Jericho Jones stepped out of the rain and into the cramped bookstore, and took a moment to slick his wet hair out of his face and pull a rubber band around it. His eyes scanned for anomalies, but all he could see were mountains of books, stacked high into the darkness of the ceiling. A haze caught what little light there was, twisting the shadows and pulling his attention to the back of the store, where an old man sat.

He looked like somebody's frail grandfather, lost in a beige sweater that might have once fit snugly, his balding head reflecting the dim light. There was something quaint about the old man, a reminder of bygone days. He looked completely harmless, right down to the bifocals, a papery hand resting on top of a stack of old books.

Jericho wasn't a bit fooled. He was supposed to protect that guy?

"It's about damn time you got here, Jericho," Tiberius groused. "You think I can take on an army by myself?"

"Old man," Jericho laughed. "I've seen you do just that." He made his way to the island of light and found a chair. He picked up the book lying on the seat, the title gleaming in the musty light.

"No, no!" Tiberius said. "That is just the book I was looking for. Let me have that."

"Are you sure about this book?" Jericho had to ask.

"Yes, yes! Give it to me! And whatever you do, stay in the light!"

Tiberius' intensity was disconcerting. Jericho uneasily placed the book into the old man's hands before he sat down. Tiberius caressed the leathery cover of the book, his fingers tracing the raised lettering of the title. He cackled, nodding his head and Jericho watched as the Bookmaster whispered over his chosen tome.

Then he opened The Selected Works of H.P. Lovecraft, and the monsters came out to play.