[This post is from J.T.’s point of view.]
J.T. walked slowly to the next torch. Like the first, the wick sputtered for a second, damp, and then caught, the flame blue. Energy skated across his flesh again and he kept moving, toward the third torch. Leinth stepped closer to the edge of the barrow.
“Jameson.”
“It’s all right,” he said, snapping the lighter’s flame to life again so he could light the next torch. “I know what I’m doing.”
It was a lie, but he hoped it was at least a convincing one.
For a third time, the wick sputtered for a second before it caught, blue flame dancing in front of his face. At the center of the barrow, the haze began to swirl, slowly, lazily, like a sink just beginning to drain. His breath caught as he stood, staring at it for a few seconds.
“Perhaps we should stop,” Leinth said, slowly moving along the edge of the barrow, on the opposite side but parallel to him. “This is—this is very strange.”
“Can you feel it?” he asked, his voice quiet. “Can you feel it stirring?”
“The chill of the grave, yes,” Leinth said, just shy of snapping at him. “This isn’t a game, Jameson.”
He started toward the last of the torches. “No,” he agreed. “No, it’s not.”
They reached the last torch at the same time. Leinth stared at him but didn’t try to stop him as he lit the last of the torches. Once again, the flame flared blue. The vortex beginning at the center of the barrow began to spin faster as both of them watched. Leinth took a step back and J.T. reached out to grasp her arm, gently but firmly.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she whispered.
“It’s okay,” J.T. said softly, watching. He held still, though he wanted to step forward. Leinth stepped closer to him, wrapping one hand over his, over the one grasping her arm.
“How do you know?” she asked.
“I don’t,” he said. “And yet, I do.”
He squeezed her arm and then let go, stepping across the barrow’s edge and through the wardings there, walking toward the vortex that had begun to glow brighter and colder in the summer sun.
