I spied Connor hustling through the crowd, coming down the aisle in front of us.

“It certainly warrants a little bit of investigation,” the Inspectre said.

Connor came into our booth and threw his trench coat and bag underneath the back table. Inspectre Quimbley pointedly checked his pocket watch.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “There was another zombie scare downtown, so traffic was a bitch. Small outbreak, it looks like, but they’re getting more and more frequent lately.”

The Inspectre nodded. He turned back to me. “Why don’t you take Connor with you and see what you can find out?” he said. The stone-serious look he gave me left no doubt he was giving me Fraternal Order-level orders, putting me in charge. “I’ll man the booth by myself for a while.”

“Sure,” I said, hoping Connor wasn’t really paying attention.

I grabbed Connor and headed out in search of the short man’s booth.

“What the hell was up with that, kid?” he asked. He sounded good and pissed.

“Up with what?” I said, feigning ignorance as I dodged a pack of Live-Action Role Players dressed in fairy costumes.

“Why’s the Inspectre giving you our orders instead of me?”

“Oh,” I said, pausing to think up something. “That. It’s nothing. You were late so we just started discussing one of the Illinois gypsies who stopped by the booth.”

Somehow this seemed to mollify Connor, and he relaxed. “What did I miss?”

As we searched for the Brothers Heron booth, I explained the conversation we had had with Marten Heron. By the time I was done, Connor had spotted the sign at their booth, and the two of us walked over.

The Brothers Heron booth looked like a movie-set medicine show. Their setup consisted of an actual gypsy wagon, the kind I’d seen either in cartoons or on television shows where snake-oil salesmen would try to pawn their wares off on unsuspecting townies.

“Well, color me Romany,” Connor said with a whistle. “A bit theatric, don’t you think?”

Unfortunately, the Brothers Heron themselves were nowhere to be seen. As we approached the wagon, however, the incoherent sounds of arguing in a language I didn’t understand were coming from behind the wagon curtain, making it apparent where they were. I turned to Connor.

“Stay here,” I said.

“Excuse me?” he said, with a little bite to it.

“I just need you to distract them for a few minutes while I take a look back behind the scenes of their wagon.”

“Whoa,” Connor said. “I think we’re going to have to clear that with Enchancellors.”

“We don’t have to clear shit,” I said, feeling a little bold with power. “We don’t have time to fill out a bunch of forms or make some calls. I’m doing this under the authority of the Fraternal Order of Goodness, and that’s that.”

“And that’s what you’ll say if we get called out on breaking with Departmental procedure?”

I nodded. Connor shrugged, but I could tell that he was only feigning indifference. “Good enough for me. I’ll defer to your F.O.G.gie authority . . . this time.”

“Thanks,” I said, uncomfortable with the strange power play that had just happened. “I’ll be right back. Shop their table. Pretend you’re interested in their wares.”

Connor looked down at the table. It was covered with stoppered bottles, vials, totems, and fetishes. “But I am interested in their wares.”

“Good,” I said, walking off. “Then it shouldn’t be such a stretch for you. I’ll be back.”

I disappeared around the corner of the booth without giving Connor a chance to speak again.

I had to see what the hell was going on. I inched my way along the blue-curtained section behind the wagon as I followed the sound of the voices. I found the nearest seam and pulled it aside slowly, praying to God that I didn’t find someone staring back out at me.

The area behind the Brothers Heron’s shop held the Oubliette and also a clutter of various-sized packing crates. Three men stood around a broken crate that reached chest height, and none of them looked happy. The balding one called Marten was there, and across from him stood two others: one was Julius, the dark-haired Penn Gillette look-alike, and the other was a man in his early twenties who looked just shy of being a total Ichabod, with the same dark hair. I thought Marten had said his name was Lanford.

Even though I might have been able to read their lips while they argued, the language they spoke was still impenetrable. My best guess was that it was probably some sort of gypsy Cant.

“Excuse me?” I heard Connor call from out in front of their wagon. “Hello?”

Marten spoke and the three of them acted as one, slipping a tarp over the broken crate before stepping into the wagon. I prayed that Connor could keep them distracted long enough, and then I darted inside the curtain toward the crates, carefully sidestepping the Oubliette. I had to see what they were so eager to hide.

As I approached the tarp, I reached in my pocket for a roll of Life Savers and began scarfing them down. I didn’t know what to expect when I read the crate, but I didn’t want to pass out only to have the gypsies find me sprawled on the floor of their booth later. I wasn’t sure how threatening Illinois gypsies could be, but Julius had looked pretty imposing, so why take chances with a guy who could probably crush my head like a rotten pumpkin?

I slipped off my gloves and lifted the tarp along one side, exposing the shattered section of the wooden crate. It looked empty, but it was too hard to tell for sure from the shadows inside of it. I moved my head closer, but all that did was block the light and make it darker inside. There was a definite odd and unpleasant smell coming from it, though. I covered my mouth and nose, and stepped back. Maybe more light getting into the box might help before I dared take a reading off it. That was when I heard the gentle scratching of claws against wood coming from somewhere behind me.

I turned to find a stack of smaller crates. The one nearest the top rocked slightly and had air holes in it. I moved my face closer, hoping to catch a glimpse through one of the holes, but I jumped back as a wild chittering rose from the crate. The rest of the crates beneath it also sprang to life, producing unique noises that bordered on sounds that I could only imagine would be found in Lovecraft’s Cthulhu mythos.

“No, wait,” Connor shouted from out in front of the booth, no doubt for my benefit. “I’m very interested in these exorcism ear candles.”

“Dammit,” I hissed.

There was no time to take a reading from the crate. The Brothers Heron would be steamrolling back through their wagon any second. I threw the tarp over the broken crate and dove for the seam of the curtain I had come through. I darted back around the corner and down along the blind side of the gypsies’ booth before slowing down to turn the next corner in my approach to where I had left Connor.

Connor stood there with Julius while the other two brothers had disappeared, no doubt to check out the commotion from the back of their booth. Connor clutched two long, hollow candles in one of his hands, reminding me a little bit of the Statue of Liberty. His eyes bored into me questioningly, and I gave the slightest shake of my head no in response.

“Look,” Connor said, feigning enthusiasm, “I found those exorcism ear candles you were looking for.”

“Oh,” I said, throwing my gloves back on. “Great.”

I took one from Connor and pretended to examine it, turning it this way and that. I wasn’t even sure what an exorcism ear candle was. It looked like a red corncob made out of wax with a wick sticking out of the end of it.

“Oh, no,” I said. I realized that we probably had to get out of there, and fast. “These are all wrong.” I smiled up at Julius. “Thanks, anyway.”