New Title 1 by Dru Pagliassotti Page B

go.”
    “The what?” Clancy stared at the man a moment before registering his meaning. “You mean, the medal thing?”
    “It’s a seal of summoning.”
    “Summoning what ?” He was suddenly afraid he already knew the answer.
    “The beings in between.”
    He swallowed. If he hadn’t seen those snake-things himself, he’d say Penemue was crazy. Even now, part of him was hoping this would all turn out to be a nightmare or some kind of hallucination.
    “You think this is some kind of Satanic cult thing? Summoning demons?”
    “Satan doesn’t mean a thing to those creatures.”
    “So it’s, uh, paganism or something?” At one of the annual sensitivity and diversity training sessions, he’d had to learn the difference between pagans and Satanists.
    “The seal is part of it, Detective. If you give it to me, I may be able to learn more.”
    Penemue could be telling the truth. He was some kind of professor, after all. But he could be the head cultist, too, for all Clancy knew.
    “Tell you what,” he countered. “Come down to the station with me, and we’ll see about letting you inspect the evidence under secure conditions. Forensics, remember—wouldn’t want your fingerprints confusing the jury later.”
    “This won’t ever go to trial.”
    “That decision’s out of my hands.” He was definitely getting a bad feeling about the provost. Assuming the white-haired man even was the provost—suddenly Clancy wasn’t sure about that, either. He hadn’t asked for identification, and what the hell was a provost, anyway? “Look, you can come with me or not; it’s up to you. But people are dead—” he stopped, reminded of his missing colleagues. The panic and grief that he’d held at bay threatened to rise, and he thrust it down, swallowing hard. “—and Jackson needs medical treatment now . I’ve got to get help.”
    “I’m offering you help.” Penemue held out one finely manicured hand. “I may be your only hope.”
    Clancy took a step backward, shaking his head. Something was wrong here, and he didn’t like the fact that Penemue was resisting going to the station.
    “Sorry. Don’t move, Jackson. I’ll be right back.” He turned, thrusting one hand under his jacket and onto the grip of his pistol, and began to walk toward the street. He hoped his car was still intact.
    The earth began to jolt again. One of the dig lights shifted, its wide beam passing over Clancy as it rolled to a new position.
    He turned, pulling his pistol free, expecting to find Penemue lunging for him, but the provost’s back was turned as he stared at the field.
    Clancy followed the man’s gaze, his throat tightening.
    Something was pushing its way through the night sky—the dirt—the very light beams that crossed the ruined field. The stars spun, the earth quaked, and the air split, revealing a multitude of multicolored, pulsing, floating monsters that put the earlier snake-creatures to shame with their grotesquerie.
    “Oh, shit.” Clancy took two steps to the left, to avoid hitting Penemue, and began firing with terrified abandon.

XVI

     
    The glass display cases had broken, and Todd envied Jack Langthorn his hard-soled cowboy boots and Andy Markham his sturdy running sneakers. His own Italian loafers weren’t designed for stepping on broken glass. He could still feel pain. Usually pain didn’t bother him—feeling anything was better than feeling nothing—but tonight he didn’t have time for distractions. The heaviness he’d felt hanging over campus all autumn had reached its crisis point, and thousands of possible futures frothed around him, seeking a new state of equilibrium.
    “Are you looking for anything in particular?” Markham asked. He’d found a candle in the rubble, part of one of the displays, and was lighting it with Jack’s lighter.
    “I suspect those bones were buried in the Gudruns’ time,” Todd said, looking around. “I’d like to know why.”
    “I take it you don’t figure that