The box spoke back. “Black trench coat,” it said.

Karas spoke the wonder on all their minds. “Is that suhupow?”

Darsal knew it had to be. Surely no man was small enough, no matter what world, to fit into such a small box. The two warriors seemed as stunned by them as they were by the talking box. They fixed their eyes on Papa.

“No quick moves,” the one said.

Darsal lifted her hands to set him at ease. “We mean no harm.”

“What’s with him?” the warrior asked, nodding at Papa. “Are you contagious, buddy?”

“Papa,” the Scab said. “My name is Papa, not Buddy.”

“Yes,” Karas said. “Papa is contagious.”

The man immediately lifted a hand to shield his mouth and nose. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Nonsense!” Papa boomed. “She’s only making trouble. Depending on how you look at it, one of us has a skin condition, and for the sake of argument I’ll accept the role. But it can’t spread!”

“Then how did you get it?” Karas pushed.

Darsal glanced at the young girl. “Karas, please.”

“I’ve always had it,” Papa said.

“You turned into a Scab when evil was released from the Forbidden Circle. If you bathed in one of the lakes, you might know that.”

It occurred to Darsal that crafty prodding by Karas might play to their advantage. She scanned the shelf above the counter.

On it sat four Books of History, exactly as Billos said he’d seen the three. Clearly the books ended up here when one entered them. And if he was right, only they could see them. Their way back to the forests waited for them.

Then again, these four books could also take anyone to Earth, the Earth that Alucard had traded his book for, wherever that was.

It was strange to think that at this very moment they were neither in the desert reality nor in this reality called Earth, but trapped somewhere between. In the cover. “In the skin of the worlds,” as Alucard had said.

Darsal shivered. You’ve made a mistake, girl. A very bad mistake that will haunt more than you.

“Forgive them,” she said to the first warrior who—evidently concluding that he was faced with imbeciles rather than killers—lowered his gun. “Karas is right. Papa is diseased, as you can clearly see. It affects his mind as well as his flesh. The physician sent us here for four books, one of which contains the cure to his disease. He said they’d be on the shelf behind the counter.”

The warrior followed her glance to what he perceived was an empty shelf, then regarded her evenly. “Books, eh? Even so, this isn’t exactly a clinic. What would medical books be doing here?”

“Not medical books. Books of History that mention this uncommon disease.”

“Disease called what?”

“Called Teeleh,” Karas said.

Darsal nodded. “Teeleh.”