“How long has it been gone?”

Cecelia consulted her computer. “It was scanned on the twelfth. East desk, and just before closing according to the system.”

“Who would be there on Saturday night?”

“Gertrude, I think,” said Cecelia. “I can check the schedule if you’d like.”

“No, no,” Quinn rubbed his temples. “It makes sense. She’s the most junior person the library’s got, so she gets the graveyard shift on the weekend. Low stress, get your feet wet, and all that. At least that’s what they told me when I used to work it.”

“If you want to talk to her about it-”

“No,” Quinn said. “You’d have already done that, at least if you’re half as professional as I’ve come to believe.”

Cecelia flushed a little. “Well, yes. She said that it was an average-looking man with a valid library card, and nothing seemed odd.”

“Not even the fact that it was called ‘On Symbologie’ with fancy letters and fancier spelling? Not even the fact that the book was stamped “do not circulate, do not remove from building?”

“She checked the inside cover, and said there were no stamps, and the edge was gilded; it wouldn’t hold ink.”

“I suppose he could have pasted in a fake page to cover the stamp,” Quinn mused. “Easy enough, I guess; we don’t exactly search people for glue sticks.”

“What makes you think that? That he’d use a fake page?”

“It just seems to fit in with the modus operandi. Fake library card; fake barcode, fake page. If you were determined enough, you could pull a barcode off another book or the desk when no one was looking, and stick it in. Library cards can be stolen.”

“This name, though,” Cecelia gestured at the card. “It’s not in our system. Instead of using someone else’s card, this guy made his own, and not with the sort of name I’d use if I wanted to remain inconspicuous.”

“Pierre Richat,” Quinn read. “Sounds Cajun. Should make tracking him down easy enough.”

Things had a funny way of happening in town, and this was as good an example as any you’re likely to find.

“Slim” Whitemore, a local stockyard worker, was out leaning on the local Greyhound bus building. He’d just gotten what was left of his paycheck after alimony and garnishments and was nursing a forty in a plain paper sack as local statutes demanded. Thing is, he was wearing a plaid shirt and jeans he’d bought secondhand–not unlike the outfit favored by one Davis Cunningham, especially when you throw in the John Deere cap and long afternoon shadows.

The brother of Davis’ ex-wife happened to be passing by on the other side of the street, and mistook Slim for his erstwhile brother-in-law. This led to some rather uncomplimentary remarks being exchanged. Slim, never a particularly subtle man even when sober, responded in kind. Then he pulled out the .45 revolver he kept for putting down diseased stock at the yard, and things started getting interesting.

A pistol’s not too accurate at that range in the best of circumstances, and tipsy trigger finger doesn’t do much to improve things. Despite emptying all five loaded cylinders, Slim didn’t come close to hitting his target. And if that had been all there was to tell, it might not have gotten any further than that–a story people told when they saw Slim sauntering into Carrie’s Red Dot, maybe.

But Slim and Davis’ ex-brother-in-law weren’t the only people on the square that day.

Travis picked at his bandages. “I’m not afraid of dying.” He was squeezing the nurse’s call button, hoping Fiona couldn’t see.

Fiona stepped closer, pressing the muzzle of her pistol to Travis’s chest. “Good. That’ll make this easier.”

“I’m afraid of not knowing why. I’m nobody special, yet you already threw me out a window.”

“Is that all?” Fiona leaned in, whispered in Travis’s ear.

Comprehension dawned on his face. “Thank you,” he grinned. “You can hit her now.”

“Wha-” Fiona was cut off as a fire extinguisher, in the hands of a night shift nurse, clipped her from behind.

“You understand, the translation will have to be approximate,” Smiths said. “A lot of heiroglyphs is context and inferential.”

“Just read it.” The revolver was argument enough.

“The Aten had no form, no voice, only will. Arising from the darkness of all which exists outside the Maat, the divine order of the cosmos, it first manifested as a weak and guttering spark. Only by associating itself with the bright disc of the sun was the Aten able to attract the notice of mortals, who came to view it as an aspect of their sun god, Ra. In this way, the Aten was first able to whisper into the ears of the chief priest, the Pharaoh. Over a generation, the whispers grew strong enough for the Pharaoh, and by extension his people, to allot the Aten a place in their great pantheon of deities. And when an aged and infirm ruler gave way to a young and impressionable one, the whispers grew ever louder.”

“Keep going.”

“In those days, the Aten was possessed of a great love for those whose belief had allowed it to escape from the darkness of the Duat, the underworld, but also a terrible jealousy. Through the Pharaoh, it insisted that the old gods were to be swept away–the whispers so insistent that the young ruler soon came to be preoccupied with his new religion alone, to the ruin of the nation. The Divinity, which existed in the guise of the many local gods at that time, reacted by withdrawing itself from the land. The Aten was unable to cope with the subsequent widespread famine, plagues, political upheaval, and general chaos, great though its powers had become. With the death of the Pharaoh from illness, the Aten was cast down from its lofty perch, and the light which represented it faded once more as successive rulers ought to erase it from their history.”

Smiths paused. “S-shall I keep going?”

The gun again, flashing in the torchlight. “Please do.”

“Cast once again into darkness, the Aten grew bitter at its fate, and came to resent the mortals on whom it had depended and whom it had once tried to love. It gathered its strength once more, slowly, and resolved to complete what the long-ago Pharaoh had once begun – the sweeping away of the old world for a new. Rather than co-opting, it would create anew. But although its strength returned, the Aten could not set its plan in motion.”

“For it yet needed mankind: its beliefs and its aid.” The words came from the darkness before Smiths could translate them.

“They call this creature the Mana Cricket, even though it’s really more of a grasshopper,” said Spinelli. “It feeds off of arcane essence ethereally siphoned from other living beings.”

The insect alighted on Gibbons’ arm and began crawling around. “Hey! That tickles!” she squealed.

“Now, one Mana Cricket obviously isn’t going to do much, and is easily squashed,” said Spinelli, adjusting his uniform cap. “Happily, they’re rarely seen in groups of less than 1,000.”

Dozens more large blue grasshoppers descended on Gibbons, causing her to emit a series of shrill not-quite-screams, not-quite-laughs. They crawled over her, apparently benignly; she didn’t reach for the pistol in her holster or attempt to summon a fireball.

“Of course, even a thousand–or hundred thousand–Mana Crickets can’t kill you,” Spinelli said.

One by one, the grasshoppers alighted, leaving Gibbons alone and swaying. “I don’t feel so good,” she moaned.

“But what they can do is drain you so completely that it will take days for your natural arcane essence to rejuvenate, and in the meantime…”

A door in the arena opened, revealing an immature ghast which promptly charged Gibbons, its knuckles dragging through the dirt. She gestured with her arm, apparently expecting a fireball to spring from her fingertips; when none was forthcoming, she could only utter a startled “Ugh!” as the ghast tackled her.

“Don’t worry, it’s been declawed and defanged.”

The day’d left as it’d come in: hot as hell and twice as stuffy. Anyone with the cash and the knowhow had their AC on, which meant a moment of disorienting fog when passin’ from inside to out.

Jake gave his sunglasses a thoughtful rub and replaced ’em. Some people said he’d be a damn fool to wear sunglasses at night, but he always enjoyed the sheen they threw over the world–amber ‘n hyper-real.

Outside, it was silent and dead. Not a whisper o’ wind nor a soul to be seen, not even a car windin’ down the access road. Only flashes of distant lightnin’ did anything to break the calm.

Jake hefted his umbrella over one shoulder. There was gonna be trouble that night. You could feel it in the air, see it in the sky, hear it in the buzz and chirp of the nearby marshy patch.

Yep, there was gonna be trouble that night. And Jake aimed to start it.

“Oh, not the whole world,” the demon said, daintily sawing at its nails with a file. “But for everyone inside the Bijouplex, it’ll be the Book of Revelations. The end part, with the fire and such, not the boring intro.”

“Why tell me this, then?” Irv asked.

“Pure sport. Every few decades my lads do a little bit of Armageddon here or there. You know, to keep our hand in. But it can get a little dull–screams and seared flesh and the like. So every now and then we’ll make things interesting by telling someone about it and watching them scurry about trying to do something.”

Irv was on his feet. “You mean I can’t stop it?”

“Did I say that?”

“Well, can I?”

“Perhaps,” the demon grinned coyly. A whiff of brimstone filled the room as it exhaled. “But you’d best be quick about it. Look Who’s Oinking begins at 5:10, and there won’t be any theater left for the 7:30.”

The creature was human-shaped, but unfinished. It had no face, just a featureless blank, and all the other finer details of the human form were missing. Its body was covered with elaborate raised lines that spiraled crazily over its body without rhyme or reason. It floated a few inches above the ground, in a relaxed, almost boneless, pose.

“There is no Zeitengel, and there never was,” it hissed. The words didn’t seem to issue from any particular point but were audible nonethtless. “That was only a name adopted to seed confusion and spur futile searching. The true author of his works has no name, no form, and cannot be comprehended by an ordered mind.”

“A-an ordered mind?” Susan stammered.

“The world is organized, ordered. There still exist dark places where order has never existed, and here dwell the ancient essences who embody all that order is not. To call them beings is to impose an order on that which has none, but they embody complete and utter chaos. The very structure of time and space was created to deny them access to reality, to keep them isolated in pockets of nothingness. They chafe under this, as is their nature, and desire nothing but to break free of their bonds and invade ordered space that such order might be destroyed.”

“I don’t understand,” Susan said. “And what exactly are you?”

“It matters not who or what I am. Suffice to say, I am not one of them, but merely a servant. I was placed here in the expectation that someone might come, and bidden to say what I have said. Do not think this aid; I have given myself wholly to chaos, and await only its inevitable arrival and the burning away of oppressive order. I am to spread chaos in the most efficient manner by moving you to action. Through struggle or inaction, you bring the destruction of your world order closer. Does it not fill you with a sense of importance, that one as insignificant as yourself may perform such mighty deeds?”

A gout of cold wind from the desolate plain chilled Susan to the quick. “Not really.”

“If you choose to embrace this mission–to embrace what is so regardless of your acceptance–you may become a servant like myself. By giving yourself wholly to chaos and the dark ones, you will be granted continuity rather than destruction. When the end comes, the cage of time and order about you will be stripped away, and you may take your place among the dark. Until their coming you will, like I, serve. Perhaps aiding the Anarchists in some way, perhaps as a font of wisdom like I. We are the vorhang, the blind, but we see more than all others combined. You are lucky in that you are aware of your state, and of your choices. Very few enjoy the same luxury as they wander through time. It is the closest to true freedom you can come while the oppressive order remains.”

His footsteps rang down the hallway in quick succession. Even though he could hardly see the floor in front of him, Mark could hear the footfalls to the rear, gaining. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, but his leg muscles were beginning to cramp.

“I can’t keep this up,” he wheezed in a panic. “I’m dead.”

As if to underscore the point, more echoes emerged from the darkness—grimy sneakers, tattered dress shoes, and heavy, labored breathing. The night terrors were closing in with a speed and singlemindedness that belied the fact they’d once been human.

A stitch had been growing in Mark’s side, and at this crucial juncture it flared up, joining his legs in demanding an immediate and unconditional rest. “No…” Mark said. “Don’t you understand…you worthless…appendages? If I stop…you die!”

Despite this exhortation, he continued to slow. Moments later, he felt the first probing fingertips on his back and neck.

Few places are as intimidating as a dark corridor at night.

The absence of the usual background noise makes any sound seem twice as loud, and any doors along the hallway’s length were fertile breeding ground for the imagination. The one on Jameson’s left seemed to be slowly breathing in and out, while the one on his right seemed to have simply faded away, appearing only in moonlit snatches.

The light switches could only be worked with a special key—part of the latest round of cost-saving measures—so there was no prospect of light ahead. Moonlight only did so much.

Something skittered noisily across the floor in front of him. A rat? A bauble spilled from a thief’s bag? He wasn’t sure which was worse, but the answer wasn’t long in coming.