Through drenched grass, fetid puddles, and swampy bogs, he crawled.

How long he'd been crawling, he had no idea. Time had become stretched and thin, like a sheer cloth so well-worn that it was becoming transparent. He felt no pain -- had felt no pain in such a long time that he could barely remember pain -- but he did feel tired. His limbs were so sapped of energy that they felt like lead extensions of his body, and each pathetic centimeter of progress required a titanic exertion and every ounce of his willpower. But still, he crawled.

The wreckage of the farmhouse was far behind him now (was he still in the same borough? District? County? Why didn't this ridiculous country have states?) but he knew he couldn't stop yet. It was quite possible he would never be able to stop -- that he would be forced to crawl, blindly and obstinately, until his body gave out.

But that was fine. Worse ways to end up. Wasn't like he was going to give up, now or ever.

And so he crawled -- crawled on charred limbs that could no longer feel the ground they writhed across, staring with sightless eyes into darkness. Animated by nothing more than the slow, dull beat of an unstoppable will, the body of the man who had once been called Cameron struggled onward.

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Looking around the room, Enna blew out her cheeks in disappointment. "This isn't exactly what I'd hoped for, Orton."

Orton nodded. "Yeah, I know, you wanted the gold-plated toilet experience. Get used to disappointment." He dropped his bag with a groan and collapsed on the nearer of the room's two beds. The hotel was decidedly mid-tier -- the sort of accommodations which would, in a few years, be featured as "good value" on hotel websites. The room was spacious and clean, but shabby and a bit run-down, with faucets that technically worked and water that was technically clean. Beyond that, little could be said in praise of the establishment. "This is the best hotel we can afford without shifting any entropy around. If you want to get attacked by giant spiders or something, sure, we can stay at the Danielli, but I would have thought you were getting tired of that."

"I know, I know." Enna flopped onto the other bed, staring upwards at the room's excitingly sun-dappled ceiling, and let out a great sigh. "Well. Being a powerful sorceress was good while it lasted."

"Huh?" Orton stirred slightly -- he'd been starting to drift off. "What do you mean?"

"The book. I had to use it to destroy one of those Spawns, or whatever." She felt like crying, but was just too tired. "I know you said I didn't need it, but..."

"But you've had it with you ever since this all started. I know." Orton shifted uncomfortably. "If it helps, it's all still in your mind -- I'll teach you how to read it in your dreams. And store other books in your mind, too." He yawned. "If you still want me around, that is." He closed his eyes and rolled over, waiting for her rejoinder, but it didn't come. After a few seconds, he turned back to her. "Enna?"

At first, he thought she was crying -- all he could see was her back, curled up and turned away from him. But after a moment he recognized the slow, even breathing of slumber, and he relaxed. Probably for the best, he thought, and relaxed his own breathing as he went into a gentle trance.

Closing his eyes, he visualized the room as a sphere of transparent non-color, shot through with dotted areas of potentiality -- anchor points for the vector web of possibilities. Slowly, he performed meta-ritual after meta-ritual, shaking imaginary ash-wood sticks and burning bundles of imaginary sage in his mental representation of the eigenplatz. Inside his mind, the sphere which represented the room became stained with gentle pastel colors -- an ecru shell of foundational protection, shimmering mint-colored bands of obfuscation crossed with glinting cornflower stars of distraction, and a lightly golden glow of raw aspirational sanctuary -- and covered with runes and symbols from many languages, all describing and creating states of security and protection from dozens of differing perspectives. Satisfied at his work, he pondered delving into a dreamscape to study further; but the strain of his recent exertions weighed heavily on him, and Orton decided to simply have a normal, uncomplicated nap to rest and heal. Relaxing the tight bands and cords of his will, he pulled the blanket over him and began to drift off. He made it almost three hours into a normal and pleasant sleep before the door imploded.

Gentry, flush with power and only lightly dusted with debris and sawdust by the destruction, strode through the slowly-expanding cloud of splinters and fragments in an accelerated local time-frame as he glanced around appreciatively. Juliette, still drowsy and moving at normal speed, would take several minutes from his perspective to even begin to react; he could safely discount her, although he wouldn't be shocked if she managed to surprise him again -- that business with the spiders in Switzerland had been quite inventive. More on his mind, though, was the other mysterious stranger, who was reacting with lightning speed even as Gentry watched despite the massive temporal differential between them. The wards on this room had been powerful and quite intricate, and if it hadn't been for recent events concerning the scrolls of Zimpagani and subsequent revelations regarding the contents of the sealed box, Gentry suspected that he would have been either totally stymied or incapable of perceiving them at all. But the situation had shifted rather precipitously, and he intended to capitalize on his advantage while he had the opportunity. He couldn't attack any faster than normal in accelerated time -- attacks against a target brought them into your timeframe, or you into theirs -- but he could use his initiative as strategically as possible. He stepped forward deftly and sketched an intricate sign with his left hand.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Orton, who was still roughly nine-tenths asleep, could sense that something was dreadfully wrong; buried chains of subconscious invocation in his mind were firing off impossibly fast spells and activating somatic triggers in his body on their own in response to threats and events he didn't know about yet. All he knew was that his body was moving, that adrenaline was howling through his veins, and that he needed to comprehend the situation --

"Hello," said someone cordially. Orton, still mostly blind from disorientation, targeted the sound and dove towards it, only to slam into some sort of wall that was invisible not only to his five normal senses but also his four extra ones; rattled, he stumbled backwards. His body twisted and leapt of its own accord, turning upside-down in midair to spring off the wall and rebound towards the sound, but he was dimly aware of the shadowy figure -- intruder, threat -- raising a hand in a "stop" gesture. "Before you proceed", continued the voice, "you should know that I will kill your companion if you attack me again." As the words slowly penetrated his mind -- something was wrong, why was he moving so slowly -- the fact that he knew the sound of the speaker's voice drove home with a jolt of terror.

"Gentry," Orton gasped. His foe, slowly becoming clearer through the haze, nodded in a jerky, flickering motion; Orton instantly comprehended the time differential between them and aligned their temporal frames in less than an instant as he dropped off the wall and stumbled to a halt before his enemy. Gentry, finally resolving into his vision, blinked in surprise.

"My word," he commented offhandedly, "I can't say I've ever seen anyone do that before." He squinted at Orton. "You didn't even chant or gesture. Who are you? How did you know my name?"

"First things first," said Orton grimly. "Leave the girl alone." He tightened his hands into fists. Damn it, this is going all wrong. How is he always stronger than me?

Gentry shook his head. "I can't afford to be gentle with her, I'm afraid. Soon she'll finish waking up, and I'll have to deal with her one way or another. But you and I have a few things to discuss."

Orton sighed. "What do you want?" His hands groped at the air, clutching uselessly, as Gentry watched with amusement.

"Let's start with your name. You're obviously very powerful, and you seem to know who I am, which is both interesting and dangerous." Gentry sat calmly on a chair in the room's entryway, watching the debris cloud from the door's explosion as it continued to slowly expand and settle gracefully. "Take your time. I believe we have about three minutes before I'll be forced to kill her."

"Dennis Wilkerson," Orton growled through gritted teeth. "Denny to my friends."

Gentry sighed. "That's obviously not your true name. But I suppose it will do for now." He brushed his hands against the brilliantly white pants of his suit, then folded them primly. "So, Wilkerson -- if I may call you that -- do you happen to know why our mutual acquaintance there attacked me?"

Orton's mind raced. "She did it because I told her you were dangerous. Because of all the people you've killed -- all the people you're going to kill." He fumbled for words, trying to regain control of the situation. I can't let him learn too much. "What you're going to do."

"Do?" Gentry raised one exquisitely-groomed eyebrow. "What am I going to do? And how do you know? Are you a diviner?"

Orton nodded. "We both know what you've done. What you're planning to do."

Gentry's other eyebrow rose. "Enlighten me."

What is this? What's going on? Orton shook his head, as though to clear the cobwebs out of it. His power was drained, he was weak -- he wouldn't be able to maintain this temporal frame for long. "Just let the girl go. I'll do whatever you want."

The instant he said it, he knew he'd made a mistake, but it was too late. Gentry nodded, and then something happened he couldn't perceive -- a burst of temporal shear, a delayed invocation taking effect, and a distant sense of something roaring and grasping. He stumbled, and a clap of sound erupted around him -- the door's detonation, I'm back in real time -- as the burst of air punched him like a boxer. When he opened his eyes, his stomach dropped.

Enna was still lying on the bed, to all appearances unhurt; but he could tell something had been done to her. A shimmer, a suggestion of force around her jawline in his more abstract senses, showed him all too much. "You bastard," he spat. "That's the Binding of Dumah."

Gentry spread his hands. "What would you have me do? She's too dangerous otherwise. But don't worry -- as long as she doesn't speak or invoke, she won't be harmed." He learned forward, smiling genially at Orton. "As long as you complete the task as agreed, of course."

"What task? I haven't agreed to anything yet." Orton began to sweat again. Despite his protestations, he knew that Gentry could use his earlier words against him -- with the proper power, he could indeed be bound to complete a task yet unnamed by his careless words. Idiot, you walked right into it.

"Nothing too strenuous." Gentry steepled his fingers, looking over the tips at Orton with cool, callous disdain. "Just retrieving the Eye of Alma Mayasha."