He stood by a large window, a drink in one hand, his ever-present white robe discarded over the chair next to him. I closed the door behind me and waited, observing the crisp whiteness of everything in the room, down to the spines of the books holding place on his shelves.

Xeoniteridone finally spun and smiled at me, a benevolent expression I'd grown accustomed to despite the truth hiding behind his face. "My dear," he said. "Come closer. I won't bite."

I had no ...