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I zone out of the questions being asked on account of the activity surging around us. All I can focus on is not letting my knees buckle as another spirit passes through me. This one feels warmer, but only just.
Saliva pools in my mouth and coats my tongue. I swallow hard, trying not to choke on the bile creeping up my throat.
“Can we speak to a demon?” Marty asks, making my head jerk up so fast that warmth fans out from the base of my skull.
“What the—” Ella squeaks.
“Dude, don’t—” Mika gripes.
“Marty,” Sunday growls, stepping forward.
The fire gutters and flares discordantly. While everyone stares at that, I’m looking at the pull of the shadows. The way they gather is inherently wrong, writhing and banding together like the tendrils of fear in my gut.
“Goodbye,” I yell. “Move the cup to goodbye.”
Everyone’s talking over one another, too many shrill noises overlapping for them to hear me. I need to move, but can’t—I’m frozen to the spot, staring at the black mass as it starts to thread its way down to the board toward the numbers.
10.
9.
“You need to stop it!” I yell over the noise, but still, no one hears me.
8.
7.
6.
Two girls dart away from the circle, screeching and giggling. Marty teases and laughs, thumping his brother on the arm as he wheezes with the force of his laughter.
“SUNDAY,” I scream, tears sliding down my face.
His gaze snaps to mine, and time slows down as he moves toward me. I shake my head, pointing a trembling finger at the board.
5.
4.
“GOODBYE. SUNDAY, PLEASE.” My voice claws its way out of my mouth.
Sunday falters, looking down at the board.
3.
The black mass of shadows undulates again, two eyes appearing in the absence of shadow. I choke on the fear as it works its way up from my gut, sliding up my throat.
2.
“SUNDAY,” I plead once more, but the idiot just kicks the board, flipping it over into the fire. I let out a guttural noise, slamming my hand to my mouth as the thing tilts its head, looking at me.
Oh dear god.
One.
I shouldn’t understand it, but I do. The noise is nothing that should make sense—screeching tires, nails on a chalkboard, animals baying painfully—but I understand all the same.
It doesn’t pay attention to the others, who are all shouting over one another. Marty and Sunday up in each other’s faces, arguing about me.
