“But I saw it move,” Enrique says.
“Frumberg’s right, unfortunately,” Jonathan says. “The dog is very dead.”
“But it’s moving; Enrique’s right,” I say.
Jonathan shakes his head. “It’s not the dog that’s moving. Who did you call, Frumberg? Or should I say what?”
What used to be a pit bull stands up now, growing moment by moment, its eyes glowing dark red as its snout expands and horns burst forth from its head. The sulfur stench is overpowering as steam billows forth from its dead jaws.
“Frumberg?” Jonathan asks. “What did you call?”
“You think I’m stupid enough to tell you? I had to pay quite a price just to get the spell book, and for the name? Perhaps the price was too high.”
There is a low growl, and the creature turns to face Gary. “Who called me?” it barks into the night. “Who prepared the host and sacrifice?”
“It was I,” Gary Frumberg says. “I called you, Rewsin.”
“Then you are a fool,” Rewsin says, already doubled in size, bigger than Frumberg now, the voice booming out of its dog mouth.
“Fool or not, I bind you to my will,” Frumberg says. “I called you forth, and you must do my bidding.”
“This malformed pentagram and puny vessel cannot contain me,” growls Rewsin, his borrowed dog body splitting at the seams, sprouting horns and scales where the stretched skin splits. His paws are already as big as my feet.
Rewsin rears up on his hind paws and puts his forepaws on Frumberg’s chest, pushing him out of his tiny circle of protection, out of the pentagram entirely. Frumberg raises his hands, tries to mumble what must be an incantation.
“Gary, run!” I shout, but it’s too late.
Rewsin barks three times, and all the torches go out.
My hackles rise again and the air fills with sulfur. My whole body yearns to change, and Enrique tenses up next to me; I can smell his musk.
Rewsin raises himself onto his hind legs, now bigger than the pentagram, and knocks Gary to the ground. Then he makes one leap and he is out of the circle.
He looks at me, at Enrique and Jonathan.
“Friend or foe?” he asks us.
“No idea,” I say.
“Friend,” says Jonathan.
“I’m with Stanley,” Enrique says.
“I have no friends,” growls Rewsin, growing more, splitting more at the seams.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say.
Rewsin ignores me, turning to look back at Frumberg, who lies on the ground. I don’t know if he’s dead or just knocked unconscious.
“He lives still,” Rewsin says. “What an idiot.”
He’s got that right.
A single horn sounds not too far off in the distance.
“The hunters blow their stupid horns, and I will answer,” he says. “But tell that silly boy that if he tries to call me again, he’s dead. Actually, tell him if we even cross paths again, he’s dead.”
He turns to examine us again. “Actually, maybe I should just kill you all. It’s a much cleaner death than leaving you for the ghouls.”