A dejected Mabahazi sat in his office chair and stared pensively out the window. He’d just spent twenty minutes on the phone with a very irate Dr. Ibrahim Menclewski, famous neurologist and infamous necromantic surgeon. The doctor had berated him to the point that Mabahazi felt about as powerful as a summer intern.

“Why did Arrangement interfere in my affairs? Do you have any idea how much this cost me? Do you know how foolish I looked? Am I free to pursue my current plans or will Arrangement foul up those as well? Can you answer any of my damn questions?”

Menclewski’s voice still reverberated in his head and even as he replayed the conversation over and over, he couldn’t add anything to his end of it. Mabahazi had no answers. He had been a stammering, useless customer service representative unable to placate or reason with the man.

Even worse than feeling useless, however, was how weak he had felt—utterly spineless. In theory, his position at Arrangement should make him one of the most powerful people in the world. He should have an army of magicians, assassins, and monsters at his command and a treasure trove of arcane artifacts and knowledge at his fingertips. People like Menclewski and his cabal, and even the Iron Ambassador, should speak to him like royalty, with trembling voices afraid of incurring his wraith. Hell, he’d settle for being spoken to as an equal.

Instead, he continued to be kicked around like the court jester—a punching bag for frustrations that could not be directed at the true power of Arrangement still secreted away behind the damn iron wall. Conversely, he had the distinct notion if Menclewski was actually angry enough to send an undead monster to murder him, Arrangement would make no attempt to defend him or even take retaliatory action. He would just be butchered, forgotten, and replaced, probably by that buffoon Lefse.

With his mind turning to buffoons, his traitorous psyche brought Isaac Unknown to the forefront, which certainly didn’t help his mood. The Athenaeum oversaw hundreds of field agents and, with exceedingly rare exceptions, all of the assignments ran like clockwork. Even the psychopaths and murderers performed satisfactorily. The only jobs that ever had a hitch involved that milquetoast nomadic magician. Mabahazi had learned that whenever he had a work-related migraine, it was delivered to him by Isaac. Much to his chagrin, like his earlier emasculating verbal undressing by Dr. Menclewksi, there was nothing Mabahazi could do about it. He didn’t even have the power to fire a bad employee.

So, he sat there and stewed in his frustration and inadequacy until it boiled over. Not once had he used the phone on his desk if it wasn’t ringing. He never even touched it. But at this moment, rage overtook sense and the dam finally burst. He snatched the silent handset from the cradle, jammed it to his head with rebellious enthusiasm, assuming that the Voice would be there, and he intended to finally vent his grievances. But once he felt the cold plastic on his skin his anger evaporated, like an angry drunk who just realized he picked an unwinnable fight in a bar. Several weak squeaks escaped his throat before he tried to hang up, but he couldn’t move.

“Mabahazi,” said a voice through the handset. His previous indignation completely faded from memory. All he could do was tremble with whatever sin he’d just committed. “Mabahazi, I know you’re there. You need to listen to me very closely.”

It wasn’t the soulless, inhuman Voice. The voice sounded male and was actually sort of soothing. His words flowed together like a crooning melody. Somehow it reminded Mabahazi of a sweet taste, like honey, and it coated and dissolved what little remained of his sudden rebelliousness. Even his fear lessened, although it didn’t fade completely.

“Yes?” the librarian managed to reply.

“Patience, Mabahazi. You will be rewarded in due time, but you must stay the course. All will be revealed. Losing your patience and self-control now will cost you everything and we’ll simply move on to have higher hopes for your replacement.”

Then silence. No click of disconnection. No dial tone. Just a void of sound, as if he hadn’t been talking to anyone at all.

Holding his breath and moving slowly, as if the phone were filled with nitroglycerine, he hung up. Then, like a man reprieved from death row, he let out a whole-body sigh, poured himself a shot of vodka, straightened his tie, and went back to work.