Page 46 of Hellfire to Come
Chapter Eighteen
DOMINIC
The ground felt different here.
Not just beneath my feet, but beneath my skin. Beneath the bones. The deeper we moved into the back yard where Laughing Crow had prepared the ceremonial circle, the more it felt like something ancient stirred in the marrow of the world, like the earth itself was holding its breath.
I stood behind Brooklyn as the shaman began her slow circuit around the space, her bare feet whispering over the packed red earth, trailing smoke and quiet fire. Bundles of sage, cedar, and sweetgrass burned in low iron bowls at the corners, the scent thick and sharp, clinging to the inside of my nostrils.
She moved clockwise, invoking the elements one by one, and with each invocation, gooseflesh bloomed along my arms like a silent warning. Something ancient stirred: subtle, reverent, and watching.
“To the East,” she intoned, her voice steady, resonant, full of something older than human memory. “Air and thought, the mind that dreams, the voice that cries out. I summon thee. Please enter.”
A current of wind slipped into the clearing, sudden and deliberate, rustling the hanging herbs at the edge of the circle and tousling Brooklyn’s hair. It wasn’t natural. It didn’t belong to the forest. It had been summoned.
“To the South, fire and will, the burning truth, the fury that births change. I summon thee. Please enter.”
The flames in the bowls flared in response, tongues of orange and blue licking the edges of the iron. They didn’t consume the herbs, only danced higher, flickering with awareness. As though the fire itself was listening.
“To the West, water and memory, the blood of the old ones, the mirror of all that was. I summon thee. Please enter.”
The air thickened, turning damp like rain had kissed the soil minutes ago. A chill traced the edges of the circle, curling against my skin. I could feel moisture gather beneath my tongue, the ghost of river and salt and old grief rising with it.
“To the North, earth and silence, the grave and the womb, the stone that watches but never forgets. I summon thee. Please enter.”
And then, the stillness. Heavier than silence. Complete. Not even the wind dared breathe. It was as if the earth itself held its exhale, waiting.
The world hushed.
And then, Laughing Crow stepped to the center.
Not hurried. Not hesitant. With the deliberate grace of someone who had done this a hundred times under a thousand stars. Her bare feet kissed the soil as if greeting kin. Her spine was impossibly straight, arms spread slightly from her sides, as though ready to embrace or strike or weep, depending on how the Great Spirit answered.
Around her, the circle seemed to tighten, unseen cords drawing in. The flames no longer danced, they held still, likesentinels. The wind no longer stirred. The damp remained, clinging to the edge of every breath like a web.
She tilted her head back, eyes open to the cosmos above, and began to speak, not in English, not in any language I knew. It was older than syllables. A rhythm. A resonance. Something the blood understood even if the brain couldn’t translate.
It struck me then how small I was. How small we all were in the face of this.
Brooklyn stood just beyond the center, her posture still as death, her shoulders squared against whatever came next. She wasn’t trembling, but I was. My panther coiled like a loaded spring beneath my skin, the hair on my arms and neck rose, not in fear but in awe.
Something was coming.
And that something wasn’t known for mercy.
The shaman was calling to the Great Spirit. The force that bound all this together. Not to command. Not even to request. Only to be heard. To be considered.
The clearing where Laughing Crow had drawn her circle felt removed from time itself. Hidden deep within the heart of the reservation’s sacred grove, the air carried weight—thicker, more viscous, as though time itself slowed just enough for the ancestors to linger between heartbeats. Massive stones stood at uneven intervals along the edge of the circle, their surfaces worn with carvings nearly swallowed by the centuries. Lichen clung to them, remnants of prayers too old to be forgotten.
The trees bowed inward, not just leaning with age but with intention as though they watched, listened, and judged. Their branches twisted into sigils that caught the moonlight in a thousand tiny eyes. The sky above was unnaturally clear, stars cast in high relief against the velvet black, as though the heavens themselves leaned closer to see what would unfold here tonight.
The fire crackled with unnatural rhythm, too measured, too even, as if it, too, had been called to order by Laughing Crow’s hand. Around it, the air danced in strange currents now. Not from wind. Nor from magic. It was something else. Something other. A breath drawn by the world before it decided whether to speak.
Brooklyn stood in the center of the circle now, unmoving, her face unreadable, her spine rigid. I hadn’t even seen her step forward. Her hand hung at her side, fingers twitching from the effort it took not to tremble. I knew her well enough to understand what it cost her to stand there in silence, to hold back the scream she wanted to let loose, to resist the urge to act when waiting alone wasn’t enough.
She would pay any price for Alice.
That truth radiated from her like smoke off a battlefield.
