The storm raged over head. Shadows flew in sweeping arcs, dive-bombing the old man who stood undaunted. Seth directed his energy like an enraged Mozart, flinging his malice at Boots with all the anger of the centuries. With each passing second, Seth’s hatred grew until it consumed him, burning in his eyes and animating his limbs.
Boots deflected each passing wave with the agility of a dancer. His grizzled hands grasping at shades and squeezing them out of existence. He was at the eye, the center of the storm. The focus of the dark whirlpool’s rotation. With one eye he kept a watch over Jack below, with the other, he waged war with the mist.
The rain came down sideways, the whole world illuminated by the spiderweb lightning stretched out across the black sky. Boots moved his feet and marched up to Seth, grabbed him by the neck, and brought him to the ground. His iron grip as old as the rock beneath his feet.
The shadows swarmed impotently around him, on his back, over his arms. They fought to tear the old man away from their master but could not. He was locked in . . . immovable.
Seth grinned back at Boots, unfazed by the quick turn of events. His laugh resounded in the echoing booms of the lightning strikes.