Fiona stands beside me and ties a leather strap around my arm then cleans a spot on my forearm with alcohol. A butterfly needle with a long tube connected to the end appears in her hand. She glances at me. I nod.
She plunges the needle into my vein. I watch as blood drips out of my arm, through the hose, and into a golden chalice on the floor. It’s a lot more blood than I was expecting. She finishes the job by taping the needle into place.
Ammon appears above my head, holding a small wooden stick wrapped in leather.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“So you don’t bite your tongue off.”
Well, that’s a considerate touch for someone who’s about to lure a demon out of my body. This is the second time this week I’ve been shackled to a table. I’m beginning to suspect I may be partially to blame for this coincidence.
Ammon looks down at me. “Are you ready?”
“Are you?” I ask.
“I assure you, I’m well prepared.”
“Then sure. Why the hell not?”
He places the leather bit inside my mouth then steps backward until he is outside the circle. He steadies himself then begins to chant.
“O Daemon, audi me
“Prodi et detege se.”
With a jolt, pain suddenly courses through my body. I close my eyes as I writhe and pull at the chains, which keep me steady.
“Imprecor Aerem
“Imprecor Aquam
“Imprecor Terram
“Imprecor Ignem.”
A fiery burn permeates my entire body. I scream through the bit as the pain continues to explode from deep inside.
“O Daemon, audi me
“Te complectimur in cameram.”
Ammon’s voice projects throughout the chamber as he switches languages. “I, Ammon of Egypt, do invite you, oh magnificent and formidable one, to our humble chamber!”
I open my eyes. I can see the flames of the four candles explode upward into the room like fireworks. In my mind, I can hear Father Ramon’s voice. The pain is exhausting. I can’t focus. Something is crawling out from within my stomach. It claws at my throat. Trying to get out.
Again, I can hear Father Ramon telling me to stay in control. I can’t. It hurts too much. My jam slams shut, and the wooden bit bursts between my teeth.
* * *
Slowly my senses start coming back to me. My eyes remain shut as my consciousness returns, and I try to make sense of where I am. I’m cold. The floor is hard. I’m on my side. Something shuffles close to my head. It makes a click, click, click sound.
I open my eyes. My shirt is gone, and I’m only wearing my bra and jeans. The rough, cold floor sticks to my skin. I’m curled in a fetal position inside the edge of the circle. I can see its painted border right at my face.
Click, click, click, click, click…
When I roll over, I’m met by a horrifying sight. A sea of insects crawl over each other right in front my face. Thousands of centipedes, spiders, beetles, and other nasty bugs form a thick blanket two inches deep.
I scramble away and to my feet, swatting at anything that might be on me. The insects quickly fill the void left by my absence in the ring but do not cross its border. A perfect circle of bugs forms in the center of the room. They continue to crawl over each other, unable to penetrate the magical barrier and escape the ring. Their spindly legs and bony pincers continue to click, click, click.
It occurs to me where all these bugs came from. I spit, just in case I have any lingering bugs in my mouth. My body shivers, and I swipe at my bare skin and my hair to shed any stowaways. Chains clank with every movement I make.
I look down. Manacles are still attached to my wrists and ankles, their broken chains dangling. Something pierces my biceps. There, in my flesh, is a small piece of metal. I pinch it and draw out the long remnant of the hypodermic needle. I flick it to the floor.
At the center of the mass of insects lie the broken remains of the stone altar. What’s left of my torn and tattered shirt is draped across one corner. Glancing around the room, I can see a fragment of stone imbedded in the wall, with a broken chain hanging from its surface.
Near the cabinet, I spy my jacket and boots. Careful not to step inside the circle, I grab my clothes then hurry to the door at the other side of the room. It’s locked.
I bang on the door and pull on my coat. “Hey! Let me out of here!” My throat is sore, and I fear to consider why that might be.
“Dear, is that really you?”
“Cut the shit, Fiona, and let me out.”
“That’s her,” she says to someone on the other side. Moments later, I hear a click, and the door opens.
Not waiting for the door to open all the way, I push through and into the hallway. I shield myself when I see both Fiona and Ammon standing down the hall, each posed in a defensive magic stance. Fiona’s hands are extended, generating a shimmering energy. Ammon points a golden and bejeweled staff right at me.
“Don’t magic me!” I shout, not sure if that’s the right term. “It’s me! It’s Darcy!”
I peer past my outstretched hands. Fiona lowers her hands, and the energy dissipates. Hesitantly, Ammon points his staff at the ground.
Jack Skellington moves past them toward me, holding a tray with a single glass of water. Not waiting for permission, I grab the glass and take a drink. The water is amazingly refreshing, and
