Vix turned slowly around, dread pooling inside her. For a moment, she could not tell what was making the noise. It seemed to come from everywhere at once, steadily filling the quiet library.

Then, she saw it: on a nearby bookshelf, four shelves above her head, there was a book, propped open. A black and white substance was spilling from it, running like sand through an hourglass, piling in a heap on the floor nearby.

Vix cocked her head. There was something oddly familiar ...