After fulfilling my filial duties, I searched in my pockets to read the piece of paper that had been left for me. It had been an overly dramatic methodology, so I expected a particularly clever riddle.

It wasn’t a riddle that was on there. Instead, it looked to be a series of numbers. Code? Coordinates? Hexadecimal? URL? Winning lottery ticket options? (I had a sudden worry that I ended up with the wrong slip of paper. Maybe someone had a bunch of messages in their supernatural wallet and I just got the receipt for their lunch with Loki.)

I sat down at my computer and plugged them into Google. ‘Cause, you know.

My eyes watered, as if I were straining them. When I looked back down at the note, I had mistyped. I started to re-enter, but what I was entering and what was on the note was not the same thing. It was like trying to read a book in a dream; the story kept changing, and it was hard to focus.  (I’ve become part of amazing stories in dreams, some of which I wept to read, and few which I could pull more than a synopsis out with me in waking.  Of course, I’ve also dreamed about spiral staircases where each step had a different personality and grudge, so my subconscious has a wormhole to Wonderland as it is.)

I looked away and took a few deep breaths. Well, that certainly left out coordinates (unless it was flashing through a variety of tracked people) and most likely winning lottery ticket numbers. It still could be a receipt for lunch with Loki, I supposed.  (While I have friends who number themselves amongst his worshippers, I have other friends who say that, for a Power he’s a bit of a jerk, but he always brings” the hottest chicks” to parties.)

So, in a way, it was, indeed, a riddle.

I taped it up next to the monitor.  The handwriting remained consistent, which made me think more of fonts than a steady scrawl.  Of course, it could just be an idiosyncratic touch to the magic.  I guess I could go to all my practitioner friends and see if they recognized the style, but that was a little too Cinderella for me.

Then it struck me.  Who do I know who could point me in the right direction?

The Questor, of course.

I was short transportation.  I seemed to remember Matana saying she could get me there, but that offer may have been null and void once we staked her in the sunlight.  Witnessed by Peredur, though, so I could try to pin him down on it.

I never thought I’d be asking myself, “How could I find a Dragon?” especially one who always showed up when he was least wanted.  Following that logic, I’d have to meet him in the bathroom after I’d eaten cheap Chinese food and brought in a graphic novel.  He’d probably be staring out my mirror with his smoke-filled eyes.   The name of the domains in which I’d have to find him probably had more poetry in them than anything ending with “dot com.”  If you know what I mean.

Ouija was out.  It’s never, actually, in, if you must know.  (“Hi!  I’m going to open a portal to something that thinks moving a crystal is great fun and will answer all my trivial questions.”  Frankly, I want there to be a spirit of knowledge that always pushes the little oracle piece to the words, “Use The Internet, Dude.”   Plus, mass-production of something intended to reach out Beyond?  Bad news.)  The only kind of divining I was partial to was randomizers on restaurant picks, and even that needed particular weighting by things like positive reviews.  I did occasionally read my horoscope in the paper, but I was more a free will type.

Instead, I sent an e-mail back to him asking if tomorrow would work, and if he could give me a street address.

Then I set out to buy a car.

This was not a trivial task.  I analyze.  I want the best car for my money, or at least, that’s what my head says.  The rest of me says it has to look fast and attract women.  Not that in any estimation I have ever seen a car in a price range I’ve ever had access to that had women drooling.  Unless it was, you know, coated with chocolate.  (Drool may also be overestimated.  I mean, lubrication is one thing, but random drooling is not a turn-on for me.)  Besides, expensive cars and comfortable seats tend to repel each other in most cases.  Well, seats comfortable enough to take advantage of drooling women, I presume.  No one should have their head bumping against a steering wheel.

I looked at the phone as if hoping Rohana would call, now that my mind was wandering so idly towards sex, but alas, the universe was not so obliging.

While I did check out a few top ten lists for car copulatory comfort (not just cargo space, but in seating) none of them had the reliability ratings I wanted.  Honestly, there ought to be a way to collect lists on the ‘net and compare them for whatever features you want, but apparently this niche was still best handled by personalized spreadsheets.  After manipulating the data, comparing prices and options, I had to find something local that matched.

I glanced up at the note, saw that it was probably an ISBN number now, and ignored it.

I got an address and a map with directions.  I guess the Questor did know where I lived.   It was definitely going to be a drive, and I made some arrangements to overnight in a hotel that didn’t sound like a palace for bedbugs despite its speciously cute name.  I set up some CDs to burn for personal use driving mixes, and watched the time fly by.

I still didn’t want to turn off the lights, so I fell asleep on the living room futon.