In southern New Jersey, on a sprawling rural estate, sat a mammoth structure publicly known as Trumbull Manor. Built in 1871 it was a hodge-podge of designs—Queen Anne Revival, American Gothic, and a touch of Italianate Villa, as if created by an indecisive architect with endless funding. The surrounding landscaping, while not gracing the cover of any gardening magazines, was maintained just enough to strengthen the façade of it being the summer home of some reclusive millionaire.

Privately as the Athenaeum, the interior held one of the largest collections of arcane knowledge in the world. Every room had been stripped bare of antiques and artwork and filled with desks, bookshelves, folding tables and office cubicles for the army of bustling researchers referred to as librarians.

The lobby was bare except for a single pedestal, upon which sat an old-fashioned rotary phone. Ivory in color with ebony numbers, it was simple, elegant, and eerie. All the Athenaeum staff gave it a wide berth and Isaac did no different. With a shoulder brushing the wall he made his way past it.

Isaac’s librarian, a jolly-shaped Norwegian man called Lefse, would have made an impressive Viking on Halloween, albeit one who had done a bit too much feasting and not enough pillaging. With an eager hand, Lefse jotted down every detail, no matter how minute, of Isaac’s meeting with Maloc. The Demon-skin’s history. The Asphalt Devils. Isaac saw that Lefse even wrote down “King Shit”.

"So how many of these vacationing motorcycle enthusiasts did you get killed?"

"What? They were not enthusiasts. They were a hardcore criminal biker gang." Isaac knew his protests were for naught. "Five."

"And the bartender makes six." Lefse scribbled more notes. "Still not as bad as that time at the cultist ranch when Arrangement sent you after that magic goblet."

“For the last time, I didn't start that fire."

Isaac had grown used to these meetings but initially had detested the post-mission reviews. No self-respecting magician would enjoy revealing the nature of their tricks. Doing so was just antithetical to their being. But Lefse’s enthusiasm had helped win him over enough to make it tolerable. Besides, Isaac always left out any personal revelations, and occasionally an artifact or two.

With the tale finished, Lefse closed the folder. The label on it read Isaac Unknown. The Norwegian still didn’t accept that Isaac truly didn’t know his own last name, so he had created the moniker with a good-natured chuckle.

“Now let’s see the goodies.” Lefse set an ornate oaken box on the desk. The interior was lined with cloth and perfectly molded for the Black Tarot cards that Isaac placed in it.

Lefse’s mouth dropped open. “Black Tarot cards. I’ve never seen any in person.” Afraid to touch them, he shifted some around with his pen to get a better look. “How many are there?”

“Six.”

“Only six? I was under the impression Maloc would have more.”

“And he might have. But he only brought six to our meeting. He never really had any intention of handing them over.”

“Damn. Oh well, six is better than five, which would be better than four and is a heck of a lot better than three and so on.” He closed the box with a click. “I wish we could have a few days with them. So much to learn.”

“What happens to them now?”

Lefse frowned the way he always did when Isaac asked a question he didn’t have a long-winded answer for. “It’ll go to the basement. All the heavy stuff goes straight to the basement.” Isaac raised his eyebrows in lieu of his obvious follow-up. Lefse’s frown deepened. “In the basement is a sign that says no entry and an iron wall that not even the executive staff can get past. What lies beyond...” he let out a snort and tapped his pen repeatedly before leaning forward and lowering his voice, “I haven’t figured that out yet.”

Isaac shouldered his Everbag. “When you do, I’d be curious to know.”

“I bet. You know it’ll be tit-for-tat right? You’ll have to cough up, oh I don’t know, little details like your real name or who you apprenticed under.”

Isaac had no intention of answering but didn’t even have the opportunity to say something pithy before a deafeningly loud phone rang. They both winced at it, as did all the librarians. Not just because of the volume. It went deeper than that, piercing the psyche and rattling directly inside one’s mind.

“That’s for you, my friend,” his liaison said, suddenly uncharacteristically lugubrious.

“Yeah.” Each ring had a psychic poke that let him know that. Under each spine-vibrating briiiing he could almost hear his name being called.

With Lefse on his heels, he headed for the lobby. The uncomfortable effects of each clamorous ring had brought the bustling Athenaeum to a halt. People paused their tasks and peeked out of their offices. Isaac imagined this was how it would have been to be a student called to the principal’s office, with dozens of apprehensive, yet curious faces, lining up to witness the gallows walk.

It’s not that the phone rang rarely. Quite the contrary, Isaac knew it did so rather frequently. It was the ominous power and the haunting otherworldliness it exuded that kept the librarians from acclimating to it. They were charged with cataloging arcane knowledge large and small and yet the greatest source of magic in their midst remained a complete unknown to them.

No one knew who or what Arrangement was. They didn’t know where the calls came from. They didn’t know how it knew what it knew or how it created its assignments. Under the stare of dozens of eyes, Isaac answered the phone.

“Hello,” he said through gritted teeth, like anticipating the tip of an injection.

“Isaac,” said the Voice of Arrangement.

An old adage to describe a bad phone connection is that the person sounds like they’re talking from the bottom of a well. The voice that said his name was reminiscent of that—a static laced utterance whispering up through a drainpipe. It struggled to string words together like a winded old man, or maybe it just didn’t know how to breathe. He’d long assumed that it was something not human, attempting to speak like a human, calling from a place where no humans existed.

Isaac listened to its instructions as if tolerating an uncomfortable dental procedure and then quickly hung up. The assembled librarians, disappointed that nothing extraordinary had happened for the umpteenth time, resumed their duties. He rubbed his temples. It was more of a headache than any of his boozings had ever caused him. Yet he also felt profound relief that the Voice of Arrangement hadn’t said anything about the four Black Tarot cards he had left in his Everbag.

“That’s why around here we call it the Ivory Migraine,” Lefse said. “New assignment?”

“Yeah.”

“Any juicy details?”

“Guess I’m going hunting.”