She went to Kumarbis last, leaving talismans for his place on the circle, saying her prayer. Last, she held out her hand, and he pulled the coin on its cord over his head and gave it to her. Like giving the bloodhound something to scent.

Was it crazy that this was starting to make sense?

She placed the coin in the center circle, with the dead dove, the sheet of paper, and the live mouse. Finally, she returned to her place on the star and circle, raised her arms, and began to chant. “Munde Deus virtuti tuae, confirm thy power in us, oh spirit of the world, confirm thy power against our enemy, may his paths be uncertain, let the spirit of the world persecute him, El, Elohim, Elohe, Zebatth, Elion, Escerchie, Adonay, Jah, Tetragrammaton, Saday…”

And so on. She moved from English to Latin to languages I didn’t recognize. Probably Hebrew and Arabic, and a few others besides. Whatever language, whatever she was saying, she spoke like she meant it, and her conviction brought a strange weight to the room, as if the air grew thicker, and breathing grew more difficult. Enkidu’s and Sakhment’s chests moved visbly; they, too, were taking deeper, more purposeful breaths. Enkidu’s expression was set, frowning, determined. He watched Zora as if he could make her succeed by force of will alone. Sakhmet, also determined, full of faith, was watching Enkidu.

Kumarbis wasn’t breathing at all, because he didn’t need to. Of all of us, he was relaxed, arms loose at his sides. His head was tilted back, and he smiled. It was a look of triumph. He had been planning this for centuries, and finally, finally, his great scheme was coming to fruition. Of course he looked triumphant. So, what would he do if nothing happened?

Because apart from her chanting, the wavering light of the torches, and the psychological influences that prompted us to think we’d entered another world, nothing was happening. Movement kept catching my gaze—a spark of reflected light in the thumb-size crystal she’d put on the ground in front of me. The pale yellow stone was catching the flickering light of the torches and throwing it back at me. Swirling patterns in the air were only smoke, writhing, thickening. The burning incense drifted, gathered, growing dense. The light from the torches played against it. I could almost imagine I saw shapes in the light and shadow, the haze in the air. Claws and legs, fangs and black eyes.

Zora’s voice became ecstatic, as if she really was getting off on this. “The window opens, spirit of the world, give us the strength to tread on serpents, to smash the power of our enemy, that none may hurt us. The window opens, spirit of the world, show us our enemy!”

So help me, I saw something in the smoke, with eyes, looking back. Something male and wicked. I could almost smell it—cold, like stone. Vampirically cold, weighted with age and purpose. It seemed to look around the circle, studying each of us. Marking us, for future reference.

Wolf braced as if cornered. We wouldn’t scream, we wouldn’t run, because it wouldn’t do any good. We would face it and fight.

This was the power of suggestion at work, nothing else. This was Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, and we were trying to draw meaning from half-perceived images, building worlds out of shadows. But Wolf’s hackles were rising, a shivering down the back of my spine that told me something was watching us. The urge to run grew. Yes, let’s, please. I ought to listen to Wolf more often.

Kumarbis’s eyes were closed, his arms spread, basking in the radiance of the ritual. Enkidu’s jaw was taut, and he held himself in the rigid stance of a cornered wolf. He was feeling much like I was, then. I gathered he didn’t know what to expect out of this ritual any more than I did. He had committed to all this without knowing details. Did that make him loyal, foolish, or both? Sakhmet also watched the patterns in the smoke, but every now and then she glanced at Enkidu, and her fingers clenched as if she wanted to reach out to him and take his hand.

Zora moved to the center of the circle. In one hand she had a dagger, a clearly ceremonial piece with a slender, shining blade and a carved bone handle. Kneeling before the collection of items she’d placed there, she opened the jar and grabbed the flailing mouse. She held up the mouse in one hand and dagger in the other, beseeching the smoke rising into the expanse above us.

“Show me our enemy, show me the future!”

She dug the point of the dagger into the mouse and wrenched, splitting open the tiny body. Expertly, as if she had done this before, or often, she twisted the knife again, digging out a brick-red chunk of flesh the size and shape of a peanut. Its heart. The mouse squealed, a brief and shockingly loud sound. There was surprisingly little blood.

She dropped the mouse and ate its heart. Still hot. Zora chewed twice and swallowed. The body of the mouse was still twitching.

I stared, too shocked to react. The torches crackled and sparked. Zora’s eyes were closed, and she clasped the dagger before her, point down. A few drops of blood dripped onto the paper.

By then, we were all holding our breath. I thought I heard a voice, a murky sound to go with the smoke and shadows. A soft, mocking chuckle. It didn’t come from any of us. Zora’s chants had spoken of defeating our enemy. But someone was laughing at us.

I caught Enkidu’s gaze, tried to ask the question—who?—but he gave his head a small shake. “Zora—” I growled at the magician, questioning.

Her eyes opened, she looked up, jumped to her feet, and held out the blood-smeared dagger as if she might actually use it to defend herself. But there was nothing to attack, and even the laughter faded until I thought I’d imagined it.

Her tunic flapping around her legs, she turned back to her place on the circle and raised her arms. Shouting, she repeated chants from the ritual with a tone of defiance. More smiting of our enemy, along with words of banishing.

The only way I knew it was over was when she sat heavily, dropping the knife and putting her head in her hands. The smoke remained, drifting upward, and I continued to see patterns, whorls and spirals reflecting the shapes drawn on the floor. The torches still burned, and the stinging smoke and weight of expectation remained. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

We stood around the circle, blinking at each other.

“What happened?” I said finally, breaking the quiet with the suddenness of shattering glass. Felt stupid doing it, but somebody had to say something. “Something happened, right?” I couldn’t be sure anymore. Maybe I was still tranquilized and dreaming all this. Except I didn’t think my imagination was that good. My nose flared, picking up the scent of fresh blood. The mouse carcass, little more than bits of flesh and mangled fur, still lay in the middle of the circle. The smell made me oddly hungry.