Gentry was fascinated. He absolutely couldn't put the book down.

He'd started off studying the language -- Chinese, apparently -- but that had been slow going, and he had a great deal of difficulty figuring out a lot of the background context. The librarian, whom he was considering not even killing, had suggested a book in English about Chinese culture to help him figure out what he was missing, and he'd been completely riveted by it. He'd been reading it nonstop for nearly eight hours now.

In his previous life as John Walter Valentine, Gentry had been a sheltered child of privilege and neglect; his grounding in cultivation had been limited entirely to the mores and customs of power and status. He had been trained in when to speak, and when to be silent; when to be respectful, and when to lord his status over others; and, above all else, had received exacting instruction in the various forms of social ladders and the attendant maneuverings which accompanied them. But when it came to matters of philosophy, ideology, mythology, and ontology, he was beyond destitute, possessing no erudition at all beyond a few scraps of pop culture he'd glimpsed on the television. His reading experiences had been limited to textbooks and management guides, and he'd had no interest in film or music. And so, upon his first significant exposure to the rich, fractally complex world of such topics, he was entirely mesmerized.

He packed the old master's things into his case and moved quarters a half-dozen times, reading book after book as he slowly progressed in understanding and fluency. He could not later pinpoint the exact moment that his preoccupation became an intent, but by the time he had worked his way through the library's most enticing offerings, his mind was made up; he needed to see such things for himself.

The logistics of such a thing, however, were quite challenging; without identification, international travel would be uncomfortable at best and impossible at worst. He fretted over the problem for several days until he unexpectedly caught a showing of a film called The Fugitive on a rather nice television in one of his temporary lodgings; he found its plot derivative, but its depiction of how to create fake IDs inspiring.

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As afternoon dimmed into early evening, Orton began his preparations; he had suffered entirely too many surprises already on this loop, and he was very keen on not having any more if at all possible. With his atman newly ascended to the second tier, his capacity for stored power was an order of magnitude larger than when he'd been returned to this body, so he could afford to spend some of it on longer-term preparations and still feel confident in having a reserve for any unexpected obstacles. He cast a few divinations, ensuring that no monsters or hostile magi would be near the area by random chance; that wouldn't help him against anything powerful enough to outspell his clairvoyance, but there wasn't much he could do about that anyway. Instead, he focused on proactive intelligence; he laid wards for three blocks in every direction, verified that the weather would be clear, and tried very hard not to worry. One way or another, he'd be done with Baton Rouge after tonight.

"This is boring," complained Enna for the tenth time. "Why do we have to wait so long? Can't we just burn it down now?"

Orton grunted. "First of all, because deviating from the schedule is asking for trouble; secondly, because setting fire to a building before everybody goes to sleep greatly increases our chances of being caught or having the fire put out; and thirdly, because our powers are stronger at night."

"Since when?" she shorted, tossing her coppery locks dismissively. "I thought we were wizards, not vampires."

"Quantum shenanigans, remember?" Orton checked his pockets, making sure he had at least five bucks in quarters at the ready. "The less our enemies can see, the more we can get away with, and the better we're protected from their attacks. As you grow more powerful, you'll naturally become more attuned to the twilight hours."

"What, so I'm doomed to become a night owl in addition to becoming a hobo witch?" Enna smirked. "You really oversold this whole package, Orton."

Orton grinned back. "In my defense, I was saving all the warnings and downsides for the final decision. It's not my fault you skipped the tutorial." She giggled and leaned against him; he risked a quick hug, then stepped away before things could get awkward. He was starting to learn her rhythms; in the heat of the moment, she wanted to be near him and be happy with him, but something always darkened her mood immediately afterwards. He suspected she was struggling with something -- lingering guilt from her perceived infidelity, maybe -- but saw no reason to intrude. They'd have a lot of time to sort things out.

At last, the appointed hour arrived; and, exactly as predicted, the two teen boys with nothing to do and everything to prove showed up and began to work up their nerve for mischief. Orton, appearing out of the darkness like Batman, gave them a stern look and shook his head, which had worked like a charm the previous two times.

"Wha-! Hey, pops, what gives?" said the older youth, a basketball-jersey-bedecked specimen wearing a stocking cap and huge sneakers. "Ain't you know this is a bad neighborhood?" His companion, wearing a backwards baseball cap and enormous puffy coat, mumbled an accompanying malediction around a mouthful of toothpicks.

Orton blinked. That's not in the script. After a moment, however, he realized his mistake; Enna hadn't been with him the previous two times. Apparently the sight of an attractive female had caused the two erstwhile arsonists' male egos to become prone to tumescence. He grimaced; under ordinary circumstances, he wouldn't have cared, but they needed to keep things quiet here. "Enna, feel like sending these kids home to their mommies?"

Enna grinned a little nervously, then leaned in close to the teens. "As... aspar, uh... apasarāgrataḥ."

Orton felt the power flow in a soft rush; the effect was immediate. The two delinquents blanched, then scrambled away as though someone had lit a fire under their backsides, crashing and sliding in their haste to escape as they rushed back to some safe haven elsewhere in the city. Orton laughed, but not too loudly. "There. Still feel like you aren't a sorceress?"

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

Enna stared after the young troublemakers, awed. "Holy shit. Holy shit, I did that."

Orton smirked. "Not to say I told you so, but--"

Suddenly, Orton's breath hitched as the strands of his clairvoyant web went up in flames; something was coming. Something powerful enough to not only evade his predictive castings, but to destroy his perimeter bindings merely in passing. "Uh. Uh oh. Shit."

"What? What is it?" Enna fell into a crouch, her hand whipping out the battered old butterfly knife he'd given her back when they'd first met. Orton winced; that was bound to be lousy with her aura by now. Oh well, he groused to himself. Doesn't matter now unless we survive.

"Something's coming. Something powerful." Orton motioned her to stay behind him, then snuck over to a corner and peeked around it. He could have cast his mind up to a bird or a reflection, but launching your mind outside your body with something powerful and dangerous around wasn't the sort of thing long-lived wizards did. They knew better.

As the mysterious presence drew closer, Orton shuddered; it was dark enough to be visible to his sight beyond sight long before its physical form could be seen, and powerful enough that its aura extended a goodly distance around it. He gripped a handful of quarters, then changed his mind and started rooting around in a trash pile for a melee weapon; high-velocity cupronickel wouldn't do much against an eldritch horror.

"Why are you freaking out, Orton?" said Enna, poking her head around the corner. "It's just some guy."

Orton's blood froze as the figure at the center of the aura sauntered into view. Black patent leather shoes, polished to a high sheen, caught the flickering light of the streetlamps before disappearing into immaculate tan slacks. A crisp, newly-starched white shirt, rolled up to the elbows and overlaid with a spotless apron of dark green wool completed the ensemble, and a nut-brown bald head wearing a grandfatherly expression of avuncular cheer sprouted like an evil weed from its neck. Nej, you motherfucker, thought Orton furiously, tell me you didn't do this. Nej's mocking laughter resounded in his mind in reply.

Ain't you know, Orton? said the engram, practically dancing with palpable exultation, I's juss a lowly ol' servitor. Cain't do nothin' outside my lil' own mental process... but bindin' a servitor Entangles you to it, and even a engram is always Entangled with its template. You done did this to yourself, white boy!

Orton cursed. "Balls. I got played, hard." He scooted back into the shadows, gesturing for Enna to follow. "That old sorcerer, Nej, is here. We're in deep shit."

"Huh?" Enna blinked. "I thought you said he wasn't too tough?"

"He won't be too tough for the me who was supposed to fight him seven years from now, no. The me of now is just barely able do ruach-tier parlor tricks; Nej is an evil old fuck who's mastered seventy-two of the shiko keitai." Seventy-six, corrected Nej in his mind gleefully. Orton snarled at the servitor to shut up. "And if he gets his hands on that book, he'll master all ninety-nine, and then he'll really be a pain in the ass."

"Fuck." Enna didn't really know what was going on, but she could tell it wasn't something to take lightly. "So what do we do?"

"You break into the bookstore, get the book, and run for it. Nej can track you, but he can't catch you, especially if I'm keeping him busy." Orton finally gave up trying to find a weapon in the garbage after throwing away his fourth beer bottle; Nej wouldn't even be slowed down by anything with that level of spiritual penury. "With any luck, I'll be able to trick or out-bluff him; I definitely don't want to fight him." In addition to being ridiculously outclassed, Orton still didn't have enough power to regress and restart the loop if he lost. This was exactly the sort of situation he was trying to avoid.

"G-get the book, got it. What's it look like? Is there a title?" Enna began jimmying the lock on the bookstore's door with her knife.

"It's a big, gothic-looking hardback with some tacky lettering on it that says 'Les Formes Élargies de l'Esprit - Au-Delà du Matériel', with no author. It's the only copy left." Orton didn't bother to mention that it was from 1912; no sense muddying the waters. "Once you find it, just run. Do not try to come back and help me, because either I'll be dead and it'll be pointless, or I'll be winning and you coming back will ruin it."

"Okay, jeez. I can see where I'm not wanted." She scowled and finally managed to get the door open, then hesitated a little. "Are you sure you're going to be okay?"

Orton grimaced. "The odds aren't as great as I'd like. But I'll make do."

She hesitated, then leaned close and gave him a dry kiss on the cheek. "For luck, I guess." Then she pressed the butterfly knife into his hand. "And there's that, since luck and a stabbing implement will probably get you further than luck alone."

Orton sighed. "Thanks. Let's hope I won't need it." He flipped the knife closed and shoved it into his pocket as Enna disappeared into the store. Mondays, he thought sourly. I am not a fan of Mondays. Taking a final breath, he squared his shoulders, clenched his buttocks, and trudged reluctantly around the corner.

Nej halted, bemused, as Orton stepped into view; he didn't have a clue who this young gentleman was, but he could sense his aura enough to know he wasn't a mortal. His exogenous faculties detected a small but incredibly dense nimbus of prismatic light surrounding the boy, which piqued his interest. "Well, now," the old sorcerer mumbled, "ain't you a rare bird. I'm a-guessin' you're the one what laid all them wards?"

Orton sighed. "Yeah. I was hoping to be done before anybody else showed up." He kept his comments carefully ambiguous; a practitioner as powerful as Nej could spot a lie with perfect accuracy just by watching the target's aura. "I didn't particularly count on a master like you showing up, though."

Nej sniffed. "Well, seems like you know enough to respect your elders, anyway. So I'll do you a lil' ol' courtesy in return, and shoot straight. I want a book from that there bookstore, and I aim to get it. If'n you stand in my way, I cain't promise it'll go well for you."

You might wanna listen to that there fella, Orton, cackled the engram in his mind. I reckon he knows what he's talkin' about. Orton resisted the temptation to scowl. How about you tell me something useful, he thought back, like some weakness he has, or maybe his true name? Advantages like that wouldn't mean much in the face of such a massive power disparity, but Orton was willing to take any help he could get. You wish, chuckled the engram in response. A servitor cain't be compelled to act against itself, 'member? And for the purposes o' the bindin', we count as the same fella. More laughter howled in his brain, and he cursed again. He was getting seriously outmaneuvered here.

Nej, sensing that more was afoot than the obvious from the polychromatic roilings of Orton's aura, decided to cut to the chase; he reached into his apron and withdrew a curving ceremonial dagger. "Now, I don't rightly know what yer plannin', son, but I'd just as soon not get bogged down in any lengthy undertakin'. So what say we get this show on the road." He murmured words of power, and shadows shot through with red lightning gathered as the blade lengthened into a crescent-moon shape of lambent amethyst.

"Shit," said Orton involuntarily. I am going to fucking die.