Cast aside all notion of manners. Do not greet him, do not ever say please or thank him. Do not ask him if he would or could do something. Give him no food or succor. There are older meanings in these things and they will either free him or give him power over you. Sometimes it is very little power, and sometimes it is all the power he needs to achieve his ends.
Put aside all metal and reflective things before entering the tower room, and ensure the space remains dark. He exists in a more abstract capacity, whatever physical forms he takes, and if his image is cast in a surface, he will exist in that surface, allowing him to step free of that surface and the confines of the circle. For these same reasons, do not ever look directly at him, even for a moment, lest he be reflected in your eyes. Rest assured, he will not ever step free once he dwells there.
He perceives the passage of time differently than we do. He’ll be content to sit in the circle I drew out until the sun grows cold. For him, the conversation is ongoing, and you’ll need to see the notes on his page in Dark Names so you can continue from where I, and each member of our line, left off. Failure to do so may confuse or irritate him. In any case, you can come and go, and he’ll see no difference in it. He does not speak, which led me to use the shorthand for gestures you’ll find on the final page of his entry. Please maintain those notes consistently, for those who come after you.
If you intend to deal with him, use one of the templates outlined in Dark Contracts, which I left to the right of the desk. Page 15, 17, 29 and 77 are good places to look, if you find yourself in a hurry. Do not improvise, for words must be chosen with utmost care. The final third of the book has recommended terminology with examples, which you can insert into the templates as needed. Do not trust Mr. Beasley or his firm for assistance. They are, quite naturally, unreliable on this front.
Failing all else, keep your eyes on the painted circle, stay silent, and keep to the contracts found in my books. You can consult my texts if you have any further questions. I regret that I am unable to assist you here,
R.D.T.
“What is it?” Rose asked. “The look on your face scares me.”
The look on my face? I touched my face.
“You look like someone just died.”
“No,” I said. “No.”
I moved to put the letter down on the desk, and it slid off. I picked it up again, tried to put it on the desk, and the corner of the paper caught, bouncing it out of my hand and back onto the floor.
On the third attempt, I turned it over, examining it under the light. Sky blue ink on white, barely visible, outlining a script that was reminiscent of the rune that Laird had drawn in sugar.
Holding it firmly in both hands, I set it down on the table, pressing it down in place. It stayed.
A moment later, as I turned to make sure I’d put the book away properly, I generated a brush of air that sent the letter to the floor again.
Once disturbed, apparently, it was insistent on staying disturbed.
Experimentally, I tore it, a little tear to cross the sky blue symbols. When I put it down this time, it stayed down.
“You’re scaring me, Blake.”
“She left something behind,” I said.
“Something?”
“Something Other. Fitting to her particular specialty. It’s upstairs.”
“No.” Seeing Rose, I had a sense of how I probably looked.
“I need to check,” I said.
There was no argument this time. Chances were good she was too stunned to say anything.
The black-painted key in hand, I made my way up the ladder, out the door to the top floor, and then up the staircase to the tower room.
I checked everything, then pulled off my sweatshirt, in case the tab on the zipper counted as reflective. I swept my hands over my entire body to double-check.
The key clicked in the lock. I let the door swing open. When I moved my eyes, I did so with care, keeping to the periphery of the room, then inching closer.
The round window jutted out to my right, with a cushioned bench beneath for sitting on. Once upon a time, it would have been a good spot for reading. Now, it was shuttered and locked, with old books stacked on the bench like bricks. A table sat to my left, stacked with papers that were securely weighed down.
The floor… I saw the circle, painted in white. ‘Circle’ was perhaps an understatement, given the concentric circles and lines that sprawled across the floor, burdened with embellishment, scripts and geometric shapes, as well as other smaller circles hosting more of the same.
It didn’t take long for my eyes to see it.
A pair of shears, no doubt fallen from the table, impaled a line in the innermost circle of the diagram on the floor.
Nothing stood within.
1.07