“No. I’ll stay here, scowl some and complain about newfangled ways.”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Amused, Cal went up to get Lump. The dog enjoyed going out when they were in town, but was filled with sorrow at the sight of the leash. It gleamed out of his eyes as Cal clipped it to his collar.

“Don’t be such a baby. It’s the law, pal. I know and you know you’re not going to do anything stupid, but the law’s the law. Or do you want me to have to come up to the pen and bail you out?”

Lump walked, head lowered like a prisoner of war, as they went down the back stairs, and out. Since they’d had this routine for a while, Cal knew the dog would perk up, as much as Lump ever perked, after the first few minutes.

He kept his eyes on the dog, waiting for the moment of acceptance as they started around the building. Unless they were walking to Quinn’s, Lump preferred his leg-stretching along Main Street, where Larry at the barbershop would wander out as they passed, and give Lump a biscuit and a rub.

Cal waited patiently while Lump lifted his leg and peed lavishly on the trunk of the big oak between the buildings, then let the dog lead him out to the sidewalk on Main.

There, Cal’s heart slammed into his throat.

Scarred and broken asphalt marred the street; charred bricks heaved out of the sidewalk. The rest of the town was gone, leveled into rubble. And the rubble still smoked. Blackened, splintered trees lay like maimed soldiers on jagged shards of glass and blood-smeared stone. Scorched to ruin, the grass of the Square and its cheerful spring plantings steamed. Bodies, or the horrible remnants of them, scattered over the ground, hung obscenely from the torn trees.

Beside him, Lump quivered, then sat on his haunches, lifted his head, and howled. Still holding the leash, Cal ran to the entrance of the bowling center, yanked at the door. But the door refused him. There was no sound, within or without, but his pounding fists and frantic calls.

When his hands were bloody from the beating, he ran, the dog galloping beside him. He had to get to Quinn.

GAGE WASN’T SURE WHY HE’D COME BY. HE’D BEEN itchy at home-well, at Cal’s. Home was wherever he stayed long enough to bother to unpack his bag. He started to knock, then shrugging, just opened the unlocked door of the rental house. His concession to the inhabitants was to call out.

“Anybody home?”

He heard the footsteps, knew they were Cybil’s before she appeared at the top of the stairs. “I’m anybody.” She started down. “What brings you by before happy hour?”

She had her hair scooped back at the nape-all that thick, curling black-as she was prone to do when working. Her feet were bare. Even wearing faded jeans and a sweater, she managed to look like stylish royalty.

It was a hell of a knack, in Gage’s opinion. “I had a conversation with Professor Litz, the demon expert in Europe. I told him about the idea of a blood ritual. He’s against it.”

“Sounds like a sensible man.” She angled her head. “Come on back. You can have what’s probably your tenth cup of coffee of the day, and I’ll have some tea while you tell me his very sensible reasons.”

“His first, and most emphatic echoed something you said.” Gage followed her into the kitchen. “We could let something out we aren’t prepared for. Something worse, or stronger, simply because of the ritual.”

“I agree.” She put the kettle on, and while it heated, started to measure for a fresh pot of coffee. “Which makes it essential not to rush into it. To gather all information possible first, and to proceed with great care.”

“So you’re voting to do it.”

“I am, or I’m leaning that way, once we’re as protected as possible. Aren’t you?”

“I figure the odds at fifty-fifty, and that’s good enough.”

“Maybe, but I’m hoping to weigh them a little heavier in our favor first.” She lifted a hand, pressed it against her eye. “I’ve been…”

“What is it?”

“Maybe I’ve been at the monitor too long today. My eyes are tired.” She reached up to open the cupboard for cups, missed the handle by inches. “My eyes are… Oh God. I can’t see. I can’t see.”

“Hold on. Here, let me look.” When he took her shoulders to turn her, she gripped his arm.

“I can’t see anything. It’s all gray. Everything’s gray.”

He turned her around, bit off his own sharp intake of breath. Her eyes, those exotic gypsy eyes, were filmed over white.

“Let’s sit you down. It’s a trick. It’s just another trick. It’s not real, Cybil.”

But as she clung to him, shuddering, he felt himself fade away.

He stood in the dull and dingy apartment he’d once shared with his father over the bowling alley. The smells struck him with violent memory. Whiskey, tobacco, sweat, unwashed sheets and dishes.

There was the old couch with the frayed arms, and the folding chair with the duct-taped X over the torn seat. The lamp was on, the pole lamp beside the couch. But that had been broken, Gage thought. Years ago, that had been broken when he’d shoved his father back. When he’d finally been big enough, strong enough to use his fists.

No, Gage thought. No, I won’t be here again. He walked to the door, grabbed the knob. It wouldn’t budge, no matter how he turned, how he pulled. And in shock he looked at the hand on the knob, and saw the hand of a child.

Out the window then, he told himself as sweat slid down his back. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d escaped that way. Fighting the urge to run, he went into his old room- unmade bed, a scatter of school books, single dresser, single lamp. Nothing showing. Any treasures-comics, candy, toys-he’d hid away, out of sight.

The window refused to open. When he was desperate enough to try, the glass in it wouldn’t break. Whirling around, he looked for escape, and saw himself in the mirror over the dresser. Small, dark, thin as a rail. And terrified.

A lie. Another lie. He wasn’t that boy now, he told himself. Wasn’t that helpless boy of seven or eight. He was a man, full grown.

But when he heard the door slam open, when he heard the stumbling tread of his drunken father, it was the boy who trembled.

FOX BEAT AND KICKED AT THE SPIDERS. THEY covered his desk now, spilled in a waterfall from the edge to the floor. They leaped on him, hungrily bit. Where they bit, their poison burned, and the flesh swelled and broke like rotted fruit.

His mind couldn’t cool, couldn’t steady, not with dozens of them crawling up his legs, down his shirt. He stomped them into the floor, into the rug, while his breath whistled out between gritted teeth. The pocket doors he’d left open slammed shut. As he backed against them, the windows ran black with spiders.

He shook like a man in a fever, but he shut his eyes, ordered himself to control his breathing. As they crawled and clawed and bit, as they covered him he wanted to give in and scream.

I’ve seen worse than this, he told himself. His heart pounded, hammer to anvil, as he struggled for some level of calm. Sure, I’ve seen worse. I’ve had worse, you fucker. Just a bunch of spiders. I’d call the exterminator tomorrow except they’re not real, you asshole. I can wait you out. I can wait till you run out of juice.

The sheer rage inside him won over the fear and disgust until he could bring his heart rate down. “Play all the games you want, you bastard. We won’t be playing when we come for you. This time, we’ll end you.”

He felt the rush of cold that burned as bright as the bites.

You will die screaming.

Don’t count on it, Fox thought, gathering himself. Don’t you fucking count on it. He grabbed one of the spiders on his arm, crushed it in his fist. Let the blood and pus run like fire through his fingers.

They dropped from him, first one, then another. It was they who screamed as they died. With his swollen hands, Fox pushed open the doors. And now he ran. Not for himself, but for Layla. One of the screams inside his head was hers.