“What the hell’s this for?” I choked; staring bug-eyed at the roundtrip train ticket like it was scratched in some kind of alien cipher.

I hadn’t even caught my breath after that last caper with little Victoria in some shadow version of New Orleans before The Librarian had ordered me to his subterranean lair filled with the splendors and horrors of a thousand magical cookbooks from as many strange and worrisome systems of speculative endeavor.

It was the middle of the night, nothing unusual there of course, and in my hands was a train ticket to, of all places, New Orleans.