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Summary
There is an hour, hidden in the folds of night's veil, that belongs to magickind. Ghouls, ghosts, magicians (and other, meaner things) revel in cemetaries and play tricks on each other. On such a dark, stormy night, lonely magician Evan Rosier will discover that he is not as isolated, or safe, as he had always thought.
Someone is, in fact, in great need of his help.If this fic had a label like the ones on poison vials, it would read "may contain traces of: lavender, sage burning, obliviousness, silver crucifix, meta-textuality, and many, many occurences of the word 'fuck'..."