Hastur produced a clipboard from the grubby recesses of his mack.

“Sign. Here,” he said, leaving a terrible pause between the words.

Crowley fumbled vaguely in an inside pocket and produced a pen. It was sleek and matte black. It looked as though it could exceed the speed limit.

“‘S’nice pen,” said Ligur. “It can write under water,” Crowley muttered.

“Whatever will they think of next?” mused Ligur.

“Whatever it is, they’d better think of it quickly,” said Hastur. “No. Not A. J. Crowley. Your real name.”

Crowley nodded mournfully, and drew a complex, wiggly sigil on the paper.

It glowed redly in the gloom, just for a moment, and then faded: blood-red ink, fiery pomegranate, and black oudh.