“Nah, just sandwiches.”
“So there’s no need to panic?” That’s a relief.
“Well—”
As if on cue, the ghost dog’s head swivels away from me and toward a nearby table where a woman is enjoying a muffin. The hound’s tail begins to wag, and before I can even think to move, it bounds across the café, leaping onto her table as it solidifies.
There’s no hiding the demon dog anymore.
The woman shrieks, nearly falling out of her chair. She drops the muffin and the hound lunges, snatching the pastry midair and gobbling down half of it in one bite. Pandemonium breaks out in the café as people shout and try to get away from the terrifying creature.
“We have to get it out of here,” I hiss to Marlow.
Marlow nods. “Hey! Dog! Over here!” he calls in a stage whisper, waving his arms.
The ghost dog’s ears flick up, but instead of coming to us, it turns its attention to the display case at the front counter. Its red eyes go wide with delight, locked onto the pastries behind the glass. With a happy bark, it’s off, bounding to the case and pressing its cold nose to the glass.
“No, no, no,” I mutter, unable to do anything but watch.
The dog rears up on its hind legs, front paws planted on the display case. The barista behind the counter just stares, putting entirely too much whipped cream on the tall drink she’s fixing, like she’s never seen a ghost dog before… she probably hasn’t.
The dog whines, realizing it can’t get to the treats. Then, with a frustrated little growl, it lets out a bark that vibrates the air. The glass of the display case shatters, sending shards everywhere. Holy shit.
“The dog’s bark can do that?” I hiss to Marlow.
“That’s part of what makes it so annoying.”
“What is this thing, anyway?”
“Not sure it has an official name,” he says. “We usually call it ‘arggh’ or ‘bahh’ or ‘barghhh’ or ‘you stupid ghost dog.’”
The hound dives headfirst into the display case, tail wagging, as everyone else in the café screams and scrambles for cover.
As the terrified patrons flee, Harper naturally comes closer, drawn toward the commotion instead of away. Always eager to help, damn it. Rowan’s behind him, watching warily.
This is bad. Really, really bad.
“Do something!” Marlow urges, elbowing me in the ribs.
“Like what?” I hiss back, watching in horror as the ghost dog demolishes a tray of muffins.
“I don’t know, it’s your hellhound!”
“It’s not mine!” I protest. But the dog came through my portal. That makes it my responsibility.
Necromancy is hard. Summoning the ghost dog was the easy part. How do I send it home? Going on nothing but panic and adrenaline, I focus all my energy on willing another passage into existence. It makes my head hurt, but I somehow manage, and a swirling gateway opens right next to the dog. For a moment, I think it’s going to resist, but then its tail starts wagging again, as if recognizing a doorway home. With acheerful “woof,” it bounds through the portal, which snaps shut behind it.
Okay, good. It’s over. That was a disaster, but it could have been much worse.
“Dude,” whispers Marlow behind me. “You shouldn’t have used your powers. They can interfere with the invisibility potion.”
What?!? “You didn’t tell me that!” I hiss frantically.
“I didn’t know.”
“Then how do you know now?”
“Uh, you better look down.”
