Todtman’s running days were over. He stood on a Cairo street corner, leaning on his jet-black walking stick. He had returned for one last look at the burned rubble of the building. Black smoke rose from the smoldering remains of old boards and older artifacts. Jinn had saved what he could, and now Todtman could only hope his friend would find safe haven elsewhere. His own possessions were lost; his cell phone no more than a mound of warped metal and molten plastic on the second floor.

Sirens sounded in the distance, just like the ones that had arrived far too late to save this building. Todtman saw a glow in the distance: another fire already blazing nearby. He didn’t know if The Order had found his refuge, or if the dangers of the haunted city had merely caught up with him. He did know this: There would be no more safe shelter here. He had to act fast now, to “force the moment to its crisis,” as his favorite poet had written.

He pivoted on his cane and headed into the night. The familiar click-clack was gone. Todtman looked down, pleased that something as simple as a circle of rubber on the tip of his cane could aid his mission.

He knew he would need all the help he could get as he headed into the dark heart of the city. He would find The Order headquarters this night, and he would do it not with the overworked eyes of an old man but with the timeless vision of a falcon. He had one hand free as he walked, and now he reached up and folded it around his amulet.

The location of The Order’s headquarters in Cairo was a closely guarded secret, but its members were not hard to find. There was a café in the old city where they were said to conduct their business openly now, and Todtman turned in its direction. He knew the city well, and that part of it had not changed in a very long time.

The streets were nearly deserted as he walked, a city of millions reduced to occasional skittering shadows and receding footsteps. Todtman knew why, of course, but the reminders were still jarring. A man stood on a street corner shouting nonsense and throwing his fists at empty air: shadowboxing. Todtman gave him a wide berth only to walk into a much closer encounter.

“No place for an old man,” the stranger spat in Arabic, sizing up Todtman’s crisp black suit and loose pale skin. “An old … American!”

“Ah,” said Todtman, adopting a cordial tone and responding in Arabic, “but old Germans can be found anywhere.”

“Do you think that’s better?” said the man. He took a step out of the shadows. Many of the city’s streetlights were dark now, burned out or broken, but the one above them still flickered grudgingly. As the man stepped farther into its glow, Todtman saw a kitchen knife in his hand.

Todtman gave the man a last, weary smile. He had tried. The blade flashed out fast — but not fast enough. The man was already spinning up and away, tossed through the air like a Frisbee. He hit the pole of the streetlight, and his troubled night came to an oblivious end as he slid limply down to the sidewalk. Todtman continued on.

Outside the café, a man stood guard. Todtman needed no supernatural assistance to know whom the man worked for. He approached him directly. The man’s eyes grew round with surprise. The guard reached for something inside his light linen jacket.

“No,” Todtman said, and the man stopped. “I will not go inside this place. I will not jeopardize your duties as a guard. It is you, in fact, that I want to talk to.”

The man nodded, his hand dropping to his side and his eyes glazing over. The man could not see the amulet Todtman was holding, but he could certainly feel its effects. The Watcher was a complicated symbol. It meant different things in different contexts, but right now it meant overseer. Right now, it meant boss. And a man like this — a hired hand, used to taking orders — was well within its powers.

“I am looking for a place,” said Todtman. “A place you know well …”

Todtman posed his question and got his answer. As he turned the corner, the man’s eyes cleared. The guard scanned the sidewalk for intruders, then leaned back against the building. For some reason, he felt like he was forgetting something.

A cab sped down the side street and Todtman waved his cane at it. The cabbie had no intention of stopping, but he caught the man’s eyes as he passed and found himself pulling over anyway. He was glad he had when he heard the destination: a nearly deserted stretch in the warehouse district near the edge of the city. It meant a hefty fare and fewer crazies. He thought it would be safer. And it would be — if he drove away fast enough. If he escaped the whispering evil that hung over that area like a low, dark cloud.