Part 11
Dethreian did not move a millimeter at Nat’s comparison to a "house owner." His face remained unreadable, but a flash appeared in his eyes that resembled the hunger of a predator that had just discovered a new species of prey. He slowly stepped out of the shadow of the doorway until he stood right in front of Nat.

"A house owner..." Dethreian repeated quietly, as if savoring the word. "An interesting interpretation, Nathaniel. But owners lack curiosity. I am more of a curator. And you... you have just stepped out of the line of exhibits and started asking questions."

The sorcerer measured Nat with a new, almost clinical interest. "Tell me, Nathaniel, where does your family come from? This kind of... disobedience toward the veil of unnoticeability does not originate in city apartments. That requires generations of isolation."

Nat nervously licked his lips. "Grandpa... Grandpa came from the Northwest Territory. From the deep forests. Our whole lineage were loggers. Men who spent months in the wilderness, where there was nothing but trees and snow," Nat stammered, feeling for the first time that those family stories carried the weight of lead. "He always said that in those woods, they learned to notice things that others didn't. Because the one who didn't spot the movement of a branch in the dark didn't return from the forest. But I don't know anything about that! To me, they were just stories about forest spirits and old times."

Dethreian smiled appreciatively and made a mental note for his research. "The forests of the Northwest. A place where reality is still raw and unmutilated by asphalt. Your ancestors didn't just learn to look, Nathaniel. They learned to survive by overcoming the blindness of their own species. What you consider elderly babbling is actually a genetically encoded sight of a predator... or its prey."

Suddenly, the sorcerer abruptly reached out his hand and passed his fingers right in front of Nat’s eyes. Nat instinctively recoiled, but Dethreian did not stop him. "You don't perceive spells, boy. You perceive unnaturalness. You see me because your instinct tells you that I don't belong in these fields and roads. You are like a living compass in my artificial world."
Christy took a step toward them, her bristled tail flicking restlessly against the concrete. She saw how Nat was literally shrinking under Dethreian’s scrutinizing gaze, and she felt a wave of unexpected pity for him.

"Enough questioning, Dethreian," Christy said softly. Her voice was no longer predatory, but rather tired of the whole performance. "You said yourself that time is running out. You called me here to explain something. If we talk about logger lineages all night, we won't get anywhere."

Dethreian slowly withdrew his hand from Nat’s face. For a moment, he closed his eyes as if storing a new set of data in his head, but his fingers froze in the air for a second. Then he moved them to his red bowtie. It wasn't his usual elegant movement; his fingers trembled slightly, and he nervously tightened the knot until the fabric briefly constricted his throat. That small, jerky movement revealed more than he intended—the anomaly named Nat Westwood had thrown him off balance.

"You are right, Christy Brawolf," he said, slightly faster than was his custom. "The analysis of deviations must not distract us from the main goal. Although... some deviations are truly unsettling."
Nat leaned a bit deeper against the cold wall and, for the first time since his arrival in the alley, exhaled properly. He looked at Christy, and although her semi-glossy, gray-brown form still caused him deep uncertainty, he recognized in her posture the same Christy he had spent hours with in the same classroom. Only she wasn't so frightened anymore.

"We should go inside," Christy suggested, and the ears on top of her head folded down calmly. "If Nat really has that sight you're talking about, it's safer if he's with us. Outside, he would look... strange. Standing in an empty alley and talking to a wall isn't a good idea, even on Halloween."

Dethreian fell silent for a moment, his fingers once more uncertainly checking his bowtie before he finally dropped them to his sides. In the end, he only gave a curt nod. "Perhaps you are right. His presence is an unpredictable variable, but in this workshop, I will at least have it under my eyes. If you please, Nathaniel Westwood. Enter the Second Identity. Try not to look too much into the corners where the light has not reached, however. Your eyes might find things there that you are not prepared for."

The sorcerer stepped away from the door and left it open. Christy made a small gesture with her head, inviting Nat to enter. Nat detached himself from the wall, pressed his backpack firmly to his chest, and, with a great deal of doubt, took that first step across the threshold.