-peasy!" he says, grinning.
"Wait… you mean now?"
"Why not? Got other plans for your little Saturday agenda?" he adds, raising an amused eyebrow.
"You're hilarious. Uh… okay. Let's do it, I guess?"
"Nice! Start by trying to focus. You have to expand your consciousness."
Expand my consciousness… sure, let me just light some Palo Santo while I'm at it.
"It should be pretty easy for you, even if you haven't done it in a while."
"Just another Saturday activity on my little agenda," I shoot back, dripping sarcasm.
"Come on, relax and listen. Look ahead, but don't focus too hard. Meanwhile, breathe. Diaphragmatic. Deep."
I eye him skeptically for a moment. But in the end, I decide to try.
I inhale through my nose. My lungs fill, my chest expands. Then I exhale slowly through my mouth. Once. Twice. Three times. With each breath, my heartbeat slows, and my thoughts start to drift.
"The Veil exists on the etheric plane," Fiore continues, voice low and calm. "It looks like a translucent mist. Sometimes it moves horizontally, sometimes in spirals. As if it has a will of its own."
I focus, trying not to get distracted by his voice. Strangely, my mind goes quiet. No intrusive thoughts. No noise.
Then… there it is.
A faint, almost luminous haze, swirling. It floats like it's breathing.
I startle.
"Do you see it?" Fiore asks, eyes sparkling. "If you do, reach out. Grab it."
I extend my hand.
The mist yields to my touch—it has a strange texture. Dense. Almost…
"…rubbery?" I murmur. "And cold, too…"
"That's it. The Veil. Now part it… just like you'd pull aside a curtain."
I obey.
And from there… well, everything began to unravel.
*Aperitivo: a typical Italian pre-dinner drink, usually accompanied by small snacks.
**Cicchetti: small snacks similar to tapas, served for aperitivo.