Manfred slipped out his front door and went up the steps into the pawnshop. The chilly night was silent, except for the tiny noises of the bugs overhead and the hum of the light. If there were this many insects in October, he hated to think of what it would be like in July. As the car outside had indicated, there was still a customer in the pawnshop, a woman. She was talking to Lemuel, who was sitting on the stool behind the counter. Manfred began browsing the shelves; there were so many to browse. The inside of the pawnshop was far larger than the outside might indicate.

The shelves and display cases were full of interesting things, dusty things, ancient things, deadly things—and many things that were out-and-out weird. There were freestanding shelving units and built-in cabinets, and there were antique pieces of cabinetry that were stuffed with other pawned items. There were wooden shelves and metal ones, and the wooden ones ranged from weathered and silvery to smelling of pine.

There was a section for old electric appliances; there was a section for weapons; there was a section for jewelry, for old clothes, for pots and pans, for “collectibles”; and there was one section for items so strange Manfred could not imagine how they’d be used. Manfred was instantly intrigued by that area. There was a very old book bound in wooden plates; there was a sort of sculpture—structure?—made of twigs bound together at odd angles with purple ribbon; there was a cloudy crystal ball; there was a Ouija board with an endlessly gliding planchette. Manfred felt the hair stand up on his arms. These objects were magic and eerie and subtly dangerous, and yet he felt he could examine them forever. The cases of guns were much less interesting in Manfred’s view, though Bobo had told him what a draw they were to other shoppers.

He was vaguely aware that the customer was concluding her transaction with Lemuel. Then, suddenly, she was by Manfred’s side. It was no woman, but it was a female creature. She was thin and angular, with eyes black as pitch. Her short hair was just as ebon, and it looked as though it had been cut in the dark with a dull knife. She leaned over to smell Manfred, her tongue flicking out in a most disconcerting manner, and she hissed at him.

Manfred held as still as a mouse hoping a cat will not sense its presence. But she seized his arm.

“Tassssty,” she said.

“Glinda,” said Lemuel quietly. “No. He’s a friend.”

The black eyes blinked more than once. Did she have two eyelids? Manfred did not twitch, much less speak.

“Ssssssshit,” she said, and released his arm. The next instant, she was gone.

“Buddy of yours?” Manfred asked, when he was sure his voice would be even.