Michael stroked the head that rested on his chest. He didn’t know who she was or why she was so sad, but her hair felt silky, and her sorrow hurt his soul. “Don’t cry. Please, don’t cry.” He tried to focus, but disjointed images swirled in the fog: a snarling wolf, a shrieking woman, a stunned boy, a sobbing girl. “I won’t let him do it,” Michael whispered, although he didn’t know why he said that or how he could prevent “him” from doing “it” when his body felt so heavy he could hardly move.
“I’m so sorry,” the woman said. “This is all my fault. I should have known this could happen. I should have seen the signs. He does not lose. Not ever.”
Michael recognized her voice, but her name drifted out of reach.
“They used black magic on you, Michael. Quimbanda. They called on the Devil.”
Her words didn’t make any sense. Magic? Devil?
“You’re dying.”
That he understood. He could feel his body giving up. The fog weighing him down.
“Michael.”
He needed to sleep. Why wouldn’t she let him sleep?
“They can’t help you here. Do you understand? I have to take you away.”
“Sure,” he muttered, and closed his eyes.