It took a little over an hour for Eresthanon to make the drive from Upper Manhattan to the Financial District in Downtown and it had been a lovely drive. His destination was a limestone and granite building twenty to thirty storeys tall, perhaps more, with setbacks for the higher floors recessed in the fashion that had become popular-by-mandate in the early twentieth century.

At first, Eresthanon thought he might have pulled up to the wrong building. The entire first floor was taken up by a daycare, which simply wasn’t the kind of thing you expected to see at a holding of the storied magical law enforcement society. Then again, there was only so far dimensional magic could go to alleviate certain physical realities of the universe represented, including the harsh vagaries of Manhattan real estate.

The matter was settled when he reached the entrance to the building’s parking garage on the east corner of the building. A lovely, tree-lined courtyard sat beside the building and a man in a plain, brown suit sat at the end of a bench near the sidewalk, eating a sandwich and reading a book. The illusion was neither powerful nor complex — meant only to fool those with no praeternatural senses — and Eresthan saw through it without even trying.

The portly, bearded man was, in fact, almost ten feet tall, with skin like stone, and small horns on his forehead. What stood out, however, wasn’t the troll sentinel eating their sandwich, but the sigil glowing on the book behind the illusion — the simplified symbol for the scales that adorned one end of the appointment card in his wallet, one of the symbols of the Vigiles Creaturae. Pulling into the garage, he saw that several overhead signs also bore hidden sigils, guiding him to his destination within the concrete warren.

Eresthanon wondered over the nature and purpose of his appointment. The card had said it was a final interview, which suggested he would not only be questioned by members of the Vigiles but that he had been before. Every reason that occurred to him about why he might have chosen to undergo a Rite of Undergoing Renewal in the midst of a series of interrogations was concerning. He must have known the Rite removed episodic memory, leaving him unable to answer any questions about specific knowledge he might have previously held. That didn’t speak well to his intentions and, though there was nothing he could do about it without ending this Cycle, he resolved to be forthright with the Vigiles and not willingly participate in any skullduggery to undermine or circumvent the law.

The idea that this new Cycle may have been a way to not personally endure a long punishment for previous crimes sprang into his mind and, for a second, he considered driving out of the garage and living in hiding. Not only was that childish and irresponsible, it also didn’t hold up to scrutiny.

Whomever he had been in a previous Cycle might not have been an upstanding citizen, but if Eresthanon was meant to bear the burden of their criminality, all the things he’d be given for this Cycle — a new wardrobe, vehicle, expensive homes, and very healthy financial accounts — wouldn’t make sense. It was, theoretically, possible Eresthanon was an instrument of some chicanery from his previous self, but incarceration or a more severe punishment seemed unlikely.

Three levels down, Eresthanon reached a section of the garage that was sectioned off by a gate of wide metal bars. Signs on the gate said it was private access only and a small security booth sat to the side of it. For all that the guard looked like a normal human, the symbol of the scale glowed on the identification card hanging on their breast.

Eresthanon stopped and rolled down his window. “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, sir. ID badge, please.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have one, but I have an appointment soon.”

The guard typed on a small keyboard in the booth for a few seconds, then opened a paper ledger on the desk. “What’s the name?”

Eresthanon hesitated, unsure which name the appointment was likely to be under, and decided to go with both. “Eric ‘Eresthanon’ Nathanial.”

The guard checked the ledger and computer monitor again, then produced a visitor’s badge and handed it to Eresthanon.

“Take a left at the end of the lane and you’ll find visitor’s parking. You’ll see an elevator before you make the turn; that will take you to the building.”

“Thank you,” Eresthanon said, clipping the visitor’s badge onto his breast pocket and offering the guard a polite smile.

A few moments later, Eresthanon stood before the elevator. It was an old-fashioned thing, with external doors made of bronze, wood, and decorated with an Art Deco mosaic. The interior was even more antique. The wood paneling, carpet, and metal fittings were all quite handsome, but terribly out of place — Eresthanon was fairly certain the building was a post-war construction, at the earliest; the elevator predated it by decades — and the car had an internal metal scissor gate, brass-plated control panel with only a few buttons, and half-circle indicator dial above the door. It even had a small bench built right into the wall where an operator would have sat when the car was operated manually.

The control panel had four buttons, marked by letters instead of numbers: U, M, B, and P. The indicator dial confirmed the order of floors matched the buttons; Eresthanon was on the level marked P, likely for Parking. Eresthanon knew older elevators didn’t use standardized buttons, but he had no idea which of the floors he was meant to go to. Thankfully, the doors closed and the cabin began to move on its own before he could settle on trying one.

When the doors opened, it was to a room that bore a strong resemblance to a police station in a movie from the Golden Age of Hollywood. A sturdy wooden reception desk — elevated slightly, framed by a wooden banister along its front, and an arched window above — dominated the wall across from the elevator. Walls extended to either side of the desk, with a half glass door to its right that had the word PRIVATE painted on the window in block letters, and a more generic door at opposite ends of the room. Wide wooden benches with deep red cushions affixed to the backs lined the other walls. Eresthanon had to wonder if the Vigiles simply hadn’t bothered to hire an interior decorator since the 1940s or if the noir aesthetic was intentional.

At least some things were a bit of a departure from old cliches, as behind the large desk, rather than a surly desk sergeant looking harried and put-upon, a young human man with immaculately coiffed hair and a slightly extravagant suit was reading a magazine. Then again, if the receptionist turned out to be excessively sassy or flirtatious, conspicuously smacked on chewing gum, or had anything remotely resembling a rapid-fire Mid-Atlantic accent, Eresthanon might be looking at a Guy Friday situation.

“Well hello, sailor,” the young man said, a hint of a mischievous lilt in his voice. “What can I do you for?”

Elves, being made of magic as much as meat, hadn’t undergone the same evolutionary development as other races; in fact, they hadn’t evolved at all. The first elf to ever exist should be, functionally, identical to the youngest. Without natural predators or competition for resources, elven psychology had some key differences from the others. For instance, emotions weren’t as visceral for them and their feelings rarely influenced their biology.

Thanks to this diminished elven physiological reaction to emotion, Eresthanon didn’t actually have to suppress a sigh, but the impulse was there nonetheless. Instead, he offered the most minute nod and smile he could manage.

“I have a 4 o’clock appointment. My name is Eresthanon.”

“You are expected, oh my, yes! Just a moment and I’ll be right with you.”

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The young man set down his magazine and stepped away from the raised desk, emerging a moment later through the door marked PRIVATE. He walked to a plain door on the wall further to the right and pushed it open.

“Right in here, sweetie.”

Eresthanon entered a small conference room. Like everything else at this office of the Vigiles Creaturae, it was tasteful without being lavish, but the decades-old style didn’t need to be loud to be ostentatious. It would be comfortable, at least, with those big leather chairs. The elf turned back to the receptionist with a mildly inquisitive look.

The young man gave him a saucy wink. “Someone will be along shortly, just take a seat and whistle if you need anything. You do know how to whistle, don’t you?”

Eresthanon said none of the things that flashed into his mind, he simply smiled and nodded.

There was barely time to get comfortable in one of the plush chairs before the door to the conference room opened again and two new people strode in. The first was a large man, tall and broad shouldered. He was a sphinx or of sphinx descent judging by the fact he had falcon wings and haunches of a lion; he wore a suit tailored to accommodate both.

The wings, Eresthanon thought, would be the easy part, requiring only careful slits in the back of his shirt and coat, though they might bunch when he flew if they were poorly made. The pants, however, were a true sartorial marvel, following the contours of his lower body enough not to billow but with ample room to allow comfort in movement and sitting. The sphinx had dark, curly hair and a Mediterranean complexion, both fairly common traits among sphinxes even in the modern era.

The woman following behind him was tremendously plain, but only by comparison. She was youngish, black, and petite, with her dark hair in long braids. She wore dark, utilitarian clothes that wouldn’t have been out of place on a police officer or soldier. Square shoulders and the corded muscles of her well-toned arms suggested a wiry strength.

Eresthanon thought she would have been considered quite beautiful by human standards, even though some might not appreciate such sharp features. She also had the slightly pinched features commonly referred to as resting bitch face.

It was funny how humans only ever seemed to slap that label on women, but had no problem with men who had a naturally dour face. Funny enough to make you cry, if you weren’t somewhat aloof from your own emotions thanks to elven physiology. Then again, he was seeing her for the first time and this human stranger could be objectively pissed about something, so he was making a snap judgment of his own.

Eresthanon rose from the seat as they entered. He didn’t know what, exactly, he was there for, but it was never indiscreet to be polite until you had sufficient reason not to be. The sphinx crossed the room to him and reached across the table to take his hand in a firm shake.

The sphinx spoke with a surprisingly high, soft voice and introduced himself in a form of elvish that was outrageously archaic and almost inappropriately formal, as if he were addressing a member of one of the High Courts. There was plenty of Greek and Latin mixed in, which was to be expected given the origins of the Vigiles.

Minus the peccadilloes inherent to his formal elvish, what he said could be translated as, “I am Kopan Khaldun, Praetor of the Vigiles Creaturae and operational chief of North America. It is an honor to be in your presence and we hope you regard ours the same.”

The two titles — Praetor and operational chief — were, Eresthanon believed, distinct from each other.

With a mildly bemused expression, Eresthanon nodded acknowledgement, responding in English. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Praetor.”

Khaldun coughed lightly into one fist — perhaps to buy a moment to think or even to cover embarrassment — then continued in English himself. “My apologies if my elvish was stilted or flawed. I’m afraid I’ve never reached beyond basic proficiency and my training was geared towards dealing with ambassadors from the High Courts. My associate here is Quaesitor Aaliyah Dean.”

Eresthanon inclined his head to the young woman. Unless Eresthanon was much mistaken, a Quaesitor was an investigative role in the Vigiles akin to a detective. If he were to be questioned on some criminal matter from his previous Cycle, she would likely be the one doing the asking.

She merely looked back at him. For all that Khaldun had greeted him warmly enough, she didn’t seem at all pleased to be there. Or, again, he could be making a snap judgment based on nothing more than her natural facial structure. And wouldn’t that just be terribly human of him?

Khaldun sat in one of the chairs — with very little awkwardness despite his feline hindquarters — and gestured for Eresthanon to do the same. Dean remained standing, just behind Khaldun’s chair.

“I understand you aren’t clear on the nature of this interview. Is that correct?”

Eresthanon nodded.

“Let me put your mind at ease: you’re not in any trouble with the law. Quite the opposite, in fact. This is a final interview for you to join the Vigiles Creaturae as an agent of that law.”

That answered Eresthanon’s lingering question about the purpose of this meeting and in a way that left him far less concerned about the life choices of his previous Cycle. The idea that the ‘final interview’ with the Vigiles Creaturae might have been a job interview had never occurred to him, and for a very good reason.

Eresthanon blinked a few times. “Join the Vigiles Creaturae? But… I’m an elf. Has there ever been an elf in the Vigiles?”

“Both the Vigiles and your own people have historically been hesitant to see elves join our ranks — even considering the unique capability of elvenkind to essentially create an entirely new life and identity — but there have been instances when it has happened. Twice, in fact, in the thirteen centuries since the Formation.”

“It’s not surprising it’s so few given our isolationist tendencies; I’m just surprised there have been any,” Eresthanon said. “My people have a fondness for justice, but we rarely participate directly outside of our own governance.”

Khaldun smiled. “The history of all our races are littered with the occasional elven hero or sage, lending a hand to thwart an evil or right a wrong. It stands to reason that two of your kin, opting for the relative drudgery of law enforcement, might not stand out.”

At a gesture from the sphinx, Dean produced and handed him a folder. “Of course, you are your own person and are free to walk away from the position. On the other hand, if you’d like to pursue it, our final interview will be a fairly simple process; just a survey on law, history, and personality to demonstrate your readiness for the job.”

One question answered and now he was faced with another: did Eresthanon want to work for the Vigiles? He must have been quite motivated, in his previous Cycle, to do so; no matter how Khaldun might downplay it, the Vigiles would certainly have been more than merely hesitant to allow elves among their ranks.

The first and most famous requirement for membership in the Vigiles was a renunciation of all outside affiliation, a pledge of loyalty to the organization and the laws it upheld. This policy, Eresthanon knew, had been instituted at the First Reformation more than five centuries earlier.

Elves were not just among the races least likely to forsake their ancestral allegiance, they further complicated the issue because of their ability to adopt — and relinquish — new identities. Was it possible to fully trust the loyalty of someone who had lived other lives and could pick those lives back up at a moment’s notice?

Still, the idea appealed to him and he was inclined to say yes. Not only had this apparently been quite important to him in his last Cycle, but hadn’t he spent the last hour considering how unwilling he was to undermine, evade, or mislead the law?

Eresthanon also had to take his sense of a building storm into consideration. As it was likely he had that sense before his Renewal, it was also likely joining the Vigiles was connected to it. He didn’t want to tie his new life in this Cycle to his motives in the last, but he seemed to be in a position to do something in relation to the tumult he could feel. He wanted to see what that something would turn out to be.

“I believe I would like to continue in this endeavor, Praetor Khaldun,” Eresthanon answered. “I may not know every detail about the person I am and will become, but I am confident in my dedication to the law and my principles.”

“Excellent,” Khaldun said. “This binder contains the survey in two forms, on paper and on tablet; use whichever you’re most comfortable with. If you come across any questions you can’t answer, don’t guess. Mark them with an X and move on. When you’re done, let the receptionist know.”

Khaldun slid the binder across the table to Eresthanon and stood. With a final nod to Eresthanon, he and the young woman accompanying him, Quaesitor Dean, left the conference room.

Eresthanon opened the binder and found one cover had a tablet affixed to it and the other a sheaf of papers. A ballpoint pen and styles were held in a small pouch on each side. Since the paper survey didn’t seem too dense, Eresthanon decided to fill it out by hand. He flipped back the cover and began.