I queue at Mike Fox’s signing table. His real name is Nigel something. He smiles as I hand over the grimoire in one of his dust jackets. He signs. The connection is made.
There’s power in names that people don’t realise. A name describes your shape in the web of reality.
A name you’ve created, written in your own hand, crackles with power. There for the taking with the right spell.
He’s mine now. Next week, his inspiration will dry up. Next year, his publisher will drop him. His potential energy belongs to me.
“Thanks,” I say, meaning it. “Big fan.”