I just stare him down and finally nod.
Enrique shrugs, I take a step forward, and we go through the gate.
And come to a little gravel parking lot. We aren’t to the gravestones yet, but there’s already something wrong. We have a problem. A very smelly problem.
It’s dead, wherever it is. Or unconscious.
We stop, suddenly. The air crackles with energy, the smell of rotten eggs — sulfur — fills my nostrils, and something sweet and ugly, too, like rot. All this over the animal stink of voided bladder, of panic, fear, and suffering. Over the smoke, too, because there are these little torches lit all around us.
There’s a boy in the middle of the torches that form — what, exactly? The same shape as what Morgaine had around her neck. A pentagram. A circle of protection.
Is it Zach? How could he have gotten here so quickly?
But he turns a little then, and I recognize him. It’s not Zach.
It’s Gary Frumberg.
He doesn’t look happy, and he’s holding out a silver knife. Trying to ward off something. But what?
It’s his pit bull, or is it? Was it? What’s wrong with it? It’s just lying there, on the ground.
Bleeding. Or bloody? Alive or dead?
“Frumberg,” Enrique says. “What have you done?”
“I needed a sacrifice,” Gary says. “To protect myself.”
“You killed your dog?” Jonathan asks, incredulous.
Gary shakes his head, his eyes unfocused in the light of the torches. Does he even realize who we are, where he is? “He’s a sacrifice,” he says. “But also a vessel.”
“A vessel?” I ask. “A vessel for what?”
“For the spirit that will protect me from them,” he says, looking around. “They’re coming. Can you feel them?”
I have to admit it’s cold. But that’s all I can feel. Besides the stomach-turning revulsion I feel at what I see in front of me. Cold sweat beads on my forehead, and there’s an icy chill in my spine.
Enrique takes a few steps forward, and my hands want to reach out and grab him.
“That dog is dead,” Enrique says, kneeling down next to one of the outer torches. “It’s not going to protect anyone.”
Gary laughs. “That’s where you’re wrong. I read through the spell a hundred times. I did everything right. In a few minutes, I’ll finally be safe. I can feel him... He’s coming.”
Enrique shakes his head, but he takes a step back, towards us. And maybe Frumberg’s right. My arms tingle, and there’s a humming coming from inside the pentagram, from inside the dog. From inside the dead dog.
“This is black magic,” Jonathan says. “Isn’t it, Frumberg? Animal sacrifice and possession. You think you’re going to be able to control it?” he asks, pointing at the dog.
“What are you talking about?” I ask Jonathan.
“Dude,” Jonathan says. “This is not the first time I’m going to tell you that you need to read those books Morgaine gave you.”
Frumberg turns to face us as the dog next to him shifts and groans. “Morgaine gave you a book, too?” he asks.
We nod.
“That dog is alive,” Enrique says. “It’s moving.”
“No,” Frumberg says. “It’s dead. I killed it.”