Now he arrived at the prehistoric circle, the seven man-sized stones rising beneath the turbulent sky. They were said to be seven maidens who’d been cursed for dancing on a Sunday. Their shapes were undulant. The tortuous rock was animated by the running light from the unbroken passage of clouds over the full moon.

The old man stepped into the circle’s center. He could feel the cadence of occult energy, the broadcast of the waters converging underground. He could almost hear the throb of the maidens’ music. He knelt before the kindling he had piled up in a small pyramid. He felt pebbles and grit under his bare knee.

The air grew hushed. Leaves, trapped beneath the kindling, chattered softly. The wind haunted the perimeter of the place, seeking ingress, moaning.

“Thou who goest to and fro at night, torch in hand, enemy of the day, friend and lover of darkness. Thou who dost rejoice when the bitches are howling and warm blood is spilled …”

He set the bag on the hard earth before him, set the athame on the hard earth, beside the lighter he had left waiting there. He clasped the scruff of the wriggling mass inside the canvas sack. He spread the neck of the sack. Puffing, he worked the shivering animal out into the cold.

The puppy looked up at the old man hopefully. It lapped at his thumb—the thumb that held it fast.

The old man kept the puppy pinned with his left hand, took up the lighter in his right. He worked the strike-wheel, made the flame. Squinted at it, pupils zooming.

The puppy yipped, begging to be set free, to play. The old man leaned across it, held the lighter to the leaves.

“Thou who art walking amidst the phantoms in the place of tombs … Come on, come on, flame.”

A leaf took, burned. There was a low snigger as the fire spread. A red glow slowly leaked out of the pyramid, spread over the ground.

“Good. Good,” the old man said.

The puppy squeaked at him, thumped its tail against the earth.

The old man lifted the athame.

“Now.” He hoisted the knife up to the level of his thin, silvery hair. His voice grew louder.

“Thou whose thirst is blood, thou who dost strike chill fear into mortal hearts. Hel, Hecate, Gorgo, Mormo. Cast a propitious eye upon our sacrifice.”

With that, he made a heave of effort, his breasts jiggling. The knife went high, went up against the clouds, against the moon.

There was a sudden suction of fumy air. The pyramid of sticks exploded in a mushroom of sparks and fire. Amidst the stone maidens, behind the burgeoning flame, out of the frozen night, there arose a black figure.

The old man cried out in terror.

The figure spoke. It boomed: “Lay not thy hand upon the dog! Neither do thou anything unto it!”