<div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/1/11/Tom-Welling-1.jpg)</div><table class="bbc_table"><tbody><tr><td><div style="text-align: right;"><strong>Name: </strong></div></td><td>   </td><td>Peter Roland</td></tr><tr><td><div style="text-align: right;"><strong>Location:</strong></div></td><td></td><td>From Mount Lee to Balthazar Carmichael’s Vintage Books</td></tr><tr><td><div style="text-align: right;"><strong>Time:</strong></div></td><td></td><td>Up to 8PM</td></tr><tr><td><div style="text-align: right;"><strong>Tagging:</strong></div></td><td></td><td>No one, but any welcome.  </td></tr></tbody></table><hr/><br/>A sort of synthesized chime drew Peter out of a foggy dream scape.  All around him, passengers roused from a cramped daze of magazines, lap tops, sleeping, and scotch.  A Hispanic stewardess with an attractive spill of raven wing hair blinked the bleariness from her own eyes and informed them they were putting down in LA national airport in the next 15 minutes.  She started to read off connecting gates.<br/><br/>Peter had to twist a little to get his head down low enough to look out the window, but decided with a grin that it was worth it—even stiff from fifteen hours in the same seat—when they passed by Mount Lee and he noted nine white letters forty-five feet tall.  Peter grinned and told the 40 something businessman sitting next to him, “They should call this flight, “Bollywood to Hollywood.”<br/><br/>*   *   *<br/><br/>A few hours later, a tall young man with a black ponytail and blue eyes walked out of a cheap hotel.  After stashing his heavy backpack, Peter had changed from comfortable jeans and a blazer too khakis, a button down shirt, and a sports coat with a white rose boutonniere.  He glanced back at the hotel and shook his head a little.  "No wonder so many people in this country have never been outside their home state.  I've gotten so used to hostels...  My Visa card is screaming."<br/><br/>Settling his sturdy lap top case over one shoulder, Peter drew his cell phone out of his pocket and checked the address from his reminders.  An easy walk later, and he was entering an cozy old antique book store.  Smiling softly at the perfume of aged paper bound in leather, Peter turned to the desk.  He grinned and restrained himself from opening the conversation with, 'It's nice to meet you Mr. Olivander.'  Instead he got right to the point and inquired, “Good evening.  I understand you might have a copy of the 1897 annotated edition of the Ramavilda?”<br/><br/>“We do, Mr...?”<br/><br/>“Roland.”  he offered a hand, “Peter Roland.  Nice to meet you.”<br/><br/>The white haired man looked down from Peter's eyes to his wrist as they shook hands, noting the bronze bracket covered in disks.  High, wispy eyebrows arched, and once again Peter envsioned the shopkeeper offering to sell him a willow wand with a core of griffin's feather.  “Balthazar Carmichael.  A very interesting bracelet you have their, Mr Roland.”<br/><br/>“Why thank you.  My father gave it to me when I was visiting Mumbai.  He actually said this would be a good place to continue my research.”<br/><br/>“Of course.  This way please.  A very rare edition, actually.  Apparently half the copies in Europe were lost when a Nazi bunker in Berlin was destroyed in an allied bomb raid.”  Peter was lead to a table in the back, and heavy tome removed from a locked bookcase.  “The commentator’s knowledge of Hindu mysticism caught the attention of an occult society Hitler belonged too.”<br/><br/>Peter gave a rueful chuckle, “I doubt they understood a word of it.  Look at how they interpreted Nietzsche?  OR the swastika for that matter.”<br/><br/>The shopkeeper nodded with a little scowl.  There was brief talk of financial matter,s then Peter was left alone 'til closing.  He thumbed carefully through the epic of Rama's adventures.  He'd read them before, in a more modern translation.  This one had far more elaborate annotations.  Knowing what he knew now of the universe, well....<br/><br/>“Rakshasa,” he mumbled.  “How do I kill them?”<br/>