Magic Time: Angelfire by Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff, Marc Zicree

“What was his name—Grumpy?”
    “Rory. And that’s a dodge,” she accuses me. “If you don’t want to tell me, just say so.”
    “So.”
    We talk for a while about the things we miss about so-called civilization. Oddly enough, we discover that we have the same number one item—truly hot showers.
    The rain has let up and our conversation has degenerated into a laundry list of Most Missed when the horses suddenly get the yips. Words curl up and die on our tongues. We’re on our feet then, and I quickly realize why Colleen kept shifting her position under the tarp.
    “Should we wake them?” I whisper, nodding at Doc and Cal and trying to shake the cramps out of my legs.
    “Not yet. Let’s make sure it’s worth waking them first.”
    Colleen moves to the horses—possibly to read their grapefruit-size equine minds—while I squint into the misty woods, hoping not to see fiery eyeballs peering back.
    “Shit,” I hear Colleen growl above the whinnying, then, “Wake up! Doc, Cal! C’mon, c’mon, come on !”
    Behind me they stir, they stretch, they come to befuddled wakefulness, they realize where they are and bolt from their bedding. They are taking up weapons and stations when I see the first pairs of eyes. I glance behind me and wonder if the rocky outcropping before which our very nervous horses now quiver will be help or hindrance.
    Lanterns flare at the periphery of my vision. I rip the lid off my fire pit and light up. The flames are sluggish, but they go. To my right and left I hear the rustle of tarps being whisked aside. Flames leap.
    “Doc, stay with the horses.” Cal’s voice comes from my left. “Keep them calm. If the twists get past us, take them across the stream and get as far away as you can.”
    Doc argues, albeit unsteadily, “We should all leave. If we move now—”
    “We could be separated,” Cal finishes. He dumps wood on his fire; it spits bright cinders into the air.
    On my right, Colleen hunkers down behind her own column of flame, crossbow locked and loaded. None too soon. Dark shapes materialize out of the shrubbery. As we watch, they go from solid to vapor—black on black, smoke on ink. They may not be able to surround us, but they can easily push us up against the rocks or into the creek if they attack.
    They don’t attack. They just melt into the trees and watch us. All we can see of them is those burning red eyes. After about an hour of this, they glide into a different formation. I can feel all four of us clench, expecting an attack. None comes.
    Another hour ticks by. We speak in whispers, keeping each other alert. Cal wonders aloud what they’re waiting for. I don’t want to find out, I seriously don’t.
    “Just pray they don’t start singing,” Colleen says.
    I take that as an order.
    It occurs to me that we could be sitting here till dawn, and I wonder if our fires and lamps will last that long. We are destined to find out. My pile of wood is dwindling and Cal is dropping on his last log when Colleen swears.
    “Dammit, the lamps.”
    They die as we watch. Then it begins to rain again. It’s a gentle rain but it’s killing our fires, and the dimmer the fires get, the closer the menace moves. I recall that Colleen theorized our shadowy friends were afraid of rain. I could say “I told you so,” but decide it would be exceptionally bad timing.
    The twists begin to make a sound that’s less like singing than like wind through high-tension wires. Then they move, oozing toward us like sentient oil slicks. Like the thing in my nightmare. Our pathetic horses are freaking. I can hear Doc desperately trying to calm them.
    “Torches!” yells Cal, and lights one. Firelight gleams down the wicked length of the sword he readies in the other hand.
    The twists dance at the edges of the light, shapes shifting, now solid, now ephemeral, always distorted, as if they’re dressed in clothing that twists and deflects sight. They advance, they retreat, they keen and wail,