Trinity’s throat gave a final heave and what Amy saw next was impossible: it looked like she was vomiting underwater. A thick, milky liquid hung in front of Trinity’s face, an impossible cloud suspended in midair, soft white tendrils unfurling in slow motion.

“Get her cuffs off,” Amy repeated, but either Matt didn’t hear her or he was too awestruck to respond.

More fluid surged from Trinity’s mouth, thickening the milk cloud. Candlelight reflected on its undulating surface, amplifying every delicate tremor, making it appear alive. As Trinity regurgitated gulp after gulp of white fluid, its aimless drift took on a purpose, unrolling tendrils back toward her face, latching onto her hair, her ears, clinging to her cheeks and dragging itself over her, obliterating her features beneath its milky ripples. The cloud pulled itself slowly over Trinity’s head, engulfing her from the shoulders up until all that was left was a torso disappearing into a white glob of liquid, its sides rippling with surface tension as if it was breathing for her.

Trinity’s chest heaved and her diaphragm and stomach jerked as she pumped out more fluid; the liquid mass thickened and bulged. Some distant part of Amy’s mind understood that the Brooka/bathroom smell had returned, a rich toilet stench, stale and rank like rotten cheese.

The only person not watching the ectoplasm was Carl. His eyes were closed and he was breathing heavily through his nose. His face was red, his neck was corded. Sweat had blackened the collar of his polo shirt.

A long pseudopod of milky white fluid stretched across the table toward Carl and sniffed the air around him. He opened his eyes just as the fluid rolled over his face in an intimate gesture and flowed up his nostrils. Amy wanted to gag but she couldn’t speak, she couldn’t move. She was paralyzed watching this foul communion. The fluid stretched across the table from Trinity’s mouth to Carl’s nose, rippling in midair over the table like fabric floating underwater.

“Heh … hel—” Carl mumbled.

The ribbon of fluid fluttered, shaken by the sound of his voice. Then its tail broke free of Trinity’s mouth, and quick as an eel it disappeared up Carl’s nose. As suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone—and the spell that paralyzed the group was broken.

“Okay,” Amy said, trying out her voice, relieved that she could speak. “Okay, okay.”

“Is he—” Ruth Anne whispered.

“Hurts!” Carl said, loudly. “Forgot … it hurts!”

His voice was different; it was deeper and didn’t sound like Carl at all. His hands spasmed and clenched in their cuffs, like dying crabs flexing on the table. A long minute passed before he spoke again, but when he finally did, he was considerably calmer. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “Why does it always have to hurt so much?”