In the secret recesses of his heart, Yasha had always been fond of autumn. There was something about a brisk walk among crisp fallen leaves, rainwater washing the air anew, one's scarf slung just so around one's neck, the very image of a brooding poet-slash-academic.

Unfortunately some of the aforementioned leaves and rainwater have combined into a slick paste, which was why Yasha just had a very dramatic pratfall and was now nursing his wounded dignity and bum.

Casting furtive looks around in hopes no one witnessed this temporary disgrace, Yasha attempted to get to his feet.

"Ouch, that looked painful."

Yasha attempted a game smile as he turned to greet… drat, was it Matt? Mike? Something along those lines. "I'm fine, thank you for your concern." He waved off Mark's (?) proferred hand and brushed off leaf particles. "How about you? We haven't spoken in ages." In truth, he couldn't recall when or where they last spoke, but as the man was not a member of Yasha's department that statement probably held true.

The fellow sighed. "Sucks," he said bluntly, kicking at a pile of leaves with scuffed sneakers that have seen better days. "Broke as hell, my apartment's a shithole, and now your boy threw me out of the club."

"He is not my boy," Yasha said automatically, flabbergasted. "What do you mean, threw you out?"

The man stuck his hands in his hoodie pockets. "What does it sound like? He told me to pay membership dues or stop coming."

What on God's green earth? "Alex did that?"

"Him or someone wearing a very convincing costume," said Micah – that was it, that was the name, but the gears in Yasha's mind were spinning too furiously to do more than acknowledge the information. "He's been a total dick, everyone says so."

Alas, dickery was no stranger to Alex Dale, a handsome gentleman of keen intellect and razor-sharp wit, founder of the Noether Club, and Yasha's ex-boyfriend.

Turning people away from the club, however, was unheard of. "Perhaps he's not well," Yasha temporized. Alex always did overwork himself into constant exhaustion and frequent collapses. Perhaps Yasha ought–

No, of course not, this was none of his business. "He does put a lot of effort into the club; surely he wants to feel appreciated."

"Yeah, no." Micah leant against a tree. Yasha found himself wistfully hoping that the bark would be full of sap and perhaps insects. "He didn't even organize any meetings for the last four months. Ilse picked it up, but if it wasn't for her–"

"Missed meetings?" Yasha said.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Micah recoiled. "Hey, what are you yelling at me for?"

Yasha swallowed his ire. "Of course, my apologies. I was merely surprised."

"Jeez. Some people." Micah shook his head. "Yeah, he just disappeared and nobody heard from him for three months."

Three months. Yasha's heart beat with sickly rapidness, his palms clammy. In lieu of wiping them on his jacket, he balled them into fists. Three months could hold many twists and turns in a young man's life. What was Alex doing? "Did he leave no message? No way to contact him?"

Eyeing Yasha like an unexpected midterm, Micah said, "How the hell should I know?"

"Right. Right." Why should this young hooligan care? To him, the club must have been no more than a cheap diversion. "Thank you for the information."

Yasha would simply have to investigate matters by himself.

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Of course, Yasha could hardly attend the meeting of the Noether Club himself. The club was Alex's pride and joy, the apple of his eye, his most darling Clementine, and Alex very firmly maintained ownership of it in their less-than-amicable breakup. Yasha was not to set foot on the premises.

If Yasha were to linger right outside of the entrance, though, who would censure him? The street, after all, was free.

The club itself was a space on the bottom floor of an apartment building. The doors, once transparent, were covered in a dizzying jumble of stickers applauding the queer, the immigrant, the disabled, and decrying the haters thereof with crass yet effective vernacular.

Considering the theme of the club, the stickers contained vanishingly little of paganism, astrology, alchemy, or indeed any of the better-known forms of the occult. Nor was there any sign naming it. Those who came to the Noether Club arrived by word of mouth, handpicked, and they knew what they were seeking.

Yasha took shelter in a nearby bus station, ostentatiously picking up his annotated copy of Don Quixote and leafing through it. The club was hardly soundproof, allowing Yasha a good opportunity to soak in the ambience.

Currently, said ambiance consisted of a lively debate between several individuals of dubious sobriety and an arguable grasp of an indoor voice.

"–kind of nutjob does a summoning without a basic circle of protection?"

"It was getting in the way of the aetheric resonance!"

"Fuck off, do you want to end up possessed? That's how you get possessed!"

Then another voice, quieter but made distinct through long familiarity, interrupted. "Shut up, all of you."

Yasha flinched, almost dropping his book. The voice was achingly well-known, stirring memories best left to rot. The tone, however, was new. Alex had his share of sharp edges, but that voice was fit to cut a man in two.

The fool who rallied against the most obvious caution showed further idiocy. "Look, I was just saying–"

"I said shut up."

In the street, a tram alighted at a nearby station, and a child out past their bedtime began to shriek. From the club, however, there was absolute silence.

Finally, words came in Alex's voice: "This is stupid bullshit. The proper procedures are noted in the club guidelines, which you'd know if you actually read the fucking things. Follow them or don't; get yourself exploded by aetheric discord for all I care. But stop wasting everyone's time with this."

"Alex, is this really necessary?" That was Ilse's voice, warning.

Another silence, briefer. Then, "I guess it fucking isn't," Alex said, and stomped away so loudly Yasha heard his footsteps clear in the street.

Yasha held onto his book for dear life, mind and heart racing. This was no brief illness.

Alex could be snappish. Alex could be rude. And when members of the club were behind on rent, Alex would hustle up the funds and arrange for them to appear in the member's account, as if by magic. Yasha had heard Alex explain the same bit of magic lore and safety over and over, and never run out of patience.

Something was horribly, terribly wrong.