The other Klansmen stepped forward, following their leader. “What’re you doing there?” he said.

Blackwood said, “And…now.”

Click. The flashlight went dark. For a moment, the torches lit the trees with orange, dancing light.

“Elil,” uttered Blackwood—in a harsh whisper.

A sudden and thorough gust of wind ripped through the clearing. The torch flames whipped back and went out. Blackness fell like a guillotine blade in the disorienting wind.

The Klansmen shouted in alarm.

Solomon felt a hand on his forearm, pulling him. He ran alongside Blackwood, headlong through the darkness, turning quickly this way and that, brushing past—but never once striking—trunks and low branches.

Their steps seemed hushed—muffled—as if they were barely touching the ground, Blackwood guiding him firmly past and above all obstacles, gliding through the dense tree cover like mercury.

He was aware of frantic yelling behind him, the Klansmen either chasing them or simply fleeing the woods themselves. At once, Solomon saw pale moonlight. He emerged from the tree cover onto grass that looked silver, and rough gravel beyond.

There they stopped, Solomon struggling to catch his breath. “How did you do that—?”

Solomon felt something come into his hand. The flashlight.

Then the harried voices of the Klansmen, shouting to each other—Over here…it’s this way…I can’t see shit!—as robed bodies began stumbling out of the woods. The fear in their voices was palpable, and enjoyable.

Solomon hit them with the flashlight beam, and they shouted in fear, covering their eyes. A few of them were on their knees, gasping for breath, the run through the trees having ripped their hoods away, their white robes slashed and shredded, and speckled with blood from branch wounds.

Solomon turned the light beam away from them, leaving them temporarily blinded.

“Evening, gents!” he said, and found the keys to his car in his pocket. He peeled out on the hard gravel.

As Solomon drove, he found himself laughing out loud. It was glee at the humiliation of those Klansmen, but it was also an expression of relief from his own fear. Damn those clumsy hillbillies for the terror they could strike in good people’s hearts.

“I don’t know how you did that, but that was incredible!” Solomon slapped the steering wheel with his hand, then hit the horn a couple of times in celebration. “How do you see so well in the darkness?”

“A talent, I guess,” said Blackwood, shrugging slightly, staring out at the road ahead of them.

His sober reaction brought Solomon back down to earth. The end triumph couldn’t overshadow all the strange things Blackwood had shown him.

“What does it all mean?” asked Solomon.

“I am not sure,” said Blackwood. “Something is happening here. Those masked men arrived at this town like dark spirits invoked. This is a flashpoint here, in this place called the Delta. And you, Agent Solomon, are at the nexus.”