Numbers J. Montgomery was the name he'd had fashioned on all of his business cards. Oh yes, he now had business cards. Now that his business, even in this area of ill repute, was starting to pick up, he'd decided to spoil himself. Never knew when someone who shared his passion for books might come along looking for something rare. After all, that's the reason he'd opened up the shop. To sell regular books in order to support his drive for finding and acquiring the rarest of the rare.

There were people in Rhy'din who had come to him already searching for something one of a kind here and there. Most of those people were mages looking for lost and ancient tomes. If anyone knew where to look for them, let alone possibly find anything like that, it was Jon. That's the name he preferred to be called by, particularly by a certain empath, who was the only person in the entire city he trusted the most. In fact, Nemo had been the inspiration for the name of his shop, which had taken him months to decide upon.

Letters by Numbers, he'd called it, a bit of a practical joke at his own expense. The time he'd spent with the empath had accounted for a lot of storytelling of his own personal history. Nostalgia had kicked in, and when he'd finally decided on the name he knew it was perfect from the story of how he acquired the shop in the first place.

It was the perfect place, a small storefront with wide windows. It wasn't a very large place, but it was perfect in his opinion. A spiral staircase made of iron swirled up from the floor near the back and up to a walk about balcony that looked over the rest of the floor on three different walls. There were already bookshelves built into the walls, and rows of shelves on the floor below. The basement doubled as a small apartment, and had been used once by another book lover, once upon a time. "This is perfect," he told the landlord, and he smiled broadly. "I'll take it."

The landlord nodded and dug through his briefcase to procure the lease. He pointed out the general rules and guidelines that were printed on the papers, and practically recited it all from memory. "Just sign here, here, and here. Initial here and here."

He retrieved a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket and slid them on his face. Taking the papers from the landlord, he read over the fine print and nodded. Then he took a fountain pen out of his bag and signed where indicated, initialed as well.

The owner took back the papers and squinted when he read the signature. "Numbers?" he asked. "Your name's Numbers." He sounded unconvinced, and perhaps a little suspicious of the validity of that name.

The young man sighed and nodded as politely as possible. "Yes, sir," he said. "Numbers Jonathan Montgomery." He reached into his bag to retrieve his wallet and flipped it open to show the man his license. Though he didn't own a car, he had a driver's license. "See?"

"Numbers J. Montgomery," the landlord said, reading aloud. "Huh." He squinted again and peered at the young man with the same suspicion as before. "Your parents must not've been right in the head."

"No, sir," Numbers replied with a calm and patient smile. "My father was a mathematician."

His father would be rolling over in his grave now, if he were dead. Jon sighed. That was one little bit of personal history he hadn't shared with the empath yet. His parents weren't exactly the most understanding people in the world. All he'd told them was that he'd managed to set up a shop and was making a profit off of it, believe it or not. His father had hoped he'd get into mathematics just like him. Ah well. His father should be used to being disappointed by now. This was just the icing on the cake, whenever he decided to tell them.

So now he had these business cards, with his name, the name of his shop, the address and phone number of his shop, and his area of expertise printed neatly on them. They were simple things, as simple as he was for the most part. White paper with black letters. Nothing spectacularly elaborate or fancy. But to Jon they were some of the most fascinating things he'd acquired in months. Not the most spectacular thing, but a close second or third for certain. He'd been up all night trying to figure out where to put them in his shop.

First he'd tried on the front counter, next to the register, but he thought someone might just knock them over. So then he tried propping them up on the register itself, but then he thought the constant opening and closing of the drawer would make them tumble. He tried placing them on a small table next to the door where he usually showcased new releases, but then he thought someone might want to buy that book and not see it with a stack of business cards on top of it. This decision-making process had gone on for hours and hours, until he heard a noise in the basement...

What he heard at first could have easily been mistaken for a strong gust rattling the chained-shut shipping door. That happened sometimes. But then it occurred to him that a strong gust of wind would have made the windows of the storefront moan as well. Everything was closed and locked up for the night. The shop was so quiet that he could have heard a light switch being clicked on from upstairs, and when he strained his hearing that's precisely what he heard. Squinting, he looked toward the door that lead to the back store room and the stairwell into the basement. He'd left it cracked open and saw just the faintest glimmer of light that shouldn't have been there at all.

Jon sucked in a quiet gasp, covering his mouth to muffle most of the noise he might have made. His immediate thought was that somehow burglars had snuck into the shop. What had he forgotten to lock? No. He always double and triple checked every lock every night. He was a cautious businessman. In this area of town, if he wasn't cautious, he'd be dead. He hadn't exactly picked the most hospitable of districts to start a business, but that had been a lure to him. That sort of thing attracted challenge, and he liked a good challenge as foolish people often do.

Of course, he was foolish. The one thing he hadn't been able to afford yet was a good security system. Jon didn't even own a gun. The closest thing he had to a weapon were the knives in the block down in the kitchen. Where the burglars were! Over the pounding of his own frantic heart, he could vaguely hear voices downstairs. The only problem was, he couldn't make out what they were saying. At least two, he wagered. He didn't like the odds of that, and considered his best option was to turn around, unlock the door, and make a run for it. There's something to be said about the simplicity of humankind. Humans were a cowardly lot, and Jon was no exception. Only, when he turned to make a break for it, he ran into a body instead.

"Ooft!" Jon rebounded off of an intruder and landed heavily on his spine. The sharpness of near immediately bruising pain shot up into his eyes, and for a second he was blinded. The sound of his heart pounding in his ears made him practically deaf. Particularly when he heard a voice speak so very close to him where there hadn't been anyone standing only seconds before.

"Tch. See? I told you he would run, amante." What he could make out over the flood of blood swimming around his eardrums was that the owner of that voice had a very thick accent. From all the study Jon had done on different cultures over the years, he figured this burglar was someone Latino. Though he couldn't hear enough of it to determine precisely which Spanish-speaking country he was from. Old prejudices and culture bias had him imagining all manner of hideous things that could happen to him in this situation. But for the most part he suspected this guy would try to steal an old pickup truck that he didn't even own. What would happen then?

Then he heard a second voice behind him. One that sounded very regal and also condescending. "That is why I did not disagree with you," said the other man. He'd been right. At least two. "Predictable. They always do. How could he see anything in this ... THIS?" Jon felt the barest gust of wind against the nape of his neck, as if the other burglar had waved a hand in his general direction and conjured up a menacing breeze to frightened him further. As if he needed the air to make him even more afraid than he already was. "He isn't even interesting by their standards." The second burglar sighed. "We are going to need to borrow you ... Jon, was it?"

Oh dear God in Heaven! He knows my name! The book seller might have voiced something of the sort in response, but all he could manage was a terrified squeak that was quite unbecoming of a man his age. "Wh-wh-what d-d-d-do--" he started to say, but he looked up just as the Latino burglar crouched in front of him and cut him off with a comment.

"Aww. Listen to him stutter." Jon looked into fearfully luminescent yellow, no green, no both, eyes. They were an eerie color that reminded him of an alley cat that had once scared the shit out of him on his way home from a client's house late one evening not so long ago. This man had bronze-tan skin and was wearing clothes so dark that he was practically a shadow in the dim light of the only source in the front room of his shop. That source was a small desk lamp angled to look down on the cash drawer. "It's kind of cute, don't you think?" The way this man grinned was probably the most frightful thing about him. It was a grin that was disarmingly charming, but lined with menace that only the most dimwitted of people would have missed.

"I-if you w-want m-m-m-money," Jon managed, though he was still stuttering, much to his embarrassment. Especially considering that one of the burglars had mentioned that it made him cute. Embarassment and fear weren't very good combinations. "It's in the d-d-draw--"

"You seem reasonably intelligent," said the second man, cutting him off again. Jon was a little grateful for the interruptions, actually. It gave him a chance to think a little more clearly and try to get his heart to stop pounding. "Intelligent enough to pay attention to what is said the first time around, yes?" He saw that man's shadow loom over him as he leaned up to whisper it into the Latino's ear. By holding his breath, he could just make out the words. "He is. Perhaps that is it. Mm. Are you sure we must practice restraint?" Jon couldn't see it, but he was certain he heard a pout lining those words. The book seller gulped.

"Sí, hermoso," murmured the Latino, answering the other. "This one is innocent." The man sounded disappointed by that observation. Innocent? Jon thought. He didn't know exactly what the man meant by that, but for some reason he was instantly grateful for his innocence.

Then it dawned on him. Something the second man had said. "B-borrow me? What..." He drew in a deep breath and tried to steady his quaking voice. "What is it you ... want from me?"

The Latino smiled at him, almost sweetly, and grabbed him by the arms. Before Jon could even think of resisting, the man had hauled him up to his feet and held him steady until he could stand on his own. It took a bit of doing, but he managed to keep his legs from trembling eventually. Once the Latino realized that, he let go of Jon's arms and cupped his jaw instead. It was such a gentle hold, a lover's hold, and that only made him tremble again. But at least his legs didn't collapse out from under him.

The man stepped very close to him, so close he could feel their two bodies pressed together. This is it, Jon thought. This man's going to rape me after all. Rape me. Kill me. Burn down my shop. A thousand and one stereotypical scenarios played out in his mind, and he was even trying to think of any potential gang leaders in the area that he might have pissed off at some point without even realizing it. He took a step back, frightened for his life, and felt his back press up against the front of the second man. He almost fainted.

He would have fainted, if his eyes weren't locked onto those eerie yellow-green eyes of the Latino. So very close now. He was vaguely aware of the fact that the man seemed very cold, didn't seem to be giving off any body heat whatsoever. The fingers digging into his lower jaw were cold as ice! Maybe this was a vampire then? He'd heard they were cold creatures, but he couldn't see any fangs in the man's mouth. Then again, at this close proximity, he wasn't seeing very much clearly at all without his glasses. He felt the Latino's lips touch against his own and barely heard the single whispered word. No. Name.

"Nemo," the man purred. And that's when Numbers Jonathan Montgomery, book seller, finder and procurer of rare books, simple human man and coward, fainted.