The Night the Madman and the God Fell Together

At the far end of South Street's old quarter, there was a hamburger joint with barely any customers. Celestine Montclair had lost count of how many times she had come at this hour, pushing open that glass door like some stray dog down on its luck. The man in the perpetual black robe was still there, as she had known he would be, sitting by the window and watching her with those fathomless eyes, as though appraising a factory reject in a display case. His name was Dorian Ashford, and from bits and pieces Celestine Montclair had pieced together his reputation — the maddest sorcerer in the city, a man who saw ordinary folk as ants. Yet she kept pressing closer anyway, drawn like a moth, or like something even more foolish and more stubborn. Tonight she carried her tray and sat down across from him, meeting that faintly icy stare of his…