“Night’s marching on.” I wanted to be back on task. “After the Causeway, I’ll take the pass-thrus. Over past Saint Pat’s.”

“Give him my love.”

“I’ll just be passing by.”

He was wishing I’d go in and light a candle for him. Did it once, at a downtown church kept open by Revelations, the God den. Its roof was half gone, but they held daily service there, rain or shine. I went in to see if church felt like something I might have done before. But, no, not a tingle. I don’t do religion now and I didn’t do it then. Pretty sure of that.

Another burst of night noise made me jump. A banging and clattering this time, too close and nearing.

We ducked instinctively, then crab-walked along the fence to where the dead shrubbery made a screen. Four or five dim figures moved east along the far side of the park.

“Not pickers,” murmured Rubio. “Way too loud.”

“And too many of them.”

“What are they dragging?”

“It’s got wheels.” I caught the rhythmic squeak of an axle. “A cart of some kind?”

As we squinted through the brush and tree trunks, one pair stopped to yank on the battered planks barricading a front stoop. The gate resisted with a tortured screech, then collapsed in a heap. They tossed the pieces on top of their load. Clatter, thud, clang, repeat. People who make that much noise in the night city are either insane or figure they can take on whatever comes along. Or both.

“All anyone ever does in this city is destroy things!” I hated the waste. “Friggin’ random violence!”

“Shhh!” Rubio shifted sideways for a better view. “Wooden wheels. Handmade. They’re like something out of a Bruegel painting.” Then he laid a hand on my arm and hissed so low I could barely hear him. “Maybe not so random. Don’t freak out, okay? I’m thinking Storm Worshippers, harvesting fuel for their next bonfire.”

“What! Stormies?” I shrank into myself, ready to run. “The real thing?”

“It’s a guess. Sit tight. They’re too busy to notice us.”

They did seem engrossed in their vandalism, plus heading away from our planned routes. Once my heart slowed some, I made a closer study: three men, two women. Thin, dirty, and bedraggled, like the rest of us downtowners. No horns on their heads, no hooves on their crusty bare feet.

I told Rubio about the video Jenn had found. “But these all have clothes.”

“Yeah, the bare-ass thing is only for their bonfires.”

“How do you know?”

He shrugged like he had a secret source, likely just the usual gossip and den lore. If he’d seen Stormies before, he’d have boasted about it.

“Don’t look like much, do they.”