“You know, when I was younger, I wanted to be famous,” I said, taking in the number of microphones and cameras waiting outside to pounce. “I wanted to be an astronaut, the first man on Mars. Or a scientist who discovered time travel and lived in a mansion guarded by robot sharks. Or Batman.”

“Your glasses would clash with the cape and cowl,” said Lena. “Besides, I’m not sure you could pull off the spandex look. I like the tie, though.” She leaned closer to read the silver type printed on the black silk. “Is that new?”

“I only owned one tie, and it had burn spots.” I glared at Smudge, who was resting at the bottom of a small rectangular cage clipped to my belt. A layer of fiberglass shielded me from the fire-spider’s heat, though if anything set him off, there was a decent chance he’d ignite the bottom of my suit coat.

I’d ordered this particular tie online. It was custom-made with the word OOOK printed in small, diagonal stripes, a tribute to Terry Pratchett and his orangutan librarian from the Discworld books. I loosened the knot and unbuttoned my collar. “Remind me to assign someone from my team to look into time travel. I want to take a trip to the seventeenth century.”

“I’ll bite,” said Lena. “Why?”

“The necktie supposedly originated with King Louis XIV. Thanks to him, millions of us have to walk around with a literal noose around our necks. If I go back and kill Louis, I’ll never have to wear these things again.”

“I’m ready.” Nicola wrapped her earbuds around a small MP3 player and tucked them away in an inside pocket. “Thank you.”

I squared my shoulders, feeling vulnerable and exposed without my traditional assortment of books. Today’s unpleasantness wasn’t over yet. What I wouldn’t have given for just one paperback and the chance to pull an invisibility cloak from its pages.

Lena flexed her hands. Tiny buds sprouted from her knuckles and fingers, a pattern of green dots that made me think of henna tattoos. “Remember, the press can smell fear.”

I pulled a box of orange Tic Tacs from my pants pocket, popped one into my mouth, and gave another to Smudge to keep him occupied. “All right. Let’s go be famous.”

Young Isaac had dreamed of fame.

Young Isaac was an idiot.

The shouts hit us like ten-foot waves as we stepped through the doors. Wooden barriers edged the sidewalk. Eight uniformed D.C. police officers worked to keep the crowds back, guarding the narrow path to our waiting SUV.

The first person to spit at me was an older gentleman to my left, wearing a charming SALEM HAD THE RIGHT IDEA T-shirt.