“H-hey, wait for—”
 
Red tail lights zipped down the street like will-o’-wisps, leaving C.C. in a cloud of glittering exhaust from the motorcycle.
 
“—me...” 
 
He dropped his outstretched hand and hung his head. Tonight was shaping up to be a pretty bad night. First of all, he had to bail on a party to go to work. Not that he didn’t enjoy going to work (he loved it, working was great, working meant he was useful, working meant he didn’t get sucked up into some magical trinket), but it was the first time he had been invited to one of Parry’s parties. Anybody’s party, actually, and C.C. wasn’t sure if Parry had actually meant to invite him or one of the other bogeymen, and it would’ve been way too awkward to ask. That aside, his boss had asked him, “What are you doing here?” when C.C. had shown up to the museum hours after delivering Parry’s purse and amulet earlier, and it hadn’t been in the high-pitched, hands-up-in-the-air-going-in-for-a-hug kind of way. It was more in the way the clients always said it when C.C. showed up on their doorstep. Or in their living room. Or in their cabinet. Clearly, he had made a mistake somewhere.
 
And then, [i]and then[/i], the cherry on top, just the ultimate night wrecker, an ultra scary mummy just shows up and, zap, there goes the boss. Dead! Like, dead dead, not vampire dead, or zombie dead, or ghost dead, or teenage “I wish I was” dead, but gone. Meanwhile, there wasn’t a damn thing C.C. could do but starting running. It wasn’t his proudest moment, zipping after Rusty like a bat out of hell and maybe, maybe not crying like a baby, but that murderous mummy was sucking in all of the shadows, and when you’re made of shadows that’s kind of a bad thing to be around. Well, he assumed that to be the case anyway; he had never seen anything quite like it. 
 
The shadows stood on the end of C.C.’s neck as more crackling sounds of energy filled the air behind him. Okay, right, perhaps it was time to—more reality-tearing noises, okay, go, go, go, move, move, move. C.C. melted into the shadow of a nearby building and zipped across the street, moving as fast as he could go. 
 
Of course, he couldn’t just run, could he? Well, he could, it seemed like a great idea and so far it was going well in regards to keeping him alive, but he couldn’t actually live with himself if he did. He had to warn the others, right? Call the office, spread the word, stir up a crowd, go back there with torches and pitchforks and kick that naughty mummy right in his papery tuchas. Call the office. Yeah. That’s what he’d do.
 
He jammed himself into a phonebooth. It was late enough and the lights on the street were low, so if any regular guy or gal just walked by he imagined he’d look like one of those dapper detectives from all those old films he used to watch instead of some weirdo shadow monster. Of course, given the decade, he would look like a weirdo anyway, but hey, he wouldn’t be breaking any of the rules or regulations. Also, tonight’s events certainly warranted an exception. He punched in the number for the office: nothing.
 
Oh, right, payphone. He reached into his pocket: once again, nothing. They said he didn’t really need money, because he didn’t really need to buy anything. He’d be sure to bring this night up during his next review. Call collect then. Surely they’d pick up if the operator told them it was Schwarzman. The ghouls who worked the office phones during the night shift would love to actually have someone to talk to. A gloved digit hit the zero as he shifted the receiver towards his noise hole. Nothing. He pushed it again. It didn’t even move. Okay. Weird. He must’ve been doing it wrong. He didn’t really use phones that often (he didn’t have anyone to call). Was there a lever or a switch or...he prodded at the machine, gave it a shake, blew into the receiver. No, nope, nada. 
 
By the time he reached his tenth payphone, C.C. began to think that maybe something was up with the phones. Not a problem; he’d just do this the old fashion way and go door-to-door as if he was the ghost of Paul Revere. Just...it would take forever, and he was too soft-spoken to go shouting through the streets that the mummies were coming. He needed someone with connections who could spread the word fast; you know, a loudmouth. And who was the biggest loudmouth in New Camden? C.C. knew just the guy: Nemsemet had turned the Count into a puff of bloody confetti less than an hour ago. 
 
Okay. The second biggest loudmouth, then. He started heading to Parry’s.