I swallow hard and look right into the beast's eyes. Or at least that's where eye sockets should be. But instead of eyeballs, there's only flame. "What do you want with me?"
"Protect."
"Serve."
It speaks as two instead of one. Though both use the same voice. It's grown in strength and has taken on a distinctive masculine tone. Deep. Gruff. That's the voice of an older man who's all rough and tumble. That isn't unpleasant to my ears. Not at all. It makes my stomach do a little flip. I do my best to ignore that reaction as I shuffle in place, still eye-balling the safety of the circle.
I keep asking it questions. Trying to decide if the risk is worth the reward. "Where did you come from?"
"While they rule, we watch the gate."
"We let them out and keep them in."
"We usher them inside and drag them back."
I stare at their flaming eyes and black furry shapes. Not just any beast, but a wolfish one. It clicks into place. "You're hellhounds."
"Yes," they answer together, "your kin has given us many names."
Their red eyes are bright. Their teeth gleam.
"You invited us, Seth Grimshaw, and we came. Every witch needs a familiar. Let us be yours."
Taking on the hellhound of Hell as my familiar spirit? There must be some sort of Witch law against that. Yet, as I glance down at my still-damp clothes and think about not only my day, but my entire year at St. Salem, I'm tempted to accept the offer.
I've tried so hard to be good, but it's all been for nothing.
If I can't be a good witch...maybe I should embrace being a bad witch.
4
Seth
"What do I need to do?" This is going to be worth the risk and change my life forever...or it'll be a mistake that costs me my life. I don't care either way. "And what are your names?"
The spirits look toward each other. It's almost a comical sight while snapping and snuffling at each other, seemingly unable to answer.
"The old king," one says.
"The summoner king?"
They both nod to each other and turn to me, finally naming themselves. "Dantalion. Malphas. The names granted us last we were summoned forth."
They're talking about King Solomon. One of the most powerful summoners to ever exist. The witch who practically founded the craft of conjuration.
Dantalion and Malphas snap and snarl along the protective barrier, but all those teeth take the shape of a smile. A shiver races down my spine as they point all those pointy edges at me.
"Make an offering," Dantalion whispers.
"Give us tribute," Malphas murmurs.
Their teeth may be sharp, but their hushed words are soft and dipped in honey. Everything they say sounds so sweet. My dull teeth ache, and my stomach growls in kind.
"A sacrifice," they speak in unison. Only then, with their voices united, do their words rise in volume. They become louder than the stormy might of wind and rain battering against the windowpane.
"Surrender, witch. Spill thy seed upon the circle 'round to birth us into your world."
They want me to jack off? No way. I swallow down a sudden lump in my throat. Semen was never on the essential list of ingredients for conjuration. "I've never heard of that being part of the ritual."
