Hill took a deep breath, regretted it as the smell hit the back of his throat with an afternote of boiled cabbage, and started down the stairs. The wood creaked under his weight, and the cold bag of murdered animal bumped against his leg with each step.
Ten years ago Greg had murdered Hill’s dad, and then he married the widow to keep her onside. Except there was no proof, nothing but an overheard conversation and the man’s general character. Take that and everything else Greg had ever been suspected of to court and see how far the case would go.
No.
Hill reached the bottom of the stairs and started to prepare the space. He unfolded one of the ground sheets and spread it out on the floor, anchored at the corners with old cans of paint. Then he got a pocket knife out of his back pocket and sliced the bag open so he could empty the contents into the pot.
The bloodied jackrabbit slid out of the plastic in a limp tangle of limbs and ears. Hill had caught it himself, out in the woods with a snare that Greg had shown him how to make.
Back when he was still Uncle Greg and he brought his Christmas presents to Thanksgiving, and Hill hadn’t understood why he made Dad nervous.
The original ritual requested a hare, but outside of Europe records showed this substitution was close enough.
He checked his watch again. Two minutes. He waited somewhat patiently for them to tick over into the next day. As it turned midnight, he got to work.
Hill had thought the butchery would be easier. The animal’s skin was tougher to carve through than he’d expected, his wrists sore and palms blistered by the time he finished. He was sweating under his hoodie despite the chill that seeped out of the walls.
Hopefully the next part would be easier.
He put the remnants of the carcass, hide and bone, into the plastic bag, bundled it up, and set it to the side. Once it was out of the way, he swallowed hard and then leaned over the pot of thick blood and organs.
The smell of it had a similar base to the basement reek.
For some reason that thought sent a chill through him. It wasn’t like he didn’t know, or to be accurate, strongly suspect, the source of that smell. Both chemically and metaphysically. The meaty reality of it, though, was somehow still daunting.
You don’t have to do this.
Hill knew that. He was still going to do it.
He spat into the pot. It landed on top of…something dark and clotted…and floated there.
“Listen to my prayer,” Hill said. He had learned the words by heart, until he could have said them in his sleep if he wanted to. Somehow, tonight when it mattered, they tried to slide awayfrom him. He had to strain to find the word that fit theshapehis mouth wanted to make. “Hear me. Answer me. The threats of the wicked bring suffering on me, set violence and strife on the streets of the City.”
The blood in the pot stirred, greasy bubbles roiling the surface. It made the smell worse.
“They—”
Was that right? It felt like there was a gap, something that had slipped away. Fear grabbed at Hill’s tongue. That wouldnotbe good. That would be—
Hill talked over the swell of panic that tried to choke him, the words forced out through stiff lips. Getting the invocation wrong would be a problem; not finishing would be worse. He tightened his grip on his pocketknife.
He gritted his teeth, steeled himself as best he could, and stabbed the knife through the palm of his hand. The blade carved throughhisskin easier than through the jackrabbit’s hide. Hot red reaction washed over him as the pain separated itself into distinct layers: the cut, the bruise, the scrape of metal on bone.
That was the most disorienting bit, Hill thought with unexpected clarity. Nothing was meant to go around touchingbone.
“Let death take my enemies by surprise. Bring their dead up to the living,” he choked out. “Call them from decay, from the chains of sin.”
He shoved his bloody hand down into the pot. There was more blood in it than made any sense, considering the size of a jackrabbit. His arm sank into it until it was above his elbow. It was so cold it scalded him as it soaked through his sleeve. He gasped in shock and then squeezed his eyes shut tight as he used that breath to force the rest of the words out.
“But as for me, I trust in you,” he said. “Davy Jones.”
And something, down in that cold boiled stew of blood and lung and liver, grabbed his arm.
It didn’t feel like a hand. Too wet and long and…wriggly.
Hill recoiled. It was stupid, after everything he’d done and planned to get here, but he couldn’t help himself. His stifled yell and lurch backward was instinct, hard-wired into his marrow.
It just didn’t do much good.
