The Compendium had helped save Vicky from… what? He still didn't know exactly. But he did know that if not for this book she'd be gone now.

"Then surely you can allow me to lord it over my colleagues that I've touched something they've denied existed, seen something they haven't and most likely never will."

"And when you can't produce it, they'll think you're either going senile or you've lost your mind."

"Yes, I suppose they will."

"And then, to defend your reputation, you'll tell them about the guy who brought it to your office. And maybe someone will believe you. And maybe I'm on a security tape entering and leaving the building. And maybe someone will start looking for me."

Jack had honed his skills at spotting security cameras. When he couldn't avoid them, he'd wear a baseball cap—today's was emblazoned with the Mets' orange NY—and kept the peak low over his face.

But no tactic worked one hundred percent. If one of Buhmann's younger, aggressive colleagues knew Jack's face and went looking for the Compendium …

Jack lived not far from here. What if the guy got lucky and spotted him on the street and followed him home?

No thanks.

"You're a very cautious young man. I might hazard to say overly cautious."

Jack smiled. "You wouldn't be the first to say that."

Buhmann sighed. "Very well. I will go to my grave without uttering a word about what you're going to show me."

Jack thrust out his right hand. "I have your word on that?"

The professor gripped it. His skin was dry and papery.

"My word as a gentleman and a scholar." He blinked at Jack. "Now, may I please see what's in that sack?"

Jack pulled the thick volume from the bag and, despite the care he took, its weight made a thunk as it settled on the desktop.

"Here you go. A real, live myth."

Buhmann sat and stared, saying nothing. Jack stared too, watching as the doodles embossed on the metallic cover blurred and shifted into the word Compendium in large ornate letters; below that, smaller, the word Srem.

Buhmann looked up at him as if to say, Did you see that?

Jack nodded. "It gets better. Open it."

The old man's gnarled fingers trembled as he lifted the cover. He froze, blinking as the squiggles on the first page morphed into words.

"Incredible."

"Yeah. I know. You don't expect something this old to be in modern-day English."

"If this is truly the Compendium of Srem, English wasn't even a language when it was written."

Back in December the prof had given him a crash course in the legends surrounding the ancient book: Written in the First Age, filled with the lore of a civilization predating known history, and virtually indestructible. Legend had it that Grand Inquisitor Torquemada had consigned it to the flames as heretical and blasphemous. And when it wouldn't burn he ordered it hacked to pieces. And when axes and swords failed to get the job done, he buried it in a deep pit in Avila and built the Monastery of St. Thomas over the spot and lived there until his death.

Jack had found all that pretty hard to swallow. Even harder had been the legend that its text conformed to the native language of the reader.

The Compendium hadn't stayed buried. Somehow it fell into the hands of a globe-spanning cult. And from there, into Jack's.

He'd soon learned that all the tales were true.

Buhmann stared at Jack; tears rimmed his eyes. "It's in German! I… I was born in Vienna and came here when I was ten. English has been my language for over seventy years, but I grew up speaking German. What language do you see?"

Jack knew the answer but took a look, just to be sure.

"English."

The prof turned back to the book and began leafing through it.

"Does it list, as I told you, the Seven Infernals?"

"It do."

"And the Lilitongue of Gefreda? Did you find it?"

"I did."

His head shot up. "No! You did? Where is it? I must see—"

"Gone. And don't ask where because I don't know." He pointed to the book. "You'll even find an animated page in there."

Jack hadn't been through the whole book. It seemed to have far more pages than even its size would account for, and little of what he'd read made much sense. At least not to him.

The prof fixed his gaze on Jack. "Can we try a little experiment?"

Wary, Jack said, "Like what?"

"1 want to see what happens when I photocopy a page. We have a copier just down the hall."

Though not crazy about the possibility of someone in the hall spotting the book and asking about it, Jack decided he'd like to see that too.

"Okay. But let's not make a production out of it. Down the hall and back, lickety-split."

Buhmann rose and, with the book clutched against his chest like a child's teddy bear, led the way into the hall. He nodded and smiled and said hello to a Maggie and a Ronnie, who looked like secretaries, and to a Marty whose mop identified him as a janitor.

When they reached the copier, the prof looked all around to make sure no one was near—in the process making himself look either sneaky or guilty or both—then opened the Compendium to a random page, pressed it against the glass, and hit the button. As the light bar made its transit, Buhmann did another three-sixty scan of his surroundings. Jack looked at the ceiling to keep from laughing.

The prof pulled the copy from the tray. After giving it a quick once-over he pumped his fist in the air.

"Yes! Yes!"

A few seconds later they were back in his office. Buhmann's hand shook like he had Parkinson's.

"Look! The translating property—it doesn't work with a machine. What you're seeing here is the handwriting of the original author."

Jack stared at the vaguely glyphic squiggles.

"Srem?"

The prof shrugged. "We don't know anything about Srem—does the word refer to a man, a group, a location? Who knows? But what we're looking at here is a language of the First Age."

"How do you know?"

"Because I've studied languages all my adult life. There is no known human language that even approximates this." He looked at Jack. "And I can't tell a soul?"

Jack took the sheet and ripped it in half, then in quarters, then stuffed the pieces in a pocket.

"Not a soul. Eyes only, remember?"

The prof heaved a sigh. "Very well. How long do I have to study it?"

Jack glanced at his watch. He'd arranged to meet Christy P. at two. He could get that done, then be back here by four.

"I can give you a couple-three hours."

Doc Buhmann's eyes widened. "Hours? 1 was talking weeks!"

Should have known. No good deed goes unpunished.

"Hey, prof, the idea was just to let you have a peek. According to Abe, all you wanted was one look before you passed on to meet the Great Curator in the sky. Isn't that what you said?"

"Yes… yes, I suppose I did. But this is the find of a lifetime."

"We're not going to argue, are we?" Jack reached for the book. "Because in that case—"

The prof's hands hovered protectively over the book.

"All right, all right! A few hours it is. Which means I haven't a moment to waste."

He sat, turned his back to Jack, and began flipping pages.

"Remember," Jack said. "The book stays right here. No sharing, no photocopying. Agreed?"

The prof fluttered a hand at him without looking up. "Yes-yes. Agreed. Now allow me some peace and quiet, please. I must make every minute count."

Jack stepped to the door, then hesitated. He looked back. Was he going to regret this? He did owe the guy, but would this little kindness come back to haunt him?

Or was he being too much of a tight ass? How much could it hurt to lend him the damn book for a week or two? Jack wasn't doing anything with it. It was just taking up space in his apartment.