After ten minutes of harassing the Dormentalists, Jack checked his watch. Any second now . . .

Sure enough, right on time, a group of Temple Paladins spilled from the entrance. Their military jackets were a deep burgundy instead of gray. Known as TPs, they functioned as the cult’s security force.

“All right, you Wall Addicts. How many times do we have to tell you? Move away from the door!”

“We’ve got as much a right to be here as anybody!” Jack shouted, for the simple purpose of establishing his presence among the Kickers.

The usual pushing and shoving match began. Soon the NYPD would arrive and break it up. Jack always made it a point to be gone by then.

A super-size TP, looking like a grape Kool-Aid pitcher, appeared in the doorway carrying a cardboard box.

“Attention TPs!” he bellowed. “They’ve been declared ‘In Season.’ Come and get ’em!”

In Season . . . Dormentalese for an enemy of the cult who was to be eliminated by any means necessary.

The TPs surrounded the new guy and pulled billy clubs from the box. Then they charged. The Kickers outnumbered them, but the Kickers were unarmed.

A TP with short blond hair and bad skin took a diagonal swing at Jack’s head. Jack shifted to the side and grabbed the guy’s arm as the baton went by. He pushed it farther in its present direction and brought his knee up against the back of the elbow, hyperextending it. The TP screamed and dropped the nightstick. As Jack grabbed for it, he saw another TP taking a grand-slam swing at him.

Why was he so popular? Because he’d shouted?

He pulled the first TP into the path of the blow, hearing him grunt as it hit his shoulder. He picked up the first’s nightstick and rammed it into the second’s solar plexus, doubling him over. Then he jabbed him in a kidney. The guy went down.

“Hey, you’re pretty good with that.”

He looked around and saw Hagaman grinning at him. Behind him on the street he saw someone step out of his car and raise a camera.

He ducked his head and handed Hagaman the baton.

“Let’s see what you can do.”

Time to move.

As Hagaman charged into the melee, Jack turned and strode off. The Kickers would remember him as someone who spoke up when challenged and gave better than he got in the fight. His Kicker credentials were reconfirmed. No need to be on camera or present when the cops arrived.

Time for a beer. He’d earned one.

4

Ernst Drexler ended his phone call and turned to find someone standing in his office.

No, not someone. The One.

He shot to his feet and broke out in a sweat as he always did in the One’s presence. The man—no, he was something more than a man—frightened him to the core, especially the way he entered and left rooms without warning whenever he pleased.

“You’ve located the troublemaker,” the One said—a statement, not a question. “Who is he?”

“Surprisingly, it was a woman.”

“What is her name?”

“We, um, don’t know yet. But she won’t be bothering us anymore. That I can guarantee.”

“Nothing is guaranteed.”

“Yes, sir.”

In apparent deep thought, the One wandered the office. Ernst observed him as he waited for him to speak. His appearance had undergone subtle changes lately. His frame seemed smaller, his skin tones just a shade darker, his features softer, the brown of his hair deeper. All incremental, nothing dramatic, but right now he could pass for Hispanic. Ernst wondered why. Some reason beyond vanity. The One was anything but vain.

Although he did seem to enjoy good suits. He wore dark blue silk today, with a white shirt and a maroon tie. He tended to look like a businessman.

Ernst preferred the opposite. As a young man he had begun wearing white, three-piece suits, no matter what the season, and had continued the practice into his sixties. He did not feel his age, knew he did not look it, and was glad of that. He confessed to a modicum of vanity.

Finally the One turned to him.

“The Orsa is awake.”

The news startled Ernst.

“It is? I had no idea. I was going to check on it later when—”

“I sensed it awaken a few hours ago. We must waste no time. The Fhinntmanchca process must begin as soon as possible.”

“Yes, of course. This is wonderful.”

“It won’t be truly ‘wonderful’ until the Fhinntmanchca successfully completes its task.”

“Of course. The Order—”

“I am not leaving it up to the Order. The High Council consists of seven egos who will have to agree on how to proceed. I want no delay. The Septimus Order deserves untold credit for its efforts so far.” He jabbed a finger at Ernst. “But I am putting you in charge. You personally, Ernst Drexler.”

“I exist to serve.”

As Ernst bowed his head, he fought to keep his knees from buckling. He had assumed that, as actuator for the High Council, he would do most of the work, but would share responsibility with the council. But now the One was laying responsibility for the successful creation of the Fhinntmanchca—something that had never been done before—entirely on his shoulders. Should he fail . . .

He did not want to think about that.

He hesitated, then cleared his throat. “Existing lore is vague on the precise purpose of the Fhinntmanchca. If I may be so bold to ask—”

“You may. Should you succeed in your task, you shall have your answer. Should you fail, it will not matter to you.”

Ernst swallowed. He did not like the sound of that.

The One stepped to the window and looked out. “One of these Taints should provide suitable raw material.”

Ernst moved to his side and saw the usual group of Kickers clustered outside the Lodge’s front entrance.

Taints . . . the archaic term for people like the Kickers. And they should indeed provide ample raw material. After all, the Ancient Fraternal Septimus Order had loaned Hank Thompson and his followers the use of this Lower East Side Lodge. He was surrounded by Kickers.

The question was: Which one fit the requirements?

He looked around.

The One was gone.

5

His sister didn’t answer his knocks, so he tried his keys. He heard the latch snap back as he twisted it in the last of the three locks on her door, but he didn’t push it open right away. He was afraid of what he might find.

She called every day at six P.M. sharp. But not today. He didn’t always answer the six P.M. call. She didn’t expect him to. All he had to do was recognize her number on the caller ID and he’d know she was okay. Any other call he’d answer, but the sixer was just her way of checking in.

No call today.

His older sister—older by less than two years—was a loony bird but a punctual one. Her looniness had a compulsive component. She wouldn’t skip the call. Something was wrong.

Earlier he’d been overcome by an uneasy feeling. He hadn’t had a clue as to why, but he’d felt as if something awful were about to happen. Then he’d glanced at his watch and seen that it read 6:07.

She was late. And she was never late.

So he’d called her home and heard only her voice-mail message. He’d called her cell and heard the same.

Something was most definitely wrong.

So here he was, outside her door, fearing what he’d find on the other side. Not violence. The door showed no sign of damage or tampering. Not that he expected to find any—ever. His sister’s fears that someone might come after her for what she knew were as unfounded as her wild conspiracy theories.

His concern was more for her health. She didn’t take care of herself.

Strange how time had changed them. As kids she’d been the slim, picky eater and he’d wolf down anything that didn’t wolf him down first. Now he carefully watched what he ate while she lived on takeout.