The boy kneeling on the oor looked up at him, nervous and
petulant. “It’s the marble. It’s more solid than I thought. It’s
making it hard to draw the pentagram.”
“So skip the pentagram.” Up close it was easier to see that
despite his white hair, the man wasn’t old. His hard face was
severe but unlined, his eyes clear and steady.
The boy swallowed hard and the membranous black wings
protruding from his narrow shoulder blades (he had cut slits in
the back of his denim jacket to accommodate them) apped
nervously. “The pentagram is a necessary part of any demon-
raising ritual. You know that, sir. Without it…”
“We’re not protected. I know that, young Elias. But get on with
it. I’ve known warlocks who could raise a demon, chat him up,
and dispatch him back to hell in the time it’s taken you to draw
half a ve-pointed star.”
The boy said nothing, only attacked the marble again, this time
with renewed urgency. Sweat dripped from his forehead and he
pushed his hair back with a hand whose ngers were connected
with delicate weblike membranes. “Done,” he said at last, sitting
back on his heels with a gasp. “It’s done.”
“Good.” The man sounded pleased. “Let’s get started.”
“My money—”
“I told you. You’ll get your money after I talk to Agramon, not
before.”
Elias got to his feet and shrugged his jacket o. Despite the
holes he’d cut in it, it still compressed his wings uncomfortably;
freed, they stretched and expanded themselves, wafting a breeze
through the unventilated room. His wings were the color of an oil
slick: black threaded with a rainbow of dizzying colors. The man
looked away from him, as if the wings displeased him, but Elias
didn’t seem to notice. He began circling the pentagram he’d
drawn, circling it counterclockwise and chanting in a demon
language that sounded like the crackle of ames.
With a sound like air being sucked from a tire, the outline of
the pentagram suddenly burst into ames. The dozen huge
windows cast back a dozen burning reected ve-pointed stars.
