Some months ago he had read of a ritual that, for the price of a person’s most precious possession, lent in return their most ardent desire.

And by the twistings and turnings of happenstance and perhaps deliberate intent, now Lindsey kneels in the center of an octagram, his hands cupped open. And around the octagram stalks a man whose eyes never move, who is chanting, and who had instructed him in the workings of the ritual.

A vow, solemnly made and ravenously consumed. The candles, burning low at their anchorpoints. And the sun, as dark as if it would never rise again.