Page 44 of Real

The men in the audience laugh with the exception of the stylish man on the end. But he does smile.

“Come with me to my office. I’m sure you have a lot of questions, and while I may not have answers to all of them, I think I have more answers for you than anyone else.” The man walks toward the first door on the left and opens it.

Timothy squeezes my hand and stands. This is it. We both walk into the office. It’s very ordinary with a standard wooden desk and a cushioned chair. The only quirky thing is the couch. It’s the same one we sat on downstairs, and it doesn’t match the contemporary style of the rest of the office. I think he had it moved here just for us.

Everything in this place seems very… transient.

Timothy and I settle onto the couch differently than before. I’m not sitting on his lap or cuddling with him, but we are sitting very close, and that’s nice.

“Are you Skatt?” I ask.

He shrugs. “That’s what people call me, but it’s more a title than a name. Skatt means treasure—or tax, depending on who you ask—in Norwegian. I have a very specific role here among the Illusors.”

He said “among the Illusors” as if he wasn’t one of them.

“Are you not an Illusor?”

He said I could ask questions, and I plan to take him up on that.

“No. I’m what the Illusors call a tom. It means empty in Norwegian. It’s their name for people who don’t have light in their fingertips. People like you and me.”

I guess if you grew up with people who all had light in their fingertips, ordinary people might seem a little empty.

“Now, would you like to hear how I explain my performance to our guests, or how my transformation really works?” Skatt asks.

Before I can answer, Timothy says, “Both.”

Skatt sits on his chair and pulls out a folder. “This here is a copy of the deed to this building. Legally, I am the owner. Illusors are not allowed to own land in New York City, so the building is under my name. If you were an ordinary guest, I would tell you my Illusor mate likes to help me perform my little dance by making me look wooden. And you would believe me because everything about this place is magic. If you were a guest, I wouldn’t be talking to you in my wooden form either.” His skin shifts back to flesh and blood as quickly as the Rixton beach disappeared downstairs. I can see why people would assume his transformation was the result of light magic. It looks very similar.

But that means he can transform at will, that his humanity isn’t just a result of the dance. That’s a good sign.

“The reality is that this building belongs to the Illusors. And I am proud to be their servant—their treasure. I am a gift from the Lights.”

I remember Einar swearing to the Lights.

“What are the Lights? What do you mean by that?”

Skatt points to a large photograph by the door. In it, waves of neon blue and green swirl across a glittering night sky.

“The Northern Lights. Long ago, the Illusors lived in Norway and prayed to the Lights every night. The legends say that times got hard, and they were forced to move or starve in the unforgiving winter. So they bid the Lights farewell. But the Lights loved them so much, they stowed away in their fingertips and came with them. I know this doesn’t seem related to why you’re here, but the legend doesn’t end there. In the beginning, the Illusors were delighted to have the Lights with them at all times, but the people in the cities they immigrated to were afraid of the Lights, and treated them horribly. So the Lights fashioned a man made of wood and brought him to life to protect the Illusors. He didn’t have light in his fingertips, so he could advocate for them in his human form. If things got out of hand, he could take his wooden form again. In that form he was indestructible and could fight for them with his fists too. In the legends, he was always an alpha. But in the records I have of real skatts throughout history, we are all omegas. Figures, huh? The alphas are always trying to make history about them.” He rolls his eyes and smiles.

“Wait… are you saying there are multiple skatts?” I ask.

“There is one for every generation. I may look quite spry for my age, but I’m far too old for this job. Not my body. As long as I keep shifting back and forth, I won’t age. That may seem great, but it’s not. My mate is now sixty years old. I won’t get to grow old with him. He’ll die decades before I do. And because I haven’t had a skatt to share the load with, I haven’t been able to bear children. I’d have to refrain from shifting for a full nine months, and that isn’t something I can do unless another skatt can take over during that time.”

That means he’s been waiting for another skatt—a skatt that never came.

“Am I… a skatt?” That can’t be right. I’m not made of wood, and I’ve never met an Illusor before. A warlock created me, didn’t they?

“Twenty years ago a man named Dorian Gray asked if he could bring in a sex doll to help with an illusion he wanted. Dorian was a frequent guest at the Den, so I agreed to it. He requested a very specific day—the day before the scheduled animation of the next skatt. I didn’t think anything of it, and since I knew I’d be busy helping the new skatt adjust, I thought the timing was perfect. I scheduled him for a private illusion on one of the upper floors and didn’t even think about it until I was getting ready for the animation ceremony and one of our potential skatts was gone. You see, we always have a few of those wooden marionettes. The puppet show is a tradition in the Den of Dreams. The day of animation one of the marionettes comes to life, and a few weeks later we build a replacement. It wasn’t uncommon for the Lights to animate a marionette ahead of schedule and for that marionette to find the scissors, cut their strings, and wander off. I went searching for a lost marionette, and instead, I found you.”

I stare back at him blankly. I don’t remember him or this place at all.

“A skatt’s memory is shit for the first few weeks, so don’t feel bad if you can’t remember. Anyway, with a little digging, we discovered that a warlock who normally performs rudimentary animation spells on realistic ball-jointed dolls for grieving parents was hired by Dorian Gray to create a mate for him. Somehow, he found out about the legend of the skatts and roped her into diverting our magic into bringing his mate to life. The night Dorian scheduled his private illusion with you, he snuck off with one of our marionettes and left you in its place.”

I’m so confused. I thought Dorian paid twenty-five years of his life to bring me to life. Isn’t that why he wants to reverse the spell? And what about all the information in my head? I know how to drive and speak English, but I have no knowledge of the Illusors. Maybe Skatt has the wrong guy.

Except he can’t. He had a photo of me.

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