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The damp, a rarity in Denver, seeped into his clothes.

“Where did you get this lead?”

“One of the Guardian patrols noted it. It was weird enough that it made their report.”

Curious, Adam followed Jack into the gloom.

There was not much difference in walking here in body as opposed to spirit.

Adam still had his magic. He could have cast a glamour, giving himself a raincoat to match Jack’s or perhaps even conjured an umbrella or parasol, like the ones carried by the women he saw.

Two of them floated through the hazy air, in fabulous gowns and fanciful hats from a period of time he associated with England and steampunk cosplayers. The man accompanying them wore a tight-fitted coat and a top hat. He called to one of them “Madam! Madam!” in an accent that made Adam crave a cup of tea and a scone.

Until very recently, Adam might have stared. He would have at least smiled, but lately the spirit realm did not feel so wondrous.

There was a risk in being here in body.

He couldn’t simply dispel the spirit walk and run away if trouble found them. Not that he’d abandon Jack. At least the southern tower, and its Guardians, weren’t far, but invoking that sort of help would definitely give them away.

Things aged and darkened as Jack took them further into the neighborhood. The streetlamps did little to push back the pregnant sky. Here, too, were Lost Ones. They huddled in the alleys or milled about in the mist. One guy leaned against a lamppost, smoking a cigarette. Adam couldn’t place his clothing, but guessed he hailed from the fifties or sixties. One figure slumped against a house, just out of sight of its porch or windows. Whoever she’d been, she wasn’t moving, and if Adam had to guess, never would again. He hoped she found peace. He hoped she wasn’t who they’d come to speak with.

“This should be it.” Jack brought Adam past the body and into an alley.

It took a moment to discern the structure from the gloom.

A makeshift shack, it reminded him of the banshee’s shelter, only rather than cardboard, this bore a plywood roof held up by stacks and piles of waterlogged books.

Jack sank at the sight and Adam understood. He may not be a librarian, but there was something truly sad about discarded knowledge.

Jack knocked at the door of loose planks. Adam feared it would fall off.

They exchanged a look.

“Hello?” Jack called politely.

“What do you want?” a voice called from somewhere to their left.

The woman walking toward them wore a robe of thick canvas cloth and carried a large reusable grocery bag. Her hair was purple with white streaks. Like Jack, she wore a pair of round glasses, and like his, rain streaked the lenses.

“We came to see you.” Jack sounded nervous.

“Why?” The woman opened her bag and without really looking at them, she removed more books and added them to the pile of molding paper.

“I’m a librarian, and I need some help with a topic.”

“Do I look like a reference desk?”

“A redacted topic,” Adam added.

She looked at them, truly, for the first time. She took in Jack’s skin and copper wire hair.

“What are you?”

“Like I said, I’m a librarian.”

She grunted.

“Define redacted.”