He then donned a new fedora.

It had been good to see Max Glaucous again, his young protégé, after so many decades—more than a century, really. As time wound down, the past seemed to bunch up, forming humps and valleys, difficult to judge distance or terrain…but no matter. Glaucous had always been a productive hunter, though by Whitlow’s standards a little brusque and obvious.

Whitlow himself had been in Seattle for over a month, having sensed a confluence, a drawing together of significant world-lines—well, of course, having been accorded the graceof some of the Moth’s vast well of knowledge. For one of the Moth’s talents lay in knowing when others were approaching points of desperate choice; and in particular, points of collision with the Chalk Princess or her employees: a specialty whose importance was not to be casually dismissed, nor discussed with the likes of Glaucous. Whitlow knew better than to come anywhere near Glaucous while he was collecting—knew even the danger of announcing his presence in Glaucous’s city. But their Livid Mistress expected her due, and Seattle was now home to at least two and possibly three targets.

The third target not only elusive, but problematic. Some in the profession doubted that one of this type would respond to any inducements, and yet might be more powerful than either of the others, or all of them combined.

The bad shepherd.

For decades, Whitlow had maintained a remote and watchful presence in cities around the world, without drawing attention from other hunters, and often enough without poaching their prey. For the Chalk Princess had, months after the Great War, set him a particular task: to find the one shifter who did notdream of that Citie over which she maintained, some said, eternal watch—in another existence. It was his custom to keep a cadre of irregulars on a payroll of money or drugs or both; a select few who lived their lives like insects under rocks, shy, watchful creatures with nothing to lose but their own brief, painful stretches of time. Fifty or so in most cities sufficed, randomly positioned. Shifters seemed to always come into loose contact with such unrooted beings, as if their own world-lines—so tightly controlled—were attracted to briefer and more ragged threads.

Might even merge with them—under some circumstances.

Whitlow had seen that happen 634 years ago, in Grenada. Had conditions worked out, had he—masquerading as a Jewish dealer in antiquities—managed then to capture his chosen prey, there would have been no need for all these subsequent centuries.

The mummer called Sepulcher was one of his, and had alerted him to the existence of a Shifter named Jack, whereabouts otherwise uncertain. That was Glaucous’s prey.

And now, another scout was telling tales. Six blocks east, the thin, angular woman named Florinda stood in the shadow of an awning over the entrance to a small bookstore. She was speaking with a plump older woman with white hair and a round, finely wrinkled smoker’s face. Florinda sensed Whitlow’s approach and craned her head until her neck corded like rope. Her eyes opened wide, startled, expectant. As Whitlow and Florinda spoke, the white-haired old woman mumbled and stared blankly at the street. Afterward, Whitlow paid Florinda in her most desired coin.

And that night, as she lay beneath a freeway overpass, drifting in and out of drugged sleep—rain pattering on her blue tarp, and the first few, distant flashes of lightning picking out her sweet, cooling, smoothing face—she slipped free of all this world’s lines and binding threads. In his tiny studio apartment, Whitlow pushed back his head, closed his eyes, and smiled as if at a beautiful passage of music, waiting for the storm to gather strength and take a shape—a familiar, feminine shape.

Only days until the end.

And always the unanswered question: Why do our giants bother with such tiny grains? We swirl all pointless and ignorant in the great wet surge of worlds.

Why care at all?

CHAPTER 32

Queen Anne

Jack sat in the dark at the small kitchen table, warm cup of tea in hand, but tea this early morning provided no comfort. Burke was late; maybe he had hooked up with his waitstaff friends and gone clubbing.

Except for a heavy rain and flashes of lightning to the south, quiet. He looked at the clock on the stove. TwoA.M .

Burke kept a phone under a pillow behind the couch. He often slept through the day but was superstitious about turning off the ringer; hence, the pillow.

Jack fingered the piece of newsprint. The 206 prefix would be a local call. No additional charges on Burke’s precious phone. The worst that could happen, he might connect with a lonely crank and they would compare the dismal weather and their boring nightmares. That in itself might not be a bad thing—a sympathetic ear.

He reached under the couch to remove the pillow and retrieve the phone. The answering machine mounted beside the cradle blinked red: forty old messages and two new ones. Burke was superstitious about erasing old messages. The first new message was from someone named Kylie at the Herb Farm. The second was from Ellen.

“This is for Jack. My apologies. That was a bad start. I thought it would be fun to talk things over with the girls. Your exit was impressive. Could you do it again—on cue?” She sighed. “I found the newspaper, Jack. This must be a difficult time for you. Don’t be rash. Please. Call me immediately. Whatever you do, do not—”

The machine beeped, its memory full. He touched the box in his pocket. Three numbers to choose from. Harborview, the classified ad—or Ellen. More out of embarrassment than anger, he did not want to speak to Ellen now. He stared at the western corner of the living room. Two walls meet the ceiling. Three lines make a corner. Push the corner out like a rope, to infinity…twist all the lines together…much stronger.

Which path, which consequence?

Now you’re just being irrational. Make up your mind.

He jerked as if someone had puffed into his ear.

Get it over with. There’s work to do, and either you’re going to help or you’re not. Just dosomething.

He picked up the phone and dialed the first number that came to his fingers. Naturally enough, it was the number in the ad—and he was calling a complete stranger at two in the morning. Somehow it felt right—a sweet pathway.All would be well. It was picked up at the other end before the first ring had finished. “City desk,” a husky voice said.

“Journal of Oneiric Fancies.”

“Is this the number to call…about dreams?”

“Does it sound like it is?”

“I have the wrong number—I’m sorry.”

“Explain yourself. It’s still early.”

“I need to know about the Kalpa,” he said. He sucked in his breath and masked the mouthpiece with his hand, startled by that word—that place.

“Name and address, please.” The voice was raspy, confident—not a bit sleepy.

“Beg pardon?”

“You asked about the Kalpa,” the voice said.

“I don’t even know what that is.”

“Are there lapses? Lost moments?”

“I think so.”

“How often do your dreams occur, where and when—petty details.”

“I’ve seen a doctor—”

“No doctors. I need details. My pen is poised.”

“Is this some sort of a business? Who are you?”

“My name is Maxwell Glaucous. My partner is Penelope Katesbury. We answer calls and sometimes we answer questions. Time is short. Now…your name and call number, please.”

“My name is Jack. My phone number—”

“I have that. A call numberis what I am after. You have been issued a call number, have you not?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

“There issuch a number, you havesuch a number,” the voice said with certainty. “Go find it, then call again, I suggest sooner rather than later. If someone else should learn about your lapses, it might not go well for you. We can help, however.”