10
The man who once had been more than a man, who was known as Mr. Veilleur to many, and as Glaeken to a few, who had had numerous names, stood at his window and stared out at the Sheep Meadow.
Far below, light traffic cruised Central Park West. A quiet, peaceful, sunny, summer Sunday morning in New York.
Why then was he so filled with dread?
The Fhinntmanchca . . . it could be only that. The Order, or perhaps Rasalom himself, had succeeded in bringing it into being.
And that meant . . . what?
He wished he knew. Perhaps then he might be able to head it off. But its purpose had always been a mystery.
He could only wait and see. But he felt something awful coming, something cataclysmic.