Page 88 of The Witching Hours

As I said the words, I envisioned the circle as a cylinder enclosed on the bottom to form an invisible floor and the curved planes of a circle fitting perfectly atop the circle drawn on the floor. The ceiling was left open to infinity, stretching into space for so far as was necessary to keep myself and the working safe.

I began moving my power hand to create a gradually accelerating clockwise motion. When the invisible cylinder that surrounded me was spinning almost too fast to be seen, I heard a faint pop and knew it was complete. Facing the dining room wall reported to be the site of the “smoky hole”, I lowered myself to sit cross legged in the middle of the circle, careful that my clothes didn’t accidentally come in contact with the salt and disturb the seal, or brush by candle flames.

I waited quietly and with as much patience as my nature would allow.

The house remained silent as ever. Either former owners had spent a fortune on soundproof insulation and triple pane windows, or something extra-natural was causing an audio null zone.

In my mind, without physical voice, I called,Hello!

When I blinked, I saw the briefest flash of exotic yellowy-green eyes lined with black. Watching. The image was more informative than scary. My impression was that the presence was nearby, giving off vibes of curiosity and caution and strong masculine energy. But I couldn’t count on impressions like they were facts. My skill at gender-guessing was far from foolproof.

Since my silent call of “hello” had rendered a response, however brief, I decided to turn up the volume and use my vocal cords. “Could we have a friendly chat about use of this space? Who’s in charge here?”

The first question was deliberately benign. The second was a little more assertive, with a slight hint of demand.

My words hung in the air like CGI text as the seconds ticked by with no response. I was on alert just in case the next time a book showed up near my head, it wasn’t being hurled at high velocity. The fact that I might be agitating them more crossed my mind. I thought my spinning-cylinder barrier would shield me from outright physical attack or ill will, which canbe far more insidious in extra-normal worlds. But my guesses regarding my protections didn’t rise to the level of belief. When dealing with the supernatural, assumptions are made at one’s peril.

After a deep breath, I absently clutched my Eye of Horus in my fist. Even though it was unconscious, it served too purposes. It gave me a power boost and my closed hand rested above my heart for extra insurance. Perhaps I was hoping my favorite talisman would give me the added layer of protection needed to address powerful entities such as these as equals and live to tell the tale. That thought in mind, I used a clockwise motion of my right hand to wind the spin on my cylinder tighter. It has been my experience that rotation, once tightened to its maximum, tends to slow gradually. Left alone, it will come to a complete stop eventually. Most of the time that makes no difference. In this case, I didn’t want to take chances. Everything needed to be worked at maximum capacity.

The dark center of the hole in the wall in front of me seemed to bulge outward into the room and then recede. I cautioned myself that it could’ve been a trick of the light. So, I simply continued to watch intently, afraid blinking might cause me to miss something critical. Of course, being human, my fight or flight response was revving and pressing its own agenda which distilled down to one word.

Run!

I heard a distant sound that reminded me of a windstorm. While I normally like the sound of wind, this was the sort of nerve-abrasive sound that creates irritability and lack of patience, especially in an environment of utter quiet. It struck me as innocuous until a powerful gush of adrenaline surged through my body. Every cell felt like it was being pricked and scraped by its own individual needle. The shock and discomfort robbed me of volition and rendered me statue still. Of the threef’s, fight, flight, or freeze, it seemed the choice had been made for me.

The adrenaline began to subside within seconds of invading my system, but the effects were still active, and I was without options. Though it was weakening quickly, it was still paralyzing. I couldn’t move until it passed. I could only sit and watch.

The noise had gotten gradually louder until it sounded like standing next to a powerful wind tunnel. Just when I thought I was going to have to force my hands up to put fingers in ears, the sound crescendoed into a clap of thunder followed by a combination of glass shattering and upper range windchimes. Tinkling and crashing.

Next came a spectacular lightshow that matched Mason’s description of “fiery rain”. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of pin prick dots surged through the hole. Each exploded into a colorful starburst before fading from sight. The colors were so bright and saturated, filled with light so intense I had to shield my eyes.

Some actually bounced off my cylinder walls before exploding. That was both satisfying and comforting. It confirmed the incontrovertible fact that I was safe.Well.Perhaps “incontrovertible” is premature. It’s not a good idea for someone in my vocation to think in absolutes. My default should be flexibility.

Mason had been right about the show being worth the price of a ticket although, yes, I’m paraphrasing what he said. The Campbell kids had seen this, even been physically touched by the little bits of light, and reported no harm to themselves. As a result, they weren’t afraid.

The kid was also right about the fact that, from a certain point of view, it was pretty.

I could still hear wind, but it wasn’t loud. And no more starbursts of light were coming from the hole. It was now a simple swirl of dark gray smoke.

Standing before me was a creature who was both incredibly attractive and not of this world. The gold-green eyes I’d seen earlier were his, set into a cobalt-blue face with pronounced cheekbones, angular facial planes, a nose with wide nostrils and a squared jaw. His long black hair fell around his body in dozens of braids that lifted and moved slowly like he was subject to the push-pull of an ocean current.

He wore black boots similar to those worn by bikers, plain leather-look pants and no shirt, but his torso was covered by an intricate breastplate made of colorful beads like those worn by native American plains tribes.

The portal in the dining room wall resumed making noise, but it was an inoffensive hum. The creature before me appeared to be speaking, but all I heard was static and an occasional low-level screech over the humming.

I shook my head slightly. “I can’t understand you,” I said. “Are you speaking my language? Are you speaking too fast for me to follow?”

The room went quiet while he seemed to consider. He turned his head to the side and cocked it slightly as if he was listening to advice being offered by someone unseen. The noise that my brain had processed as humming shifted so that I heard whispers instead. Lots of them. All around me.

I checked to see if anything new was visible, but nothing had changed other than the character of the sound. And this guy.

When he spoke again, in a voice that was a ringer for James Earl Jones, it was to say, “You want to speak with one in a position of authority.”

It wasn’t a question and yet I had the feeling he expected an answer.

I couldn’t tell exactly how tall he was from my floor-level vantage point, but it maximized the power imbalance. I told myself I was standing up out of respect.

When I got to my feet, I could judge his height to be closer to seven feet than six.

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