When Kera and I stole Navar’s powers, I didn’t think about how it would affect me. But now the first side has grown into an insistent voice that nags at the back of my brain, rushes hotly under my skin, and heightens my senses until I think I’ll go crazy. My itch for power has grown worse. I can’t look at Kera, afraid she’ll see how selfish, how out-of-control, I’ve become.
“Right,” I whisper, uncomfortable with my thoughts, and scrub my head in frustration as I eye Bodog sitting at the kitchen table eyeing a peanut butter sandwich. “I’m not responsible for his problems, just partly responsible.”
The biggest part.
Kera won’t have me huddling into my misery. She cups my cheek, her fingers cool against my hot skin, her violet eyes soft and deep and calm as they probe mine. “We cannot change the past. Faldon made his choice, like we all do. He would have murdered your best friend and your grandmother, innocent people who knew nothing of our world and its evils. He was the closest thing to a friend as I’ve ever had, and I say you did right. By destroying him and Navar, you saved many.”
“For what?” I motion toward Bodog as evidence. “To die a slow death? I can’t defend my actions against that.”
Skin sags on his bones. His large eyes protrude. His nose and ears appear twice as big against a face that has shrunk. He has the look of the starving.
“He’s a shell of what he was,” I whisper harshly. “Look at him, Kera. What happened?”
A disassembled peanut butter sandwich is suddenly thrown to the floor, peanut butter side down. Bodog clutches at his throat, tongue lolling from his mouth. With a big show of disgust, he spits and scrapes the peanut butter out of his mouth with the edge of the tablecloth.
Grandma smacks his head. “Stop that!”
He jerks away and wiggles his tongue at her, saying, “You poison Bodog.”
“I am not poisoning you. That’s good food you’ve turned your nose up at.” Grandma grabs the empty plate, and Bodog rocks back and forth, scowling at her.
Kera grabs another rag to clean up his mess. “Please, Bodog. No more spitting.”
What are we doing wrong? My mind flashes back to the underground labyrinth that is his home, and I know. “He won’t eat any of it.”
Grandma picks up the offending plate and turns to me. “I’ve wasted good food on…” she hesitates and eyes Bodog as if she’s not sure what to call him, “…your friend.”
“I’ve got an idea, but…um…” I’m hesitant to say what it is.
“Whatever it is, I’ll feed it to him.”
“Whatever is a pretty broad term,” I warn her.
“If it’ll stop him from moaning and spitting, I don’t care what it is.”
“Okay, then. I’ll be right back. Stay put, Bodog.”
He nods and collapses against the chair like a windup doll whose key has stopped turning. I hotfoot it outside to the shed. Grandpa’s a fisherman. Living in prime fishing territory, he goes whenever the mood strikes him. Grandpa wouldn’t be caught dead without a ready supply of worms. I grab an old pail, open the bait box in the corner, and scoop out a pile of writhing beauties.
When I enter the kitchen, I grin at Grandma’s widening eyes. “You said whatever,” I remind her.
I take a plate from the cupboard and pour out a knotted glob of wriggling worms. Bodog’s face suddenly brightens.
“You might want to turn away,” I shoot over my shoulder at Grandma. “This isn’t going to be pretty.”
Within a staggeringly short period of time, the worms are sucked down the little man’s gullet. An entirely different series of noises rise as his tongue flickers out to lick the plate clean.
“More?” I ask. He nods. I make two more trips to the shed in an attempt to fill his endless stomach. Bodog wolfs down his meal quicker than a Shop-Vac. He lifts his plate and looks imploringly up at me.
“Sorry,” I say. “That was the last of it.”
Grandma shakes her head. “Your grandfather is going to be stomping mad when he finds his bait gone.”
Bodog leans back and cups his hands over his protruding belly. A burp ripples from his throat, scenting the air with an earthy odor. Grandma pinches her nose and turns away.
I take the chair opposite Bodog. I know what hasn’t occurred to Grandma. Bodog wouldn’t be here unless something really, really bad is going on. I plant my elbows on the table. “Doing okay?”
He nods.
“Good.” It’s time for some answers. “Why’re you here?”
His short-lived contentment disappears, and his eyes grow haunted. “All is lost.”
Getting information out of him is slower than watching worms crawl. “What’s lost?”
“Life. Bad things happening. Disarray. Death.”
I wonder how the news is affecting Kera. She’s suddenly very interested in the dish towel she holds. It’s twisted in a tight roll, and when she lets go, it unfurls like a dancer spinning on her toes.
Bodog’s filthy hand slaps atop mine, snapping my attention back to him. “Come back. You must save us.”
Before I can answer, Grandma steps forward with her hands on her hips, her usual gracious attitude gone. “Absolutely not. Dylan can’t go back. He almost died there.”
Bodog ignores Grandma’s outburst. His eyes grow large and pleading. “You must return. Hope is lost without you.”
Grandma swoops in and plucks Bodog from his seat by the tip of one floppy ear. Amid his screeching, she growls, “Out with you.”
Kera steps back, separating herself from the sudden chaos. Despite my shouts to stop, Grandma drags Bodog across the kitchen and rips open the back door. With a shove, she ejects him onto the porch, where he rolls like a half-chewed dog bone, coming to a wobbly stop near the railing. Grandma’s anger curls around her. “Scurry off into the hole you came from and don’t come back.”
“Grandma!” I push past her and help Bodog to his feet.
He hides behind me and whimpers against my sleeve as he eyes the angry human before him. “Crazy woman should leave Bodog alone.”
A strangling noise rises in Grandma’s throat. Kera peers out behind the screen door, a silent witness to Grandma’s protective nature.
Grandma steps forward and waggles a finger in Bodog’s face. “Not on your life! Your realm destroyed my daughter and nearly killed my grandson. Things are spilling out of your realm that give sane people nightmares. Dylan is not going back.”
A loud cuss erupts from the shed, and we all turn to see Grandpa stomp out, his dog at his heels and a fishing pole clutched in his right hand. “Someone stole my worms,” he shouts.
“George!” Grandma calls. She glares back at Bodog. “And to think I fed you. Wait until my husband hears about this.”
She lets out another yell and waves as she scrambles down the stairs toward Grandpa. I’ve never seen Grandma so fired up. Her eyes could’ve burned through wet leather the way she glared at Bodog.
A series of hesitant tugs attack my shirt, and I glance down. Bodog’s ears twitch and his mouth moves wordlessly. The poor guy’s been through hell and now Grandma’s after him. I take pity on him. “Tired?”
He nods.
“I’ve got the perfect place for you.”
“Dylan.” The screen door cracks open and Kera steps out. Her face holds deep shadows. “Maybe we shouldn’t—”
I shake my head. I can’t talk to her right now, and I leave her standing on the porch twisting the edge of her shirt with worry. I lead Bodog to the root cellar on the side of the house where a pair of large, wooden doors lie flat against the ground. When I pull the doors open, there’s the impression of a gaping mouth, eager to swallow whatever is pushed inside.