By mid-afternoon, the golden sun was high over the pines, casting warm diagonal light across the estate's side lawn.
Mailah had decided it was time for the "Mortal Adjustment Phase," which mostly consisted of trying to teach a three-hundred-year-old former incubus lord how to do basic, un-calibrated domestic tasks without over-engineering them.
Currently, Grayson stood in the gravel driveway in front of his pristine black Land Rover, holding a garden hose and a soft sponge as if he were preparing to perform delicate neurosurgery. He had rolled his dark sweater sleeves up to his elbows, exposing his thick, corded forearms and broad wrists.
"Grayson, it's just washing a car," Mailah said, sitting on an upside-down wooden crate nearby, sipping lemonade. "You splash water, you put soap on the sponge, you wipe, you rinse."
