Twenty Seven

The smoke surged forward, forming and re-forming itself. A tendril took the shape of a human hand and stroked the edge of the burning pentagram that contained it. Then, with a surge, the smoke seethed past the edge of the star, poured over the border like a wave breaching a levee.

The flames guttered and died as Otumba on the other hand started vibrating like he was feeling a sensation, screaming. The Genie stumbled backward. He was chanting now, in rapid Chthonian, spells of containment and ritual continuation. Then something happened; the black smoke-mass came on inexorably, and now it was starting to have something of a shape—a malformed, enormous, hideous shape, its glowing eyes altering, rounding to the size of saucers, spilling a dreadful light.

It surged forward and coiled around Drake who had converted from cryptic visuals to intelligible language.

"An Angel-Nephalem blood?!" The smoke spoke out soaring up, back ward as he snuffed out the blood that ran through the young boys