The mystic was wrapped deep inside layers of cloaks, scarves and hoods. He regarded me with silent question and I avoided the faceless darkness by examining his clothes. Some were patterned in winding wires or curling vines dotted with flowers. Some were worn, ratty, and threadbare. Most bore cryptic symbols that had been painted on with something meant to look like blood. Although I suspected that all of it was carefully cultivated affectation, I wondered how much of it was actually necessary.

Dark rumors stained the place like oily fingerprints and few people spoke about the owner without looking around to make sure that he wasn’t lurking about. People had disappeared into the shop and not come out again. Like most rumors, the stories shared always came from a friend of a friend. Two of the most outlandish had him striking a man dead in the street and trading two fingers of his left hand for malign powers.

He spoke, his voice sliding out of him like gravel in a gutter. "So you wish to disappear . . . "