I. The Sigil Cannot Be Reproduced

Bill squinted. “I think it looks like a…I dunno, a star in the middle of three half-moons,” he said, jabbing his power washer’s nozzle at the symbol.

“No, it’s more like a diamond on a four-leaf clover,” said Bob. “I can’t believe someone would go to all the trouble of coming up here just for…that.”

“Whatever it is, somebody went to a lot of trouble to spraypaint it on the roof. I want to get a picture of it before we get started.” Bill hauled out his phone and snapped a picture. Then, squinting, he snapped another.

“What’s the matter, Bill?” said Bob. “Need a tripod with those shaky hands of yours?”

Bill held up his phone for Bob to see. He swiped through the series of pictures he’d taken, all of which seemed to be of featureless concrete.

“Huh,” said Bob. He retrieved his own phone, which was a model newer than his compatriot’s. Snapping a few of his own shots, he saw them to be similarly blank. “That’s weird. It won’t take.”

Shrugging, Bill turned on his power washer once his phone was safely away. As he was hosing down the symbol, he felt something tricking down his face. His hand came away scarlet.

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