Mammon had consulted Dantalion frequently enough in the past to know the system of organization—Hall QB, row 94, case K, shelf 7, volume H, page 391—but it was still a struggle to reach his answer: from the grand basilica in which he found himself now, he would have to make his way to Hall QB, passing first through Halls A, B, C, D, and E, all the way down to Hall Q, at which point he would turn to Hall Q’s offshoots, pass through Hall QA, and finally arrive in Hall QB.

It would be a long and lonely walk—Dantalion had made sure of it.

The halls were huge, round, identical, and imposing. Each was lit by a circular stained-glass skylight far above, bearing the appropriate letter or letters, and the diffuse moonlight that filtered down into the still rows of bookcases was somehow just enough to see by and yet not quite enough for comfort. The bookcases themselves were tall and thin, climbing hundreds and hundreds of feet up toward the vaulted ceilings. Most of their shelves were inaccessible without scaling one of the rickety rolling ladders, but, double-checking his card, Mammon breathed a sigh of relief—only the seventh shelf.

It had always been cold in the stacks of Dantalion, but Mammon wasn’t sure it had been quite this cold before. Despite the brisk pace of his step, his sharp teeth were beginning to chatter like a jittery telegraph key.

Before long, he discovered the reason for the frigid temperature: the skylight in Hall O had been partially shattered. Snowflakes wandered down lazily from far above, and all the bookcases on the left side of the main aisle had tilted and fallen.

He would have to make a point of informing Dantalion’s attendant. A broken skylight meant an unmonitored point of entry. They couldn’t have people coming in to examine the books unauthorized—after all, the catalog of Mammon’s Treasure House was somewhere here.

Not that it would be simple for an intruder to find any particular volume without help. The books themselves, in accordance with Dantalion’s aesthetic, were scrupulously uniform, neatly organized, and entirely inscrutable to the unguided, each covered in an identical binding of unmarked brown leather.

Mammon’s step quickened as he turned into Hall QB—nearly there now—and he made his way swiftly down the numbered rows, pausing at the dim mouth of row 94 to check his card again.

This was it.

He was just setting off in search of the proper bookcase when he froze in place.

Footfalls.

Dashing footfalls.

He could’ve sworn that somewhere nearby, someone had been running.

But there was no one anywhere to be seen.

This was not entirely unexpected—Dantalion strongly preferred to receive visitors individually, so much so that he had a way of hiding them from one another even when they were in the stacks at the same time.