IN WHICH NARCISSE VIVANT, JAZZ THAUMATURGE, LEAPS OUT OF PROVERBIAL FRYING PAN INTO PROVERBIAL FIRE

[little_lady_d]

The night of the raid, Narcisse Vivant played at the Alexandria Club. Monsieur Vivant, the rumor ran, Wonder-Worker, Syncopator, the Orpheus of Jazzland.

( Friday night thaumaturges flocked to the floor, laughing-eyed in beaded frocks and brass amulets ... )

IN WHICH OUR HERO DEALS WITH A DAEMON AND GETS RELIGION

[little_lady_d]

Harlem at night was no place for a man and a daemon. No place in America was, but there were country crossroads where daemon and man could meet and no one would hear except for in song. Harlem hummed with light and life, and its streets thronged with joyriders in beaming automobiles, its sidewalks worn by restless flappers and floorflushers. Eyes shone from faces dark and light, old and thirsty, young and idle, and any one of them could illuminate Narcisse like a stagelight.

( He looked worse for wear, and he'd worn his best tonight ... )

IN WHICH THE FEDS GET WISE

[little_lady_d]

The night of the raid, Immanuel Bachman was in the office. Most nights Immanuel spent in the office. The higher-ups didn’t need him turning over speakeasies or hunting monsters in the moonlight, but then, they never needed him until there was a problem no one could solve.

( The Bureau of Thaumaturgy and Thaumaturgy Prevention seized anything that had the look of the arcane to it, but some books didn't burn when you torched them ... )